University of Virginia Library

9. CHAP. IX.

Hogg.

On emerging from the hermit's glen, our hero
perceived four men sitting on an eminence near
the path by which he was to pass. He approached,
and soon knew one of them to be his new and
undesired acquaintance, M`Cauley, who arose, and
very respectfully saluted him. “Mr. Middleton,”
said he, “I am glad to meet with you. Will you
favour me with your company towards the beach?”

Edward was about excusing himself, on account
of the lateness of the hour, when M`Cauley caught
him familiarly by the arm, and in a half jocular
and half irritating manner, swore an oath that he
would not part with him for that evening at least.
Edward remonstrated, and told him that he did
not think it friendly, so rudely to impose on his
inclinations.

“Mr. Middleton! you had as well consent,”
said the other, “to accompany me. I assure you
no harm shall befall you; and you see,” he added,
looking at his companions, “that we can enforce
compliance.”

Edward now perceived that foul play was intended,
and he demanded by what authority they
attempted to detain him.

“By the authority of present strength, and a
prudent regard for our own safety,” replied
M`Cauley.

“And where am I to go, and for what purpose?”
was next demanded.

“To our head-quarters, to be both well secured
and well treated,” was the reply.

“Does Mr. O'Halloran know this?”

“He does; and its necessity grieves him.”

“Then I submit,” said Edward. “He once
saved my life; he is now welcome to take it from
me. Lead where you please.”

The four men enclosed him round, and conducted
him to the very spot where O'Halloran and his
grand-daughter vanished from his sight when he
first saw them on the beach.

One of them then ascended a projecting portion
of the mysterious rock, and removing a loose piece
of stone, which filled a narrow crevice about a foot
deep, an iron ring was disclosed, on pulling which
an internal bolt gave way, and permitted the upper
end of a large, rugged fragment of the rock, to separate
the mass with which it before seemed to
have been consolidated. M`Cauley then introduced
his hand and loosened the end of a rope, which,
passing through a pully fastened to the roof of the
cave now visible, had its other end fixed firmly
unto the moveable fragment which was thus managed
as a door, its base, upon which it turned, being
joined to the rock by means of strong hinges,
altogether invisible on the outside. The rope being
thus loosened, the fragment opened wide enough
to afford space for the admission of our party in a
stooping posture, but on advancing a few steps,
Edward found himself in an apartment fully ten
feet high, having a smooth hard-beaten artificially
made earthen floor. Through this, he was
conducted to another apartment, very spacious,
clean-looking and lighted with several lamps. In
its centre there was a large table covered with
newspapers, pamphlets, letters, &c. which three

genteelly dressed men seemed to have been perusing.
These gentlemen accosted Edward in rather a cordial
manner, and welcomed him to their habitation.
They were quite unknown to him, but one of
them, he soon perceived from his accent to be a
Frenchman. He now saw that he had been ushered
into one of the council-chambers of the Northern
conspirators; but for what purpose, he could
not tell; although he was persuaded that it could
not be of a friendly nature. Here the men by
whom he was seized left him. By his remaining
companions he was politely invited to be seated,
and to accept refreshment. Conceiving that there
was no use in showing ill humour on the occasion,
he assented, when, to his surprise, tea was speedily
produced with its usual accompaniments, and afterwards
punch, of which his companions partook in
a spirit of great cordiality.

During the evening politics engrossed less of the
conversation than he expected. Literature, agriculture
and manufactures were the prevailing topics.
On these, Edward cheerfully took a part, and almost
forgot that he was a prisoner. His new acquaintances
seemed highly intelligent, and perfectly
conversant with every subject they discussed;
they were easy and affable, and appeared to make
his comfort their chief study. At length one of
them requesting leave to show him where he should
rest, when he wished to retire for the night, pushed
a sliding door along one end of the apartment,
which disclosed to view a small room resembling
the state-room of the cabin of a merchant ship, and
containing a bed of a comfortable appearance. On
bidding good night, one of the company remarked,
“I trust, Mr. Middleton, that the cause of your
confinement here will soon be removed; but whether
it shall be long or short, you may depend on
receiving good usage.”

