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The O'Donoghue: Tale of Ireland Fifty Years Ago

by Charles Lever · English · Gutenberg #32340 · 1,020,998 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The O'Donoghue: Tale of Ireland Fifty Years Ago

Author: Charles Lever

Illustrator: Hablot Knight Browne


        
Release date: May 11, 2010 [eBook #32340]
                Most recently updated: February 28, 2018

Language: English

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Credits: Produced by David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE O'DONOGHUE: TALE OF IRELAND FIFTY YEARS AGO ***




Produced by David Widger





THE O'DONOGHUE;

TALE OF IRELAND FIFTY YEARS AGO.

By Charles Lever


Dublin

William Curry, Jun. And Company.

William S. Orr And Co. London.

Fraser And Co. Edinburgh.

1845.



TO

JOHN WILSON, ESQ.,

Professor of Moral Philosophy In the University of Edinburgh, &c.

     Dear Sir,

     It is but seldom that the few lines of a dedication can give
     the pleasure I now feel in availing myself of your kind
     permission to inscribe this volume to you. As a boy, the
     greatest happiness of my life was in your writings; and
     among all my faults and failures, I can trace not one to
     your influence, while, if I have ever been momentarily
     successful in upholding the right, and denouncing the wrong,
     I owe more of the spirit that suggested the effort to
     yourself than to any other man breathing.

     With my sincerest respects, and, if I dared, I should say,
     with my warmest  regards,

     I am, yours truly,

     CHARLES LEVER.

     Carlsruhe, October 18th, 1845.




THE O'DONOGHUE;

A TALE OF IRELAND FIFTY YEARS AGO.




CHAPTER I. GLENFLESK.

In that wild and picturesque valley which winds its way between the
town of Macroom and Bantry Bay, and goes by the name of Glenflesk, the
character of Irish scenery is perhaps more perfectly displayed than in
any other tract of the same extent in the island. The mountains, rugged
and broken, are singularly fanciful in their outline; their sides a
mingled mass of granite and straggling herbage, where the deepest green
and the red purple of the heath-bell are blended harmoniously together.
The valley beneath, alternately widening and narrowing, presents one
rich meadow tract, watered by a deep and rapid stream, fed by a thousand
rills that come tumbling, and foaming down the mountain sides, and to
the traveller are seen like white streaks marking the dark surface of
the precipice. Scarcely a hut is to be seen for miles of this lonely
glen, and save for the herds of cattle and the flocks of sheep here and
there to be descried, it would seem as if the spot had been forgotten
by man, and left to sleep in its own gloomy desolation. The river
itself has a character of wildness all its own-now, brawling over
rugged rocks-now foaming between high and narrow sides, abrupt as walls,
sometimes, flowing over a ledge of granite, without a ripple on the
surface-then plunging madly into some dark abyss, to emerge again, lower
down the valley, in one troubled sea of foam and spray: its dull roar
the only voice that echoes in the mountain gorge. Even where the humble
roof of a solitary cabin can be seen, the aspect of habitation rather
heightens than diminishes the feeling of loneliness and desolation
around. The thought of poverty enduring its privations unseen and
unknown, without an eye to mark its struggles, or a heart to console its
griefs, comes mournfully on the mind, and one wonders what manner of man
he can be, who has fixed his dwelling in such solitude.

In vain the eye ranges to catch sight of one human being, save that dark
speck be such which crowns the cliff, and stands out from the clear sky
behind. Yes, it is a child watching the goats that are browsing along
the mountain, and as you look, the swooping mist has hidden him from
your view. Life of dreariness and gloom! What sad and melancholy
thoughts must be his companions, who spends the live-long day on
these wild heaths, his eye resting on the trackless waste where no
fellow-creature moves! how many a mournful dream will pass over his
mind! what fearful superstitions will creep in upon his imagination,
giving form and shape to the flitting clouds, and making the dark
shadows, as they pass, seem things of life and substance.

Poor child of sorrow! How destiny has marked you for misery! For you no
childish gambols in the sun--no gay playfellow--no paddling in the running
stream, that steals along bright and glittering, like happy infancy--no
budding sense of a fair world, opening in gladness; but all, a dreary
waste--the weariness of age bound up with the terrors of childhood.

The sun was just setting on a mellow evening, late in the autumn of a
year towards the close of the last century, as a solitary traveller
sat down to rest himself on one of the large rocks by the road-side;
divesting himself of his gun and shot-pouch, he lay carelessly at his
length, and seemed to be enjoying the light breeze which came up the
valley.

He was a young and powerfully-built man, whose well-knit frame and
muscular limbs showed how much habitual exercise had contributed to
make the steepest paths of the mountain a task of ease to him. He was
scarcely above the middle height, but with remarkable breadth of chest,
and that squareness of proportion which indicates considerable physical
strength; his countenance, except for a look of utter listlesness and
vacuity, had been pleasing; the eyes were large and full, and of the
deep grey which simulates blue; the nose large and well-formed; the
mouth alone was unprepossessing-the expression it wore was of ill-humour
and discontent, and this character seemed so habitual that even as he
sat thus alone and in solitude, the curl of the upper lip betrayed his
nature.

