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
fire. As I approached the stand amidst the plaudits
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.