In fact, such is the influence of civil treatment on
the mind, that for some time after he was alone,
Edward felt more astonishment than irritation at
the occurrences of the evening. But when he reflected
on the loss of his liberty, and on the share
which O'Halloran had in effecting it, and which he
looked upon, not only as a breach of honour and
hospitality, but, from the promise he had exacted
from him in the morning, as savouring of treachery
itself, he became restless, agitated, irritated; and
when he considered that he had done nothing to
deserve being thus incarcerated in a den among
traitors, his chagrin and resentment partook of a
feverish violence, and sleep for that night became
a stranger to his eyes.

Here for the present we shall leave him, and direct
our attention to the inhabitants of the castle,
some of whom, by this time, had become as much
agitated on his account, as he was himself chagrined
and irritated. The perturbation of O'Halloran's
mind, now that a deed was done which he could
not quite justify, and to which he was accessary,
was such as no good man could wish even his worst
enemy to experience.

“It is I,” thought he, “who have in this affair
committed a breach of hospitality and good faith.
This young man whose disposition, I believe, to be
of the most generous description, reposed implicit
confidence in me; and yet I have betrayed him
into captivity. He may forgive me, God may forgive
me, but I cannot forgive myself.—But”—he
would say, his thoughts taking another turn—
“Why should I thus condemn myself! I have done
no more than my duty to the great cause in which
I am engaged. It is true, my private esteem for
this young man would have prompted me to act
otherwise, but the higher motive of duty made it
imperative that I should act as I did. On escaping

from us, he might league himself with our
oppressors, for he is much inclined to their cause;
and might think it incumbent on him to reveal
those secrets which we imprudently disclosed to
him. No, I will not repent it—although the deed
was painful, it was necessary; it was called for by
the interest of my country. Why should I grieve.
It is weakness. Shall it be said, that O'Halloran
wished to sacrifice the great interests of the great
cause of Irish liberty, to private feelings or squeamish
scrupulosity!”

Thus O'Halloran grieved, and reasoned, and
reconciled himself to the painful duty, as he esteemed
it, which he had performed. It is indeed
no wonder, that he who always considered patriotism
the first of human virtues, should now when
that feeling was so much excited, and strengthened
by resentment against national wrongs and oppressions,
and by the general enthusiasm of the times,
be easily prevailed on to yield the personal safety
of a stranger, however well he might think of
him, to his country's welfare.

But there was another inmate of the castle, whom
the events of this evening agitated still more severely
than they did O'Halloran. This was she, who,
in the estimation of Edward, was the fairest of all
Erin's daughters, and whose tears of sorrow shed
for him this evening, had he known of them, would
have rendered him proud and happy in his misfortunes.

Ellen was sitting alone at a window in one of the
small turrets on the southern side of the castle,
watching, perhaps, the declining tints of the twilight,
or contemplating the dangerous aspect of the times,
or, what is quite as probable, meditating on the expected
return of Edward to the castle. It is certain,
that from the window where she was stationed,
she could survey the path by which he was to return;

and if she at all took notice of the gathering shades,
perhaps it was because they marked the lateness of
the hour without bringing back the object of her
solicitude. While she mused, the moments followed
each other slowly, thought anxiously succeeded
thought, but still there was no appearance of him
for whom she sighed. Several people came at different
times up the avenue, but Edward did not
come.

“A little more patience, and he surely will appear,”
thought she. A well-dressed man was perceived
approaching at a distance. “Ah! this is surely
he?” He drew near enough to be distinguished.
It was only a messenger with some news to O'Halloran.
Another came. It was only a servant who
had been at town. A third, a fourth, all came who
were expected, and some who were not expected,
but he whom Ellen expected did not come. How
provoking is suspense!