His dress was a shooting-jacket of some coarse stuff, stained and washed
by many a mountain streamlet; loose trowsers of grey cloth, and heavy
shoes-such as are worn by the peasantry, wherever such luxuries are
attainable. It would have been difficult, at a mere glance, to have
decided what class or condition of life he pertained to; for, although
certain traits bespoke the person of a respectable rank, there was
a general air of neglect about him, that half contradicted the
supposition. He lay for some time perfectly motionless, when the tramp
of horses at a distance down the glen suddenly roused him from his
seeming apathy, and resting on his elbow he listened attentively. The
sounds came nearer and nearer, and now, the dull roll of a carriage
could be heard approaching. Strange noises these in that solitary
valley, where even the hoofs of a single horse but rarely routed the
echoes. A sudden dip of the road at a little distance from where he lay,
concealed the view, and he remained in anxious expectancy, wondering
what these sounds should portend, when suddenly the carriage seemed to
have halted, and all was still.

For some minutes the youth appeared to doubt whether he had not
been deceived by some swooping of the wind through the passes in the
mountains, when the sound of voices fell on his ear, and at the
same moment, two figures appeared over the crest of the hill, slowly
advancing up the road. The one was a man advanced in years, but still
hale and vigorous, in look-his features even yet eminently handsome,
wore an air of mingled frankness and haughtiness; there was in their
expression the habitual character of one accustomed to exert a degree
of command and influence over others-a look, which of all the
characteristics of temper, is least easily mistaken.

At his side walked one who, even at a passing glance, might be
pronounced his daughter, so striking the resemblance between them, She
did not seem above sixteen years of age, but through the youthful traits
of her features you could mark the same character of expression her
father's wore, modified by the tender beauty, which at that age, blends
the loveliness of the girl with the graces of womanhood. Bather above
than below the middle height, her figure had that distinguishing mark
of elegance high birth impresses, and in her very walk a quick observer
might detect an air of class.

They both stopped short as they gained the summit of the hill, and
appeared wonder-struck at the scene before them. The grey gloom of
twilight threw its sombre shadows over the valley, but the mountain
peaks were tipped with the setting sun, and shone in those rich
violet and purple hues the autumn heath displays so beautifully. The
dark-leaved holly and the bright arbutus blossom lent their colour to
every jutting cliff and promontory, which, to eyes unacquainted with
the scenery, gave an air of culture strangely at variance with the
desolation around.

“Is this wild enough for your fancy, Sybella,” said the father, with a
playful smile, as he watched the varying expression of the young girl's
features, “or would you desire something still more dreary?” But she
made no answer. Her gaze was fixed on a thin wreath of smoke that curled
its way upwards from what appeared a low mound of earth, in the valley
below the road; some branches of trees, covered with sods of earth,
grass-grown and still green, were heaped up together, and through these
the vapour found a passage and floated into the air.

“I am wondering what that fire can mean,” said she, pointing downwards
with her finger.

“Here is some one will explain it,” said the old man, as for the first
time he perceived the youth, who still maintained his former attitude
on the bank, and with a studied indifference, paid no attention to those
whose presence had before so much surprised him.

“I say, my good fellow, what does that smoke mean we see yonder?”

The youth sprung to his feet with a bound that almost startled his
questioner, so sudden and abrupt the motion; his features, inactive and
colourless the moment before, seemed almost convulsed now, while they
became dark with blood.

“Was it to me you spoke?” said he, in a low guttural tone, which his
passion made actually tremulous.

“Yes--”

But before the old man could reply, his daughter, with the quick tact
of womanhood, perceiving the mistake her father had fallen into, hastily
interrupted him by saying,--

“Yes, sir, we were asking you the cause of the fire at the foot of that
cliff.”

The tone and the manner in which the words were uttered seemed at once
to have disarmed his anger; and although for a second or two he made no
answer, his features recovered their former half-listless look, as he
said--

“It is a cabin--There is another yonder, beside the river.”

“A cabin! Surely you cannot mean that people are living there?” said the
girl, as a sickly pallor spread itself across her cheeks.

“Yes, to be sure,” replied the youth; “they have no better hereabouts.”

“What poverty--what dreadful misery is this!” said she, as the great
tears gushed forth, and stole heavily down her face.

“They are not so poor,” answered the young man, in a voice of almost
reproof. “The cattle along that mountain all belong to these people--the
goats you see in that glen are theirs also.”

“And whose estate may this be?” said the old man.

Either the questioner or his question seemed to have called up again
the youth's former resentment, for he fixed his eyes steadily on him for
some time without a word, and then slowly added--

“This belongs to an Englishman--a certain Sir Marmaduke Travers--It is
the estate of O'Donoghue.”

“Was, you mean, once,” answered the old man quickly.

“I mean what I say,” replied the other rudely. “Confiscation cannot take
away a right, it can at most--”

This speech was fortunately not destined to be finished, for while he
was speaking, his quick glance detected a dark object soaring above his
head. In a second he had seized his gun, and taking a steady aim, he
fired. The loud report was heard repeated in many a far-off glen, and
ere its last echo died away, a heavy object fell upon the road not many
yards from where they stood.

“This fellow,” said the youth, as he lifted the body of a large black
eagle from the ground--“This fellow was a confiscator too, and see what
he has come to. You'd not tell me that our lambs were his, would you?”

The roll of wheels happily drowned these words, for by this time the
postillions had reached the place, the four post-horses labouring under
the heavy-laden travelling carriage, with its innumerable boxes and
imperials.

The post boys saluted the young man with marked deference, to which he
scarcely deigned an acknowledgment, as he replaced his shot-pouch, and
seemed to prepare for the road once more.

