 | CHAPTER VII.
THE MYSTERY SOLVED. Ellen Norbury, or, The adventures of an orphan |  |
7. CHAPTER VII.
THE MYSTERY SOLVED.
The injuries which little Ellen received on that eventful
Christmas morning, were of a very severe nature; and
even after it was rendered certain that she would recover,
there were serious apprehensions that she would be maimed
for life. But thanks to careful attendance, and a skilful
surgeon, she gradually recovered the use of all her limbs;
and, at the expiration of three long months, was restored
to health and her original soundness of body.
Yet were these months of close confinement—and, much
of the time, of physical suffering—the happiest the poor
child of sorrow had known for a long period. Rosalind
was her almost constant attendant; and had she indeed
been her mother, she could scarcely have been more tender
and devoted. She talked to her, read to her, and sung to
her; and, at intervals, made the variety greater and more
useful, by instructing her in the common English branches.
The education of Ellen had not been entirely neglected by
her parents; and though only eight years of age when her
father died, she was then able to read a little in the
Simple Lessons; but sorrow, poverty, and brutal treatment,
had subsequently made sad inroads upon the little
book-learning she had acquired—however much it might
have enlarged her knowledge of the baseness to be found
in human nature—so that it was necessary for her teacher
to begin with her in much the same manner as with one
who had never been taught.
Aside from all this, however, there were some explanations,
narrations, and occurrences, during the period of
Ellen's convalescence, which the plan of our story requires
us to give somewhat in detail, though not altogether in the
order in which the different matters were brought to the
knowledge of the different parties.
The fact of two daughters meeting in so singular a manner,
in a strange land, whose fathers, once friends, had
been many years estranged by an unfortunate occurrence
which had ruined the peace of both families, was certainly
very curious, not to say mysterious; and of this estrangement,
and the causes which led to it, we will now speak,
without recording the conversation which Rosalind and
Ellen held together on this subject.
Walter Clendennan was an only son of a wealthy Irish
Baronet, at whose death he came into possession of a title
twenty-five, he married a lovely and amiable lady, of good
family but small fortune, by the name of Lucy Norbury, a
cousin of William Norbury, the father of Ellen, who was
in consequence a second cousin of Rosalind. Like that of
Clendennan, the name of Norbury was ancient, and belonged
to a house of wealth and distinction; but some of the descendants,
among whom was the father of Ellen, had become
reduced to comparative poverty, though still retaining
the pride of descent, and being very tenacious of the
family honor.
At the death of Ellen's grandfather, he left two sons—
William and James, her father and uncle—with little or no
inheritance—the family means having been exhausted in
giving them a good education. William, having a natural
taste for painting, with some considerable talent as an
artist, adopted that profession; and on his marriage with a
Miss Montague, another poor descendant of a once wealthy
house, he removed to Dublin, where for a time he succeeded
in making a comfortable living. James, the younger—
having, like his brother for painting, a natural turn for
military tactics—was assisted by Sir Walter Clendennan;
who, hearing of his desire, generously purchased and presented
him with a Captain's commission in an Irish regiment
of infantry. Not to show partiality, Sir Walter at
the same time tendered a present of like amount to William;
but the latter declined to receive it, on the ground
that he was doing well, and did not, like his brother, stand
in need of assistance.
Between these two brothers, who loved each other as
brothers should love, and their wealthy and titled cousin, Sir
Walter, there was such a bond of friendship as is seldom
seen to exist between parties where the disparity of worldly
circumstances is so great; and though they seldom met,
expressed the warmth of attachment which each felt for
each other, and exhibited a rare triple congeniality of
soul.
The mariage of Sir Walter with the mother of Rosalind,
was for many years a happy one; and the Knight and his
good lady, in course of time, found themselves blessed with
a daughter and two sons—the daughter being the eldest,
and the one already presented in the person of Rosalind.
It was about this period, that Sir Walter and his family
—with the exception of Rosalind, who had gone to spend
a few months with an aunt, in a distant part of the Kingdom—paid
a visit to some relatives in Dublin.
Now it so chanced, that Captain Norbury and his company
were at this time quartered in Dublin; and the brothers
met Sir Walter, after a separation of years, with all
the warmth of feeling which two grateful natures could express
toward one who had acted so noble and generous a
part. William Norbury, the Artist, had risen to some distinction
in his profession; and was now in what was called
good circumstances, and doing well. He was at this
period the father of two children—a bright little boy of
four years, and the subject of our story, then in her
infancy.
The brothers were at once presented to Lady Clendennan,
their cousin, whom neither had seen since her marriage.
She was at this time in the full bloom of maturity—of
handsome person, fine mind, rare accomplishments, and
affable manners—and both the brothers were delighted at
the renewal of their acquaintance. Being cousins of blood,
and descendants of a house of which it was the pride of
each to boast—and the brothers also being among the
warmest friends of Sir Walter—all formality was laid
aside, and the parties met like members of one and the
with a dear sister. From this time, Captain Norbury, who
chanced to be unmarried—and who had a fine, commanding
person, and, notwithstanding his profession, a poetical
temperament, inclined to the romantic—became a
daily visitor at the house of his titled friend; and seemed
to delight more in the conversation of his cousin, who had
a turn of mind similar to his own, than in that of Sir
Walter, who, with all his sterling qualities, was always
eccentric and sometimes morose.