“I will go down,” thought she, “to the gate: when
I perceive his approach, I can easily run back and
regain the castle without him seeing me.”

She went to the gate. She ventured into the
avenue. She saw a tall figure hastily advancing.
She retreated within the gate, when looking back
she perceived it to be the figure of a woman. She
returned to the avenue, and met Peg Dornan. Peg
was in great agitation, when she approached.

“Some yin maun help him,” she abruptly exclaimed,
“an' your ain bonny sel maun haste an'
fin' oot that yin, or it may soon be owre wi' him;—
an' he liked you weel, an' would hae run to help
you in sic need, at the blackest hoor a midnicht.”

“What is the matter?” anxiously demanded Ellen,
“for whom do you want help?”

“For the bonniest lad that e'er cam' to thir
parts—for Mr. Middleton, wham I like as weel as
e'er I liked Jock Dornan, my ain sin.”

“For God's sake! dear Peg, what, what has befallen
Mr. Middleton?”

“He has fallen amang his enemies.”

“What! have they killed him?” exclaimed Ellen,
fearfully.

“No, my bonny bairn, I hope the hae na yet gane
that far; but they're no to be trusted owre lang.”

“For heaven's sake! tell me what you know of
the matter?”

“That's what I cam' for, my bonny bairn, an'
you'll hear me. I was saunterin' at my leisure
aboot an hour syne, on the road to Saunders's Glen,
when I saw four o' the hettist o' the warm crappies,
settin' on the road side, an' thinkin' they would be
talkin' politics, I did na want to disturb them; so I
turned through a slap to the other side o' the hedge,
an' I would na hae stapped but gane right on;
but when I cam' forenent them, though they did
na see me, I heard yin of them say something
aboot Mr. Middleton, so I just hunkered doon to
hear what it was.

“I'll warrant you he's an Orangeman, said Sam
Service.

“We must seize him, but not hurt him, let him be
what he will, said Jock M`Cauley. Our order is
to confine him in the Point Cave, where we will
soon find out whether he be friendly or not.

“I thought it was nae time to listen langer, but
to run and warn him to keep oot o' their way, as I
did yince before. I e'en ran to Billy Caldwell's,
whar I had seen him in the afternoon, but they said
he had gane wi' auld Saunders to his glen. I let nae
on, but ran there as fast as I could, for, thinks I,
they'll get him in the hame comin', giff I dinna see
him first. I ran like thoucht, for the deil tak' me
gin I'm lazy on sic an erran'. The auld man was
in the glen, I asked for Mr. Middleton.

“He left me half an hour ago, said he.

“Gude preserve us! said I, then he's fa'en in
wi' them Auld man, you can do nae guid. I canna
wait to talk wi' you. I maun rin to the castle, for,
as sure as you're auld Saunders, the crappies hae
catched Mr. Middleton for nae guid.—When I said
sae, he sprang—I never thoucht the auld body was
sae soople. He would hae been here lang before
me, had he skipt on at that gate; but he turned an'
bade me haste, an' tell a' to either Mr. O'Halloran
or Ellen, thinkin', doubtless, that he wad do mar
harm than guid by being owre hasty.”

“And are you sure they have seized on Mr. Middleton?”
inquired Ellen.

“They maun ha' him,” replied Peg, “for when
I cam' back to whar they were sittin', they were
gane. I thought he micht hae escaped them, an'
won to the castle; but I met Ned Watt, the butler,
just before I saw you, who says he's no come
there; so I fear a's no richt.”

“It is too plain!” said Ellen almost inaudibly,
for speech and sense now failed her, and she sunk
on the ground.

With a voice like thunder, Peg shouted for help,
and in a few seconds, several of the domestics from
the castle were on the spot.

Ellen soon recovered, and being conveyed to her
apartment, she requested Mrs. Brown to remain
with her for a short time. All others accordingly
withdrew.