Meanwhile the old gentleman had assisted his daughter to the carriage,
and was about to follow, when he turned around suddenly and said--

“If your road lies this way, may I offer you a seat with us?”

The youth stared as if he did not well comprehend the offer, and his
cheek flushed, as he answered coldly--

“I thank you; but my path is across the mountain.”

Both parties saluted distantly, the door of the carriage closed, and the
word to move on was given, when the young man, taking two dark feathers
from the eagle's wing, approached the window.

“I was forgetting,” said he, in a voice of hesitation and diffidence,
“perhaps you would accept these feathers.”

The young girl smiled, and half blushing, muttered some words in reply,
as she took the offered present. The horses sprung forward the next
instant, and a few minutes after, the road was as silent and deserted
as before; and save the retiring sound of the wheels, nothing broke the
stillness.




CHAPTER II. THE WAYSIDE INN

As the glen continues to wind between the mountains, it gradually
becomes narrower, and at last contracts to a mere cleft, flanked on
either side by two precipitous walls of rock, which rise to the
height of several hundred feet above the road; this is the pass of
Keim-an-eigh, one of the wildest and most romantic ravines of the
scenery of the south.

At the entrance to this pass there stood, at the time we speak of, a
small wayside inn, or shebeen-house, whose greatest recommendation was
in the feet, that it was the only place where shelter and refreshment
could be obtained for miles on either side. An humble thatched cabin
abutting against the granite rock of the glen, and decorated with an
almost effaced sign of St. Finbar converting a very unprepossessing
heathen, over the door, showed where Mary M'Kelly dispensed
“enthertainment for man and baste.”

A chance traveller, bestowing a passing glance upon this modest edifice,
might deem that an inn in such a dreary and unfrequented valley,
must prove a very profitless speculation--few, very few travelled the
road--fewer still would halt to bait within ten miles of Bantry. Report,
however, said differently; the impression in the country was, that
“Mary's”--as it was briefly styled--had a readier share of business than
many a more promising and pretentious hotel; in fact, it was generally
believed to be the resort of all the smugglers of the coast; and the
market, where the shopkeepers of the interior repaired in secret to
purchase the contraband wares and “run goods,” which poured into the
country from the shores of France and Holland.

Vast storehouses and caves were said to exist in the rock behind
the house, to store away the valuable goods, which from time to time
arrived; and it was currently believed that the cargo of an Indiaman
might have been concealed within these secret recesses, and never a cask
left in view to attract suspicion.

It is not into these gloomy receptacles of contraband that we would now
conduct our reader, but into a far more cheerful and more comfortable
locality--the spacious kitchen of the cabin, or, in fact, the apartment
which served for the double purpose of cooking and eating--the common
room of the inn, where around a blazing fire of black turf was seated a
party of three persons.

At one side sat the fat and somewhat comely figure of Mary herself, a
woman of some five-and-forty years, with that expression of rough and
ready temperament, the habits of a wayside inn will teach. She had a
clear, full eye--a wide, but not unpleasant mouth--and a voice that
suited well the mellifluous intonation of a Kerry accent. Opposite to
her were two thin, attenuated old men, who, for dress, look, age, voice,
and manner, it would have been almost impossible to distinguish from
each other; for while the same weather-beaten, shrivelled expression was
common to both, their jackets of blue cloth, leather breeches, and
top boots, were so precisely alike, that they seemed the very Dromios
brought back to life, to perform as postillions. Such they were--such
they had been for above fifty years. They had travelled the country from
the time they were boys--they entered the career together, and together
they were jogging onward to the last stage of all, the only one where
they hoped to be at rest! Joe and Jim Daly were two names no one ever
heard disunited; they were regarded as but one corporeally, and although
they affected at times to make distinctions themselves, the world never
gave them credit for any consciousness of separate identity. These were
the postillions of the travelling carriage, which having left at its
destination, about two miles distant, they were now regaling themselves
at Mary's, where the horses were to rest for the night.

“Faix, ma'am, and it's driving ye may call it,” said one of the pair,
as he sipped a very smoking compound the hostess had just mixed, “a
hard gallop every step of the way, barrin' the bit of a hill at
Carrignacurra.”

“Well, I hope ye had the decent hansel for it, any how, Jim?”

“I'm Joe, ma'am, av its plazing to ye; Jim is the pole-end boy; he rides
the layders. And it's true for ye--they behaved dacent.”

“A goold guinea, divil a less”--said the other, “there's no use in
denying it. Begorra, it was all natural, them's as rich as Crasis; sure
didn't I see the young lady herself throwing out the tenpenny bits to
the gossoons, as we went by, as if it was dirt; bad luck to me, but I
was going to throw down the Bishop of Cloyne.”

“Throw down who?” said the hostess.

“The near wheeler, ma'am; he's a broken-kneed ould divil, we bought from
the bishop, and called him after him; and as I was saying, I was going
to cross them on the pole, and get a fall, just to have a scramble for
the money, with the gaffers.”

“'They look so poor,' says she. God help her--it's little poverty she
saw--there isn't one of them crayters hasn't a sack of potatoes.”

“Ay--more of them a pig.”

“And hens,” chimed in the first speaker, with a horror at the imposition
of people so comfortably endowed, affecting to feel any pressure or
poverty.