The fact was, the Baronet was a man of many noble
traits, whose friendship could be better maintained at a
distance, and through an occasional correspondence, than
by intimate personal association. Being, as before remarked,
of an eccentric turn of mind, and of an irritable,
peevish temperament, it was much easier for him to write
a smooth, generous sentence, at such times as his mind
was calm, than speak one when something, even though
foreign to the subject, had ruffled his temper. Therefore
it was, that Captain Norbury—prizing him for his real
worth no less highly now than at any previous time—preferred
the society and conversation of his lady to his own;
and thus, unconsciously, was laid a train, whose final explosion
was attended and followed by terrible consequences.
To be brief, the Baronet at length began to grow jealous
of the attention of Captain Norbury to his fair lady; and
though in reality he had no cause for jealousy, yet the
“green-eyed monster,” having sprung into birth, “grew
daily by what it fed upon,” till at last it assumed a
hideous and formidable shape. Sir Walter, meantime,
kept his own counsel, and an eye upon the parties; but
when at last an unpleasant rumor reached his ear, in which
their names were coupled, he decided it was time to act.
concealed them about his person; and meeting Captain
Norbury shortly after, in a retired street, he approached
him, as if in friendship; and then, to the Captain's utter
amazement, whispered in his ear:
“Sir! you are an ungrateful, treacherous villain!”
“Sir Walter, what means this language?” inquired the
Captain.
“You know, and I know,” answered the enraged Baronet,
between his shut teeth. “We will neither of us mention
the cause, if you please. If you are not a coward,
follow me!”
“But I solemnly protest,” said the Captain, “that I
know of nothing I have either said or done, that can give
offence to one I have ever held to be my dearest friend.”
“Captain Norbury, are you a disgrace to the commission
which my money purchased for you? are you a coward?”
demanded the Knight.
“No, Sir Walter.”
“Then follow me!”
The Knight led the way; and the two, without speaking,
soon found themselves in a retired spot, beyond the
busy hum of the town. Sir Walter here abruptly presented
his pistols, and merely said:
“Quick! take your choice and your ground!”
“But I protest—” begain the astonished Captain.
“Coward!” interrupted the other, with a sneer.
The Captain said no more; but, compressing his lips,
took the proffered pistol, and retired about ten paces.
“You shall give the word,” said the Baronet.
“Fire!” returned the Captain, with the muzzle of his
pistol pointed to the ground.
Sir Walter took a deliberate aim, and fired. The Captain
toward his antagonist, exclaimed:
“Heaven bear witness, that I die without attempting
the life of my once friend and benefactor.”
With this he sunk upon the earth. Sir Walter was
appalled. Had he indeed murdered an innocent friend?
He ran to him, caught him up in his arms, and exclaimed:
“I have murdered you, James—for you did not fire at
me.”
“Why should I fire at you? or you at me, Sir Walter?”
inquired the other, feebly. “Are we not friends?”
“We were—we were, James—but—”
“But what?”
“My wife.”
“What of her?”
“I—I—believed—I heard,—in short, was there nothing
wrong between you?” gasped the Knight.
“Sir Walter,” returned the other, endeavoring to rise,
struggling for breath, and fixing his eye, already glazing
in death, upon the Knight—“I see it all. I am dying—
I feel it—I know it—but she must not be wronged. Will
you credit my last words?”
“Yes! yes! speak!”
“Then, as God is my Judge, and as I hope for mercy in
the other world, I solemnly swear, I never wronged her, or
you, even in thought.”
These were the last words the unfortunate man ever
spoke; and a few minutes after, he breathed his last, in the
arms of the distracted Baronet, who now felt that the
brand of Cain was on him. Like a madman, Sir Walter
hurried back to the city, sought his wife, and told her all.
Her emotions overcame her, and she swooned; and in that
swoon he left her, to seek safety in flight. It chanced that
a vessel, bound for the coast of France, was just weighing
beyond the reach of justice.
It is not our purpose to follow him on that journey of
torture, but to sum up the consequences of his awful crime
in as few words as possible. Ere the first anniversary of
the direful deed, Lady Clendennan was no more. Some
said she died of a broken heart. Within three years, her
two sons followed her; and the grief-bowed, conscience-stricken
Knight—pardoned by Government, but not by
Heaven—returned to his once happy home, only to feel it
was a home for him no longer. As soon as he could, he
now sold off his property, settled up his affairs, and sailed
for the United States—taking with him his only remaining
child, Rosalind, her governess, and two servants, who preferred
following the fortunes of their old master to seeking
a new one. After visiting various cities, he finally selected
Philadelphia for his future home, purchased a handsome
property, and settled down to a life of terrible gloom and
remorse. As we shall soon have occasion to bring him
before the reader in propria personæ, we will say nothing
further of him in this connection.
Serious, if not fatal, were also the consequences of that
tragedy to the surviving brother. Half demented by the
shock, William Norbury never recovered to be himself
again. A settled melancholy took possession of him; he
neglected his business; took to drinking; and finally, on
the death of his son, determined to leave the country for
ever. He, too, as chance would have it—or, perhaps,
more correctly speaking, as Providence willed it—sailed
for the very city in which the cause of much of his misery
was then living. But he died on the passage; his wife
did not long survive him; and the fate of poor little Ellen
is so far known to the reader
| CHAPTER VII.
THE MYSTERY SOLVED. Ellen Norbury, or, The adventures of an orphan | |