“My dear aunt,” said she, “I know your penetration
has discovered my weakness. I will now
therefore no longer affect to conceal it from you.
My heart owns a feeling for Mr. Middleton, which
is likely to be ruinous to my peace. But in loving
him, I have only loved what I conceived to be excellence;
and, if I have done wrong, I hope for forgiveness
from my more than mother. But he is
surely worthy of all the affection I can bestow on

him. But, oh! I am miserable; for he is in danger.
He has been seized by the United Irishmen,
on suspicion of being an orangeman, and heaven
only knows if, at this moment, he be not breathing
out his soul in agony, under the hands of a murderer.
Oh! dear aunt, the idea is terrible, but I
fear it is real.”

She here clasped the hands of her aunt with a
convulsive force, which made that affectionate relative
tremble for her safety. If she considered
her niece's passion to have been imprudent, and
ill timed, she saw that the present was not the
period to expostulate or use cool calculating arguments
on the subject. She, therefore, adopted the
more humane and judicious method of soothing her
feelings by expressing a sincere hope, that no evil
had befallen Edward; remarking that the informations
she had received might be partly or wholly
unfounded. At all events, she encouraged her to
hope for the best, at least until they should obtain
more certain intelligence with regard to any thing
disastrous having taken place.

Ellen soon became so much quieted as to be
able to relate to her all that she had heard from
Peg Dornan. Her aunt then promised to communicate
with her brother on the subject; and
consult him as to what it should be best to do on
Edward's behalf. In the meantime none of the
castle servants knew of his captivity. O'Halloran
himself not being present, Peg Dornan would
relate her story to no one else, for she had too
much regard for the United Irishmen, as a body,
to propagate any report to their disadvantage.
She was also aware of the dangerous situation of
an informer in those times. She, therefore, especially
as she was persuaded that Ellen would lose
no time in making her grandfather acquainted with
Edward's situation, resolved not to mention the

affair again, unless to those she could trust, and
who might possess sufficient influence to serve him.

The next morning, (for O'Halloran did not appear
that night,) Mrs. Brown hastened to inform
him of what she had heard respecting Edward's
seizure by the United Irishmen. Her brother not
only acknowledged that he knew of the fact, but
had consented to it, and acquainted her at large
with his reasons for so doing. He assured her,
however, that the captive would be treated with
kindness, and that his life was in no danger.

Mrs. Brown, with more warmth than was usual
to her, expressed her surprise and indignation of
what had taken place.

“What!” said she, “has my brother; he of
whose honourable and noble course of conduct, I
have hitherto been so proud; whose mind, I thought
superior to the narrow, selfish motives that too
often influence other men, become, at last, so forgetful
of his long boasted rectitude, as to betray an
unsuspecting youth, who was a stranger and his
guest, into the power of those who hate him, and
whose hatred to those who may be in their power,
is almost equivalent to destruction?”

“Mrs. Brown,” said O'Halloran, rising hastily,
“I have not been accustomed to hear such language
from you. I have already told you my
reasons for my conduct. If they are insufficient
to justify me in your eyes, it is of little consequence,
since they do it in my own. In the meantime my
regard for a woman's weakness, must not, shall
not turn my attention from that duty, however
stern it may be, which I owe to my country.”

He then left the apartment; and Mrs. Brown,
with a heavy heart, returned to sympathise with
her niece.

“Your grandfather has assured me,” said she,
endeavouring to comfort her, “that no attempt

will be made upon his life, and that he shall experience
no inconvenience in their power to prevent,
except the loss of liberty.”

Ellen's uncertainty respecting her lover's fate,
being thus removed, the violence of her emotions
gradually subsided, and was in a short time succeeded
by a calm and settled melancholy.

The liveliness and ingenuity of Miss Agnew,
who soon discovered the cause of her friend's
distress, greatly aided the unceasing tenderness and
solicitude of Mrs. Brown, in assuaging the poignancy
of Ellen's grief, and she was in a few weeks
restored to a tolerable enjoyment of existence.