“And what's bringing them here at all?” said Mrs. M'Kelly, with a voice
of some asperity; for she foresaw no pleasant future in the fact of a
resident great man, who would not be likely to give any encouragement to
the branch of traffic her principal customers followed.

“Sorrow one of me knows,” was the safe reply of the individual
addressed, who not being prepared with any view of the matter, save that
founded on the great benefit to the country, preferred this answer to a
more decisive one.

“'Tis to improve the property, they say,” interposed the other, who was
not equally endowed with caution. “To look after the estate himself he
has come.”

“Improve, indeed!” echoed the hostess. “Much we want their improving!
Why didn't they leave us the ould families of the country? It's little
we used to hear of improving, when I was a child. God be good to
us.--There was ould Miles O'Donoghue, the present man's father, I'd like
to see what he'd say, if they talked to him about improvement. Ayeh!
sure I mind the time a hogshead of claret didn't do the fortnight. My
father, rest his soul, used to go up to the house every Monday morning
for orders; and ye'd see a string of cars following him at the same
time, with tay, and sugar, and wine, and brandy, and oranges, and
lemons. Them was the raal improvements!”

“'Tis true for ye, ma'am. It was a fine house, I always heerd tell.”

“Forty-six in the kitchen, besides about fourteen colleens and gossoons
about the place; the best of enthertainment up stairs and down.”

“Musha! that was grand.”

“A keg of sperits, with a spigot, in the servants' hall, and no saying
by your leave, but drink while ye could stand over it.”

“The Lord be good to us!” piously ejaculated the twain.

“The hams was boiled in sherry wine.”

“Begorra, I wish I was a pig them times.”

“And a pike daren't come up to table without an elegant pudding in his
belly that cost five pounds!”

“'Tis the fish has their own luck always,” was the profound meditation
at this piece of good fortune.

“Ayeh! ayeh!” continued the hostess in a strain of lamentation, “When
the ould stock was in it, we never heerd tell of improvements. He'll be
making me take out a license, I suppose,” said she, in a voice of half
contemptuous incredulity.

“Faix, there's no knowing,” said Joe, as he shook the ashes out of his
pipe, and nodded his head sententiously, as though to say, that in the
miserable times they'd fallen upon, any thing was possible.

“Licensed for sperits and groceries,” said Mrs. M'Kelly, with a sort of
hysterical giggle, as if the thought were too much for her nerves.

“I wouldn't wonder if he put up a pike,” stammered out Jim, thereby
implying that human atrocity would have reached its climax.

The silence which followed this terrible suggestion, was now loudly
interrupted by a smart knocking at the door of the cabin, which was
already barred and locked for the night.

“Who's there?” said Mary, as she held a cloak across the blaze of the
fire, so as to prevent the light being seen through the apertures of the
door--“'tis in bed we are, and late enough, too.”

“Open the door, Mary, it's me,” said a somewhat confident voice. “I saw
the fire burning brightly--and there's no use hiding it.”

“Oh, troth, Mr. Mark, I'll not keep ye out in the cowld,” said the
hostess, as, unbarring the door, she admitted the guest whom we had seen
some time since in the glen. “Sure enough, 'tisn't an O'Donoghue we'd
shut the door agin, any how.”

“Thank ye, Mary,” said the young man; “I have been all day in the
mountains, and had no sport; and as that pleasant old Scotch uncle of
mine gives me no peace, when I come home empty-handed, I have resolved
to stay here for the night, and try my luck to-morrow. Don't stir,
Jim--there's room enough, Joe: Mary's fire is never so grudging, but
there's a warm place for every one. What's in this big pot here, Mary?”

“It's a stew, sir; more by token, of your honour's providin'.”
 “Mine--how is that?”

“The hare ye shot afore the door, yesterday morning; sure it's raal luck
we have it for you now;” and while Mary employed herself in the pleasant
hustle of preparing the supper, the young man drew near to the fire, and
engaged the others in conversation.

“That travelling carriage was going on to Bantry, Joe, I suppose?” said
the youth, in a tone of easy indifference.

“No sir; they stopped at the lodge above.”

“At the lodge!--surely you can't mean that they were the English
family--Sir Marmaduke.”

“'Tis just himself, and his daughter. I heerd them say the names, as we
were leaving Macroom. They were not expected here these three weeks;
and Captain Hemsworth, the agent, isn't at home; and they say there's
no servants at the lodge, nor nothin' ready for the quality at all; and
sure when a great lord like that--”

“He is not a lord you fool; he has not a drop of noble blood in his
body: he's a London banker--rich enough to buy birth, if gold could
do it.” The youth paused in his vehemence; then added, in a muttering
voice--“Rich enough to buy up the inheritance of those who have blood in
their veins.”

The tone of voice in which the young man spoke, and the angry look which
accompanied these words, threw a gloom over the party, and for some time
nothing was said on either side. At last he broke silence abruptly by
saying--

“And that was his daughter, then?”

“Yes, sir; and a purty crayture she is, and a kind-hearted. The moment
she heerd she was on her father's estate, she began asking the names of
all the people, and if they were well off, and what they had to ate, and
where was the schools.”

“The schools!” broke in Mary, in an accent of great derision--“musha,
it's great schooling we want up the glen, to teach us to bear poverty
and cowld, without complaining: learning is a fine thing for the
hunger--”

Her irony was too delicate for the thick apprehension of poor Jim, who
felt himself addressed by the remark, and piously responded--

“It is so, glory be to God!”

