Jennings had returned to his chamber in Kildare-street; but repose for him was out of the question. He had spent hours of agonized uncertainty; but at last his mind was made up, and his resolution taken.
“I have but one course to take—necessity controls me—I have no choice left,” he muttered. “What infernal influence could have possessed me!—what accursed witchcraft can have blinded and infatuated me! Great God! what a serious, what a frightful business, it is turning out. Well, I suppose it was my destiny. I wonder if the old fellow had any inkling of my real situation when he forbid me his house? Merciful Heaven! if I had but acted then like a man of common sense; but some accursed delusion was over me. I had got interested and piqued in the pursuit. I did not dream of mischief. I could swear, with my dying breath, I never meant harm, until accident and the devil—and poor, poor Mary herself—put that accursed piece of madness into my head. Curse my folly! It is a desperate, a frightful situation; but self-preservation is, they say, the first law of nature; and were I even to sacrifice myself, I don’t see that she would be essentially the better.” He consulted his watch, and continued—“My measures must be taken promptly; that meddling doctor-fellow, will be on the fidgets till he does mischief. I can’t be too prompt.”
He rang the bell, directed the servant peremptorily to deny him to all visitors, drew the window-blinds, bolted the door, and then, seating himself before his desk, wrote, with painful attention and assiduity, for full two hours, without rising. This task completed, he carefully raised the manuscript, making various erasures and interpolations, and at last, folded carefully, sealed it, and placing it in his waistcoat pocket (in those days a tolerably capacious receptacle), he buttoned his coat across it.
“Will he do it?” he muttered, doubtfully; “we’ll see—we’ll see. In the first place, he may never be called on to say a word, pro or con; in the second, even if he be, this is as easily said as anything else; and, in the third, we will gild the pill pretty thickly.”
So saying, he opened a drawer in the desk, and took out a handful of guineas and a bundle of bank notes, the spoils of his last night’s successful play.
“Let me see what have I got in bank,” he reflected; “I must leave enough for my part of the business; it would not do to be money-bound just now. Ay, ay, he may have the three hundred. I think three hundred will be strong enough for him. Poor Mary—poor Mary!”
Having counted out, in notes and guineas, the sum he had named, he rolled them up, and stuffed them into his pocket; then muffling his face in a shawl, and putting on his hat and cloak, he sallied forth upon an expedition, of the last importance to his plans.
It was drawing towards evening, upon the same day, when a servant called at my lodgings with a note, and sent up word that he waited for an answer. I did not know the hand, but expecting an invitation, nevertheless, I broke the seal eagerly, and read the following—to a very different purport, as you may perceive:—
“Kildare-street.
“Captain Jennings presents his compliments to Mr. ⸻ and trusts that he will pardon the liberty which, under very peculiar circumstances, he takes, in venturing to entreat the favour of his (Mr. ⸻’s) presence for a few moments, upon a matter of the utmost importance, as respects an affair in which he has already evinced an interest. Captain Jennings has an engagement for this evening, but will be at home till seven o’clock; and will esteem it a real obligation if Mr. ⸻ will honour him with a call at any time before that hour.”
I instantly wrote a civil answer, complying with his request; and, full of impatience for the result, I prepared to follow the messenger without losing a moment.
My preparations were quickly made, and I was soon in the street, and traversing the intervening space between mine and Captain Jennings’ lodgings at a rapid pace. As I turned the corner of Nassau-street, I met my friend ⸻, a notorious gossip in his day. I perceived, by his at once taking my arm, and turning about with me, that he had a story to tell, and was rather shocked at his opening sentence—
“Well, what do you think of the affair in Stephen’s-green?—of course you have heard it all—about the Chadleighs; a shocking piece of business, upon my life—a devilish fine girl, too—a great pity.”
I affected surprise, and asked the particulars.
“Somewhere about twelve o’clock today,” he said, “old Sir Arthur received an invitation—at least so I’m told, for I have not yet had time to sift the matter myself—an invitation for himself and Miss Chadleigh, they say, to old Lady ⸻’s, down in what-d’ye-call-it—that place in Kildare, you know; and they say—egad, I can scarce help laughing, though I’m devilish sorry too—they tell me her ladyship mentioned, by way of inducement, that young Lord Dungarret, an admirer, as it was thought, of Miss Chadleigh, was to be there; and this consideration determined the old boy to accept it, come what might, though his daughter had been ailing for a long time. And so he took his crutches, and hobbled up to her room, where he had not been for a month before, to tell her—ha ha!—his sovereign will and pleasure; but, egad, the old boy had his hobble for nothing, for, rat me, the bird was flown, the cage was empty; the invalid had absconded, the fair lady had fled; how, why, whither, or with whom, remains a profound secret.”
“And when did she go?” I asked, anxious to ascertain how far the particulars were known.
“Oh, last night, and it is supposed by the back way,” he replied; “it was devilish well managed—a clever
