Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 11/A Tipperary shot - Part 4

by Anne Isabella Robertson

A TIPPERARY SHOT.

By the Author of “Myself and my Relatives,” “Little Flaggs,” &c.

 

CHAPTER VII. THE ASSASSIN’S SHOT.

I now found myself placed in a rather novel position—about to accompany a man in a ride of several miles through a lonely country, while impressed with the conviction that at any point of the road he might fall a victim to the ferocity of a lawless tenantry. He was going forth in defiance of a threat and a warning, fully convinced that he would risk as much by staying at home as by braving the danger abroad. Before we set out Barnett came to me with a paper, which he requested me to sign as a witness in company with Tom Nugent. It was a codicil to his will, made long since.

“It is well to have one’s affairs all settled,” he said pleasantly, when we had both placed our names to the document. “Now, Stapleton, I shall be ready to go in a few moments,” and he left the room.

“He’s in for it now,” said Nugent, who looked grave and anxious; “but he never could have shirked going out this day after getting that notice to intimidate him. If he comes back alive this evening he’ll have gained a triumph that will be of service to him, perhaps as long as he lives. There’s nothing like showing you don’t care a snap o’ your finger for threats of that kind. Barnett is as brave a fellow as ever I saw. See how his hand never shook as he wrote his signature before us there a while ago. god grant I may see him alive again. I think I’ll stop at Knockgriffin till you’ll be likely to return. I never could rest easy, thinking of that poor young fellow and his sister and all that, if I went home early, as I had fixed to go.”

“Now, Stapleton!” called out Barnett’s fine ringing voice from the hall; and I hurried to join him. His sister met me as I left the room, and I could perceive that she was much agitated, though not weeping.

“God bless you, Captain Stapleton!” she said, in some excitement. “I thank you from my heart for going with Denis to-day. You may serve to protect him in some measure. Very few would have liked to accompany him this morning; but you are a brave man, and I honour you. Good-bye, and many, many thanks.”

She gave me her hand, and I received it with an earnest pressure. Without exaggeration, I may say I would have exposed myself to a far greater amount of danger than I was then likely to incur, merely to receive the reward of such words as had just then greeted my ears. Never did I spring into my saddle with a lighter heart than I did that fresh summer morning, and never before did I think the perfume of the breeze or the look of the country more charming, as we left the demesne and entered upon the high road. Now and then, as we rode along, I thought of my mother’s letter and the advice it contained, against which I was directly acting that day. Occasionally, too, I dwelt upon the information Travers had sent me respecting the destiny of our regiment after its removal from Templemore. To-morrow I must be at Cashel again, in all the fuss of packing up and preparing for a move. As the day advanced I grew somewhat dispirited again, and dwelt more deeply on the separation I must endure next day. I forgot all about Sir Denis and his danger, all about the grateful words uttered to myself by his sister; nothing was uppermost in my mind but the terrible fact that I must leave Knockgriffin before twenty-four hours had passed away! We rode over mile after mile of quiet, pleasant country, sometimes chatting, sometimes plunged in thought. I beheld the ruins of Athassel Priory; but cannot say I admired them particularly, my mind was too perturbed to permit me taking note of external things. When Sir Denis had transacted his business at Golden, we turned our horses’ heads towards home, having still some hours of broad daylight before us. As usual, there appeared very few wayfarers on the roads. It was a sultry, peaceful evening. The sun, which had been shining warmly all the day, now lessened its power, though the effect of its previous brilliancy yet hovered in the atmosphere. I thought it a very melancholy evening—so still, so unruffled by breath of wind, almost ominous in its oppressiveness.

“Well, the day is nearly over, Stapleton, and a short time will bring us to Knockgriffin,” said Barnett, rousing me from a miserable reverie. “So far we have escaped the vigilance of an assassin, if any has been on the watch for me. We are almost within our own boundaries now.”

“I am delighted for your sake that the day has turned out so fortunate,” replied I, endeavouring to appear glad at anything.

“Such a charming evening as it is too! Let us pause here to watch the effect of the sunset upon those hills.”

We checked our horses’ pace, and lingered to look at the red rays of the declining sun burnishing some distant heights; and while we paused, admiring the glow and changing hues of the landscape, the report of a gun startled me. A shot had been fired close to where we stood.

I saw that Sir Denis was still, at least, able to keep his saddle; but some confusion of brain overpowered me; and though I heard him exclaim distinctly “Good God, Stapleton!”

I had not strength to utter a word, my impression being that he had received a wound, and might fall immediately. Then I grew move bewildered, becoming at last incapable of hearing or seeing or understanding.

 

CHAPTER VIII. CONCLUSION.

The next thing that I became conscious of was some one holding my hand in a light clasp, and tears falling upon it, while stilled sobs fell upon my confused hearing.

“How is Sir Denis?” I endeavoured to utter faintly, dreading to hear the answer.

“Quite well; but you must not speak,” whispered a soft musical voice that thrilled me.

“But something peculiar has occurred,” I continued, trying to shake off the confusion of brain that was overpowering my senses. “I have not been dreaming, surely? Where am I? Who is standing near me?”

“You have been wounded, Captain Stapleton, but not dangerously,” replied the same sweet voice. “You are now at Knockgriffin. The surgeon has dressed your arm, and I have promised to take care of you, and prevent your talking too much.”

“Thank God it is nothing more!” I exclaimed gratefully, while rapidly returning consciousness revealed to me clearly that I was lying on a sofa in a sitting-room of Knockgriffin House, and that Miss Barnett herself was watching over me. The pain of my arm, the feeling of faintness still oppressing me were completely forgotten as I closed my eyes in a delirium of happiness impossible to describe. It would have been easy for me to have died at that moment with one who was to me as a guardian angel standing thus near.