“Well,” said the young man, who now seemed all eagerness to resume
the subject--“well, and what then?”

“Then, she was wondering where was the roads up to the cabins on the
mountains, as if the likes of them people had roads!”

“They've ways of their own--the English,” interrupted Jim, who felt
jealous of his companion being always referred to--“for whenever we
passed a little potatoe garden, or a lock of oak, it was always, 'God
be good to us, but they're mighty poor hereabouts;' but when we got into
the raal wild part of the glen, with divil a house nor a human being
near us, sorrow word out of their mouths but 'fine, beautiful, elegant!'
till we came to Keim-an-eigh, and then, ye'd think that it was fifty
acres of wheat they were looking at, wid all the praises they had for
the big rocks, and black cliffs oyer our heads.”

“I showed them your honour's father's place on the mountains,” said Joe.

“Yes, faith,” broke in Jim; “and the young lady laughed and said, 'you
see, father, we have a neighbour after all.'”

The blood mounted to the youth's cheek, till it became almost purple,
but he did not utter a word.

“'Tis the O'Donoghue, my lady,' said I,” continued Joe, who saw the
difficulty of the moment, and hastened to relieve it--“that's his castle
up there, with the high tower. 'Twas there the family lived these nine
hundred years, whin the whole country was their own; and they wor kings
here.”

“And did you hear what the ould gentleman said then?” asked Jim.

“No, I didn't--I wasn't mindin' him,” rejoined Joe; endeavouring with
all his might to repress the indiscreet loquacity of the other.

“What was it, Jim?” said the young man, with a forced smile.

“Faix, he begun a laughing, yer honour, and says he, 'We must pay our
respects at Coort,' says he; 'and I'm sure we'll be well received, for
we know his Royal Highness already--that's what he called yer honour.”

The youth sprang to his feet, with a gesture so violent and sudden, as
to startle the whole party.

“What,” he exclaimed, “and are we sunk so low, as to be a scoff and a
jibe to a London money-changer? If I but heard him speak the words--”

“Arrah, he never said it at all,” said Joe, with a look that made his
counterpart tremble all over. “That bosthoon there, would make you
believe he was in the coach, convarsing the whole way with him. Sure
wasn't I riding the wheeler, and never heerd a word of it. Whisht, I
tell ye, and don't provoke me.”

“Ay, stop your mouth with some of this,” interposed Mary, as she helped
the smoking and savoury mess around the table.

Jim looked down abashed and ashamed; his testimony was discredited; and
without knowing why or wherefore, he yet had an indistinct glimmering
that any effort to vindicate his character would be ill-received; he
therefore said nothing more: his silence was contagious, and the meal
which a few moments before promised so pleasantly, passed off with gloom
and restraint.

All Mary M'Kelly's blandishments, assisted by a smoking cup of mulled
claret--a beverage which not a Chateau on the Rhone could rival in racy
flavour--failed to recall the young man's good-humour: he sat in gloomy
silence, only broken at intervals by sounds of some low muttering
to himself. Mary at length having arranged the little room for his
reception, bade him good night, and retired to rest. The postillions
sought their dens over the stable, and the youth, apparently lost in his
own thoughts, sat alone by the embers of the turf fire, and at last sunk
to sleep where he was, by the chimney-corner.

CHAPTER III. THE “COTTAGE AND THE CASTLE.”

Of Sir Marmaduke Travers, there is little to tell the reader beyond
what the few hints thrown out already may have conveyed to him. He was
a London banker, whose wealth was reputed to be enormous. Originally
a younger son, he succeeded somewhat late in life to the baronetcy and
large estates of his family. The habits, however, of an active city
life--the pursuits which a long career had made a second nature to
him--rendered him both unfit to eater upon the less exciting duties of
a country gentleman's existence, and made him regard such as devoid of
interest or amusement. He continued therefore to reside in London for
many years after he became the baronet; and it was only at the death
of his wife, to whom he was devotedly attached, that these habits became
distasteful; he found that he could no longer continue a course which
companionship and mutual feeling had rendered agreeable, and he resolved
at once to remove to some one of his estates, where a new sphere of
occupation might alleviate the sorrows of his loss. To this no obstacle
of any kind existed. His only son was already launched into life as an
officer in the guards; and, except his daughter, so lately before the
reader, he had no other children. The effort to attain forgetfulness was
not more successful here, than it is usually found to be. The old man
sought, but found not in a country life the solace he expected; neither
his tastes nor his habits suited those of his neighbours; he was little
of a sportsman, still less of a farmer. The intercourse of country
social life was a poor recompense for the unceasing flow of London
society. He grew wearied very soon of his experiment, and longed once
more to return to his old haunts and habits. One more chance, however,
remained for him, and he was unwilling to reject without trying it. This
was, to visit Ireland, where he possessed a large estate, which he
had never seen. The property, originally mortgaged to his father, was
represented as singularly picturesque and romantic, possessing great
mineral wealth, and other resources, never examined into, nor made
available. His agent, Captain Hemsworth, a gentleman who resided on the
estate, at his annual visit to the proprietor, used to dilate upon the
manifold advantages and capabilities of the property, and never ceased
to implore him to pay a visit, if even for a week or two, sincerely
trusting the while that such an intention might never occur to him.
These entreaties, made from year to year, were the regular accompaniment
of every settlement of account, and as readily replied to by a half
promise, which the maker was certainly not more sincere in pledging.

