 | Condensed novels and other papers |  |
TERENCE DEUVILLE.
BY CH--L--S L--V--R.
1. CHAPTER I.
MY HOME.
The little village of Pilwiddle is one of the
smallest and obscurest hamlets on the western coast
of Ireland. On a lofty crag, overlooking the hoarse
Atlantic, stands “Deuville's Shot Tower”—a corruption
by the peasantry of D'Eauville's Château, so
called from my great grandfather, Phelim St. Remy
D'Euville, who assumed the name and title of a
French heiress with whom he ran away. To this
fact my familiar knowledge and excellent pronunciation
of the French language may be attributed, as
well as many of the events which covered my after
life.
The Deuvilles were always passionately fond of
field sports. At the age of four, I was already the
boldest rider and the best shot in the country.
When only eight, I won the St. Remy Cup at the
Pilwiddle races—riding my favorite bloodmare Hell
of the assembled multitude, and cries of “Thrue for
ye, Masther Terence,” and “Oh, but it's a Diuville!”
there was a slight stir among the gentry, who surrounded
the Lord Lieutenant, and other titled personages
whom the race had attracted thither. “How
young he is—a mere child; and yet how noble looking,”
said a sweet, low voice, which thrilled my soul.
I looked up and met the full liquid orbs of the
Hon. Blanche Fitzroy Sackville, youngest daughter
of the Lord Lieutenant. She blushed deeply. I
turned pale and almost fainted. But the cold, sneering
tones of a masculine voice sent the blood back
again into my youthful cheek.
“Very likely the ragged scion of one of these banditti
Irish gentry, who has taken naturally to `the
road.' He should be at school—though I warrant
me his knowledge of Terence will not extend beyond
his own name,” said Lord Henry Somerset, aid-decamp
to the Lord Lieutenant.
A moment and I was perfectly calm, though cold
as ice. Dismounting, and stepping to the side of
the speaker, I said in a low, firm voice:
“Had your Lordship read Terence more carefully,
you would have learned that banditti are sometimes
proficient in other arts beside horsemanship,” and I
touched his holster significantly with my hand. I
had not read Terence myself, but with the skillful
audacity of my race I calculated that a vague allusion,
coupled with a threat, would embarrass him.
It did.
“Ah—what mean you?” he said, white with rage.
“Enough, we are observed,” I replied; “Father
Tom will wait on you this evening: and to-morrow
morning, my lord, in the glen below Pilwiddle we
will meet again.”
“Father Tom—glen!” ejaculated the Englishman,
with genuine surprise. “What? do priests carry
challenges and act as seconds in your infernal country?”
“Yes!” I answered scornfully, “why should they
not? Their services are more often necessary than
those of a surgeon,” I added significantly, turning
away.
The party slowly rode off, with the exception of
the Hon. Blanche Sackville, who lingered for a moment
behind. In an instant I was at her side.
Bending her blushing face over the neck of her
white filly, she said hurriedly:
“Words have passed between Lord Somerset and
yourself. You are about to fight. Don't deny it—
but hear me. You will meet him—I know your
skill of weapons. He will be at your mercy. I entreat
you to spare his life!”
I hesitated. “Never!” I cried passionately; “he
has insulted a Deuville!”
“Terence,” she whispered, “Terence—for my
sake?”
The blood rushed to my cheeks at the loving
epithets, and her eyes sought the ground in bashful
confusion.
“You love him then?” I cried, bitterly.
“No, no,” she said, agitatedly, “no, you do me
wrong. I—I—cannot explain myself. My father!
—the Lady Dowager Sackville—the estate of Sackville—the
borough—my uncle, Fitzroy Somerset.
Ah! what am I saying? Forgive me. Oh, Terence,”
she said, as her beautiful head sank on my shoulder,
“you know not what I suffer!”
I seized her hand and covered it with passionate
kisses. But the high-bred English girl, recovering
something of her former hauteur, said hastily, “Leave
me, leave me, but promise!”
“I promise,” I replied, enthusiastically: “I will
spare his life!”
“Thanks, Terence—thanks!” and disengaging her
hand from my lips she rode rapidly away.
The next morning, the Hon. Capt. Henry Somerset
and myself exchanged nineteen shots in the glen,
and at each fire I shot away a button from his uniform.
As my last bullet shot off the last button
from his sleeve, I remarked quietly, “You seem
now, my lord, to be almost as ragged as the gentry
you sneered at,” and rode haughtily away.
2. CHAPTER II.
THE FIGHTING FIFTY-SIXTH.
When I was nineteen years old my father sold
the Château d' Euville and purchased my commission
in the “Fifty-sixth” with the proceeds. “I say,
The boldest rider and the best shot in the country. (After LEVER) See page 22.