By degrees I comprehended the whole state of the case. I had been shot in mistake for Sir Denis Barnett. At first it was feared that my unfortunate arm would have been obliged to be amputated; but things turned out better than was expected. Tho doctors suffered the limb to hold its ground, and I was soon on the way to recovery. I had many days and nights of feverish bodily suffering; yet much mental consolation. I knew that I was an object of tender care to the being who was to me the dearest of all others upon earth. Sir Denis overpowered me with kindness also; and for the weeks that I was an invalid at Knockgriffin I felt as happy as a king; alas! far happier than many kings, I trow!

My regiment, meanwhile, had left Templemore and gone to Limerick. Fate had decreed that I was to remain for some time longer in Tipperary; and though she certainly took somewhat rough measures to fulfil my destiny, I thanked her nevertheless devoutly. In a short time I was an interesting-looking individual—going about with an arm in a sling, with a languid appearance, pale complexion, and sentimental eyes—a hero in the estimation of everybody, including, probably, the person who had shot me, and adored by the servants, who were nearly all attached to Sir Denis. Sir Percy Stedmole quitted Knockgriffin on “urgent business” immediately after my mishap, and Nugent remained there only long enough to ascertain that I was not mortally wounded. Barnett and his sister put off going to Harrowgate for a month, and during the time I remained with them both devoted themselves entirely to me. The Cappamoyne lands were at length cleared of the objectionable tenantry without further attempt at opposition; but Ryan, the sullen young man who seemed so annoyed at the idea of quitting his ancestral home, went to America almost immediately, taking with him as his bride the beautiful Mary Killery, and thus relieving Barnett probably of a dangerous tenant.

In those happy days of convalescence I perceived that Miss Barnett was quite altered from what she had seemed during my first days at Knockgriffin. Her manner was altogether different,—no longer cold, calm, and stately, but full of tenderness and pity. Occasionally she appeared subdued, tremulous, and easily agitated. I was gradually growing less and less afraid of her. In proportion as she betrayed signs of weakness, so did I become more courageous, and at length ventured to breathe my tale of love. I owed her gratitude for her kindness during my illness. What wonder, then, that this gratitude should take the deeper diameter of love? I was not ashamed of declaring my fervent attachment to her now. Even should she reject my suit, I felt that there could be no madness in speaking openly of my love. I did not presume to address her brother upon this point before alluding to it to herself. Louisa Barnett was just the sort of proud-spirited girl who would resent such impertinence on the part of a lover. Very humbly, and without much hope of success, I told her one evening, as we walked before the house among many-hued flower-plots, that from henceforth she must be all in all to me: that she had won my heart irrevocably; and that whether I was doomed to be the most miserable or the happiest of human beings, my love for her could never change. While I spoke she listened silently; and even when I had finished my ardent speech she uttered no word for many moments. There was a long pause of utter stillness; and then she spoke in a low voice, clear, though tremulous.

“Captain Stapleton, I have long determined never to marry.” (How my heart sank.) “To live all my life with Denis has, since I grew up and before it, been my fixed resolution. Surrounded as he is in Tipperary by hourly dangers, I could not bear the idea of being separated from him; and as my fortune, I am thankful to say, is very ample, I have no such incentive as most women unhappily have, to urge me to resign a single life, whether inclined to do so or not. Should Denis marry, I have always intended that I would reside within a short distance of Knockgriffin, at the place bequeathed to me by my grandfather, which adjoins my brother’s property. You see, therefore, that my husband, should I ever accept one, must either be a thorough Tipperary man, or resigned to make himself one. You know enough of our unhappy county, Captain Stapleton, to understand how little I could venture to urge anyone to reside within its boundaries——”

“Anywhere, anywhere with you!” I murmured, interrupting her energetically. “To the end of the earth; in a desert; anywhere, so that I may call you mine!”

“This is only the first ardour of passion, Captain Stapleton. Reflect a little upon what I have said. It is usual for women to follow their husband’s fortunes, and leave their own homes and countries for those that are strange to them; but I will never abandon Tipperary as a place of residence, and I can ask no man to live there with me.”

“Better and braver men than I am, God knows, are living in Tipperary!” I exclaimed, ardently. “Wherever you wish to reside, there will be my home also. And, oh that I had thousands upon thousands to purchase such an estate in this county as would be worthy of such a mistress!”

“I am quite satisfied with what I possess; and if you can really become reconciled to remaining among us here, then I will indeed be proud to be your wife—proud to know that I have the bravest and most generous of men for my husband.”

And so we were betrothed, reader. I had won my beautiful Tipperary bride easy enough, Heaven knows, as far as sacrifice on my part went: and I rejoice to say that Sir Denis was perfectly satisfied with his sister’s choice, though at the time I proposed and was accepted I had but a small income beyond my military pay. However, three years after we were married I came in for the baronetcy which I had considered myself cut out of by the marriage of my elderly uncle, who died six months after his son and heir was carried off by scarlatina; and then I had a fortune worthy of my wife. Yet I kept my promise of residing in Tipperary for the greater part of every year; and added to our property there, speedily gaining the hearty good-will of our tenants, with whom I never had a disagreement; nor was Sir Denis ever again fired at, at home or abroad, since the memorable evening that I received the shot intended for him, and which I have often returned thanks for as the most fortunate accident of my life.

Louisa is becoming less and less alarmed on her brother’s account as time goes on; and as there is a prospect of his marriage, I think she will soon agree to our living more in England. With all its drawbacks, and the failings of the people, I have learned to love my Tipperary home, and to deplore very bitterly the late outrages committed in other parts of the county, praying sincerely that civilisation may increase, that true Christianity be established, and that landlord and tenant may learn to live together in peace and unity.