Three years of country life had now, however, disposed Sir Marmaduke to
reflect on this long unperformed journey; and, regardless of the fact
that his agent was then grouse-shooting in Scotland, he set out at a
moment's notice, and without a word to apprise the household at the
lodge of his intended arrival, reached the house in the evening of an
autumn day, by the road we have already been describing.

It is but justice to Sir Marmaduke to add, that he was prompted to this
step by other than mere selfish considerations. The state of Ireland had
latterly become a topic of the press in both countries. The poverty of
the people--interpreted in various ways, and ascribed to very opposite
causes--was a constant theme of discussion and conversation. The strange
phenomenon of a land teeming with abundance, yet overrun by a starving
population, had just then begun to attract notice; and theories were
rife in accounting for that singular and anomalous social condition,
which unhappily the experience of an additional half century has not
succeeded in solving.

Sir Marmaduke was well versed in these popular writings; he had the
“Whole State of Ireland” by heart; and so firmly was he persuaded
that his knowledge of the subject was perfect, that he became actually
impatient until he had reached the country, and commenced the great
scheme of regeneration and civilization, by which Ireland and her people
were to be placed among the most favoured nations. He had heard much
of Irish indolence and superstition--Irish bigotry and intolerance--the
indifference to comfort--the indisposition to exertion--the recklessness
of the present--the improvidence of the future; he had been told that
saint-days and holydays mulcted labour of more than half its due--that
ignorance made the other half almost valueless; he had read, that, the
easy contentment with poverty, had made all industry distasteful,
and all exertion, save what was actually indispensable, a thing to be
avoided.

“Why should these things be, when they were not so in Norfolk, nor in
Yorkshire?” was the question he ever asked, and to which his knowledge
furnished no reply. There, superstitions, if they existed--and he knew
not if they did--came not in the way of daily labour. Saints never
unharnessed the team, nor laid the plough inactive--comfort was a
stimulant to industry that none disregarded; habits of order and decorum
made the possessor respected--poverty almost argued misconduct, and
certainly was deemed a reproach. Why then not propagate the system
of these happy districts in Ireland? To do this was the great end and
object of his visit.

Philanthropy would often seem unhappily to have a dislike to the
practical--the generous emotions appear shorn of their freedom, when
trammelled with the fruit of experience or reflection. So, certainly
it was, in the case before us. Sir Marmaduke had the very best
intentions--the weakest notions of their realization; the most unbounded
desire for good--the very narrowest conceptions of how to effect it.
Like most theorists, no speculative difficulty was great enough to
deter--no practical obstacle was so small as not to affright him. It
never apparently occurred to him that men are not every where alike,
and this trifling omission was the source of difficulties, which
he persisted in ascribing to causes outside of himself. Generous,
kind-hearted, and benevolent, he easily forgave an injury, never
willingly inflicted one; he was also, however, hot-tempered and
passionate; he could not brook opposition to his will, where its object
seemed laudable to himself, and was utterly unable to make allowance
for prejudices and leanings in others, simply because he had never
experienced them in his own breast.

Such was, in a few words, the present occupant of “the Lodge”--as the
residence of the agent was styled. Originally a hunting box, it had
been enlarged and ornamented by Captain Hemsworth, and converted into a
cottage of singular beauty, without, and no mean pretension to comfort,
within doors. It occupied an indenture of the glen of Keim-an-eigh, and
stood on the borders of a small mountain-lake, the surface of which
was dotted with wooded islands. Behind the cottage, and favoured by
the shelter of the ravine, the native oaks grew to a great size, and
contrasted by the rich foliage waving in the breeze, with the dark sides
of the cliff opposite, rugged, barren and immutable.

In all the luxuriance of this mild climate, shrubs attained the height
of trees; and flowers, rare enough elsewhere to demand the most watchful
care, grew here, unattended and unregarded. The very grass had a depth
of green, softer and more pleasing to the eye than in other places. It
seemed as if nature had, in compensation for the solitude around, shed
her fairest gifts over this lonely spot, one bright gem in the dreary
sky of winter.

About a mile further down the glen, and seated on a lofty pinnacle of
rock, immediately above the road, stood the once proud castle of the
O'Donoghue. Two square and massive towers still remained to mark its
ancient strength, and the ruins of various outworks and bastions could
be traced, extending for a considerable distance on every side. Between
these square towers, and occupying the space where originally a curtain
wall stood, a long low building now extended, whose high-pitched roof
and narrow windows vouched for an antiquity of little more than a
hundred years. It was a strange incongruous pile, in which fortress and
farm-house seemed welded together--the whole no bad type of its past and
its present owners. The approach was by a narrow causeway, cut in the
rock, and protected by a square keep, through whose deep arch the road
penetrated--flanked on either hand by a low battlemented wall; along
these, two rows of lime trees grew, stately and beautiful in the midst
of all the ruin about them. They spread their waving foliage around, and
threw a mellow, solemn shadow along the walk. Except these, not a tree,
nor even a shrub, was to be seen--the vast woods of nature's own
planting had disappeared--the casualties of war--the chances of times of
trouble, or the more ruinous course of poverty, had laid them low, and
the barren mountain now stood revealed, where once were waving forests
and shady groves, the home of summer birds, the lair of the wild deer.