[Description: 566EAF. Illustration Page. Image of men, children and horses. Some of the men are dressed as gentlemen, while others are more humbly attired and shoeless.]
who had just joined, “you'll represent the estate
in the Army, if you won't in the House.” Poor
fellow, he paid for his meaningless joke with his
life, for I shot him through the heart the next
morning. You're a good fellow, Deuville,” said the
poor boy faintly, as I knelt beside him: “good bye!”
For the first time since my grandfather's death I
wept. I could not help thinking that I would have
been a better man if Blanche—but why proceed?
Was she not now in Florence—the belle of the English
Embassy.
But Napoleon had returned from Elba. Europe
was in a blaze of excitement. The Allies were preparing
to resist the Man of Destiny. We were ordered
from Gibraltar home, and were soon again en
route for Brussels. I did not regret that I was to be
placed in active service. I was ambitious, and
longed for an opportunity to distinguish myself. My
garrison life in Gibraltar had been monotonous and
dull. I had killed five men in duel, and had an
affair with the colonel of my regiment, who handsomely
apologized before the matter assumed a serious
aspect. I had been twice in love. Yet these
were but boyish freaks and follies. I wished to be
a man.
The time soon came—the morning of Waterloo.
But why describe that momentous battle, on which
the fate of the entire world was hanging? Twice
were the Fifty-sixth surrounded by French cuirassiers,
and twice did we mow them down by our fire.
the eighth, when an orderly rode up hastily,
touched his cap, and handing me a despatch, galloped
rapidly away.
I opened it hurriedly and read:
“Let Picton advance immediately on the
right.”
I saw it all at a glance. I had been mistaken for
a general officer. But what was to be done? Picton's
division was two miles away, only accessible
through a heavy cross fire of artillery and musketry.
But my mind was made up.
In an instant I was engaged with an entire squadron
of cavalry, who endeavored to surround me.
Cutting my way through them, I advanced boldly
upon a battery and sabred the gunners before they
could bring their pieces to bear. Looking around,
I saw that I had in fact penetrated the French
centre. Before I was well aware of the locality, I
was hailed by a sharp voice in French:
“Come here, sir!”
I obeyed, and advanced to the side of a little man
in a cocked hat.
“Has Grouchy come?”
“Not yet, sire,” I replied—for it was the Emperor.
“Ha!” he said suddenly, bending his piercing eyes
on my uniform; “a prisoner?”
“No, sire,” I said, proudly.
“A spy?”
I placed my hand upon my sword, but a gesture
from the Emperor bade me forbear.
“You are a brave man,” he said.
I took my snuff-box from my pocket, and taking
a pinch, replied by handing it, with a bow, to the
Emperor.
His quick eye caught the cipher on the lid.
“What! a D'Euville? Ha! this accounts for the
purity of your accent. Any relation to Roderick
d'Euville.
“My father, sire.”
“He was my schoolfellow at the Ecole Politechnique.
Embrace me!” and the Emperor fell upon my neck
in the presence of his entire staff. Then recovering
himself, he gently placed in my hand his own magnificent
snuff-box, in exchange for mine, and hanging
upon my breast the cross of the Legion of Honor
which he took from his own, he bade one of his
Marshals conduct me back to my regiment.
I was so intoxicated with the honor of which I had
been the recipient, that on reaching our lines I uttered
a shout of joy and put spurs to my horse. The
intelligent animal seemed to sympathize with my
feelings, and fairly flew over the ground. On a rising
eminence a few yards before me stood a gray-haired
officer, surrounded by his staff. I don't know
what possessed me, but putting spurs to my horse,
I rode at him boldly, and with one bound cleared
him, horse and all. A shout of indignation arose
from the assembled staff. I wheeled suddenly, with
the intention of apologizing, but my mare misunderstood
me, and again dashing forward, once more
vaulted over the head of the officer, this time unfortunately
hoof. “Seize him!” roared the entire army. I was
seized. As the soldiers led me away, I asked the
name of the gray-haired officer. “That—why that's
the Duke of Wellington!”
I fainted.
For six months I had brain fever. During my
illness the grapeshot were extracted from my body
which I had unconsciously received during the battle.
When I opened my eyes I met the sweet glance
of a Sister of Charity.
“Blanche!” I stammered feebly.
“The same,” she replied.
“You here?”
“Yes, dear; but hush! It's a long story. You
see, dear Terence, your grandfather married my great
aunt's sister, and your father again married my
grandmother's niece, who, dying without a will, was,
according to the French law—”
“But I do not comprehend,” I said.
“Of course not,” said Blanche, with her old
sweet smile; “you've had brain fever; so go to
sleep.”
I understood, however, that Blanche loved me;
and I am now, dear reader, Sir Terence Sackville,
K. C. B., and Lady Blanche is Lady Sackville.
| Condensed novels and other papers | |