Cows and farm-horses were stabled in what once had been the outworks of
the castle. Implements of husbandry lay carelessly on all sides, neglect
and decay marked every thing, the garden-wall was broken down in many
places, and cattle strayed at will among the torn fruit-trees and
dilapidated terraces, while, as if to add to the dreary aspect of the
scene, the ground for a considerable distance around had been tilled,
but never subsequently restored to grass land, and now along its ridged
surface noisome weeds and thistles grew rankly, tainting the air with
their odour, and sending up heavy exhalations from the moist and spongy
earth. If, without, all looked sad and sorrow-struck, the appearances
within, were not much better. A large flagged-hall, opened upon two long
ill-lighted corridors, from which a number of small sitting-rooms led
off. Many of these were perfectly devoid of furniture; in the others,
what remained seemed to owe its preservation to its want of value rather
than any other quality. Cracked looking-glasses--broken chairs, rudely
mended by some country hand--ragged and patched carpets, were the only
things to be found, with here and there some dirt-disfigured piece of
framed canvas, which, whether tapestry or painting, no eye could now
discover. These apartments bore little or no trace of habitation;
indeed, for many years they were rarely entered by any one. A large
square room in one of the towers, of some forty feet in dimensions, was
the ordinary resort of the family, serving the purposes of drawing and
dining-room. This was somewhat better in appearance: whatever articles
of furniture had any pretension to comfort or convenience were here
assembled; and here, were met, old-fashioned sofas, deep arm-chairs,
quaint misshapen tables like millipedes, and fat old footstools, the
pious work of long-forgotten grandmothers. A huge screen, covered with
a motley array of prints and caricatures, cut off the group around the
ample fire-place from the remainder of the apartment, and it is within
this charmed circle we would now conduct our reader.

[Illustration: 038]

In the great arm-chair, to the right of the ample fire-place, sat a
powerfully built old man, whose hair was white as snow, and fell in
long waving masses at either side of his head. His forehead, massive and
expanded, surmounted two dark, penetrating eyes, which even extreme old
age had not deprived of their lustre. The other features of his face
were rather marked by a careless, easy sensuality, than by any other
character, except that in the mouth the expression of firmness was
strongly displayed. His dress was a strange mixture of the costume of
gentleman and peasant. His coat, worn and threadbare, bore traces of
better days, in its cut and fashion; his vest also showed the fragment
of tarnished embroidery along the margin of the flapped pockets; but
the coarse knee breeches of corduroy, and the thick grey lambswool
stockings, wrinkled along the legs, were no better than those worn by
the poorer farmers of the neighbourhood.

This was the O'Donoghue himself. Opposite to him sat one as unlike him
in every respect as it was possible to conceive. He was a tall, spare,
raw-boned figure, whose grey eyes and high cheek-bones bore traces of a
different race from that of the aged chieftain. An expression of intense
acuteness pervaded every feature of his face, and seemed concentrated
about the angles of the mouth, where a series of deep wrinkles were
seen to cross and intermix with each other, omens of a sarcastic spirit,
indulged without the least restraint on the part of its possessor.
His wiry grey hair was brushed rigidly back from his bony temples, and
fastened into a short queue behind, thus giving greater apparent length
to his naturally long and narrow face. His dress was that of a gentleman
of the time: a full-skirted coat of a dark brown, with a long vest
descending below the hips; breeches somewhat a deeper shade of the same
colour, and silk stockings, with silver-buckled shoes, completed an
attire which, if plain, was yet scrupulously neat and respectable. As
he sat, almost bolt upright, in his chair, there was a look of vigilance
and alertness about him very opposite to the careless, nearly drooping
air of the O'Donoghue. Such was Sir Archibald M'Nab, the brother of the
O'Donoghue's late wife, for the old man had been a widower for several
years. Certain circumstances of a doubtful and mysterious nature had
made him leave his native country of Scotland many years before, and
since that, he had taken up his abode with his brother-in-law, whose
retired habits and solitary residence afforded the surest guarantee
against his ever being traced. His age must have been almost as great as
the O'Donoghue's; but the energy of his character, the lightness of his
frame, and the habits of his life, all contributed to make him seem much
younger.

Never were two natures more dissimilar. The one, reckless, lavish,
and improvident; the other, cautious, saving, and full of forethought.
O'Donoghue was frank and open--his opinions easily known--his
resolutions hastily formed. M'Nab was close and secret, carefully
weighing every thing before he made up his mind, and not much given to
imparting his notions, when he had done so.

In one point alone was there any similarity between them--pride of
ancestry and birth they both possessed in common; but this trait, so
far from serving to reconcile the other discrepancies of their naturess,
kept them even wider apart, and added to the passive estrangement of
ill-matched associates, an additional element of active discord.

There was a lad of some fifteen or sixteen years of age, who sat beside
the fire on a low stool, busily engaged in deciphering, by the fitful
light of the bog-wood, the pages of an old volume, in which he seemed
deeply interested. The blazing pine, as it threw its red gleam over the
room, showed the handsome forehead of the youth, and the ample locks
of a rich auburn, which hung in clusters over it; while his face was
strikingly like the old man's, the mildness of its expression--partly
the result of youth, partly the character imparted by his present
occupation--was unlike that of either his father or brother; for Herbert
O'Donoghue was the younger son of the house, and was said, both in
temper and appearance, to resemble his mother.

At a distance from the fire, and with a certain air of half assurance,
half constraint, sat a man of some five-and-thirty years of age, whose
dress of green coat, short breeches, and top boots, suggested at once
the jockey, to which the mingled look of confidence and cunning bore
ample corroboration. This was a well-known character in the south of
Ireland at that time. His name was Lanty Lawler. The sporting habits of
the gentry--their easiness on the score of intimacy--the advantages of
a ready-money purchaser, whenever they wished “to weed their stables,”
 admitted the horse-dealer pretty freely among a class, to which neither
his habits nor station could have warranted him in presenting himself.
But, in addition to these qualities, Lanty was rather a prize in remote
and unvisited tracts, such as the one we have been describing, his
information being both great and varied in every thing going forward. He
had the latest news of the capital--the fashions of hair and toilet--the
colours worn by the ladies in vogue, and the newest rumours of any
intended change--he knew well the gossip of politics and party--upon
the probable turn of events in and out of parliament he could hazard a
guess, with a fair prospect of accuracy. With the prices of stock and
the changes in the world of agriculture he was thoroughly familiar, and
had besides a world of stories and small-talk on every possible subject,
which he brought forth with the greatest tact as regarded the tastes and
character of his company, one-half of his acquaintances being totally
ignorant of the gifts and graces, by which he obtained fame and
character with the other.

A roving vagabond life gave him a certain free-and-easy air, which,
among the majority of his associates, was a great source of his
popularity; but he well knew when to lay this aside, and assume the
exact shade of deference and respect his company might require. If
then with O'Donoghue himself, he would have felt perfectly at ease, the
presence of Sir Archy, and his taciturn solemnity, was a sad check upon
him, and mingled the freedom he felt with a degree of reserve far from
comfortable. However, he had come for a purpose, and, if successful, the
result would amply remunerate him for any passing inconvenience he might
incur; and with this thought he armed himself, as he entered the room
some ten minutes before.

“So you are looking for Mark,” said the O'Donoghue to Lanty. “You can't
help hankering after that grey mare of his.”

“Sure enough, sir, there's no denying it. I'll have to give him the
forty pounds for her, though, as sure as I'm here, she's not worth
the money; but when I've a fancy for a beast, or take a conceit out of
her--it's no use, I must buy her--that's it!”

“Well, I don't think he'll give her to you now, Lanty; he has got her so
quiet--so gentle--that I doubt he'll part with her.”

“It's little a quiet one suits him; faix, he'd soon tire of her if she
wasn't rearing or plunging like mad! He's an elegant rider, God bless
him. I've a black horse now that would mount him well; he's out of
'Divil-may-care,' Mooney's horse, and can take six foot of a wall
flying, with fourteen stone on his back; and barring the least taste of
a capped hock, you could not see speck nor spot about him wrong.”

“He's in no great humour for buying just now,” interposed the
O'Donoghue, with a voice to which some suddenly awakened recollection
imparted a tone of considerable depression.

“Sure we might make a swop with the mare,” rejoined Lanty, determined
not to be foiled so easily; and then, as no answer was forthcoming,
after a long pause, he added, “and havn't I the elegant pony for Master
Herbert there; a crame colour--clean bred--with white mane and tail. If
he was the Prince of Wales he might ride her. She has racing speed--they
tell me, for I only have her a few days; and, faix, ye'd win all the
county stakes with her.”

The youth looked up from his book, and listened with glistening eyes and
animated features to the description, which, to one reared as he was,
possessed no common attraction.

“Sure I'll send over for her to-morrow, and you can try her,” said
Lanty, as if replying to the gaze with which the boy regarded him.

“Ye mauna do nae sich a thing,” broke in M'Nab. “Keep your rogueries and
rascalities for the auld generation ye hae assisted to ruin; but
leave the young anes alane to mind ither matters than dicing and
horse-racing.”

Either the O'Donoghue conceived the allusion one that bore hardly on
himself, or he felt vexed that the authority of a father over his son
should have been usurped by another, or both causes were in operation
together, but he turned an angry look on Sir Archy, and said--

“And why shouldn't the boy ride? was there ever one of his name or
family that didn't know how to cross a country? I don't intend him for a
highland pedlar.”

“He might be waur,” retorted M'Nab, solemnly, “he might be an Irish
beggar.”

“By my soul, sir,” broke in O'Donoghue; but fortunately an interruption
saved the speech from being concluded, for at the same moment the door
opened, and Mark O'Donoghue, travel-stained and weary-looking, entered
the room.

“Well, Mark,” said the old man, as his eyes glistened at the appearance
of his favourite son--“what sport, boy?”

“Poor enough, sir; five brace in two days is nothing to boast of,
besides two hares. Ah, Lanty--you here; how goes it?”

“Purty well, as times go, Mr. Mark,” said the horse-dealer, affecting
a degree of deference he would not have deemed necessary had they been
alone. “I'm glad to see you back again.”

“Why--what old broken-down devils have you now got on hand to pass off
upon us? It's fellows like you destroy the sport of the country. You
carry away every good horse to be found, and cover the country with
spavined, wind-galled brutes, not fit for the kennel.”

“That's it, Mark--give him a canter, lad,” cried the old man, joyfully.

“I know what you are at well enough,” resumed the youth, encouraged by
these tokens of approval; “you want that grey mare of mine. You have
some fine English officer ready to give you an hundred and fifty, or,
may be, two hundred guineas, for her, the moment you bring her over to
England.”

“May I never--

“That's the trade you drive. Nothing too bad for us--nothing too good
for them.”

“See now, Mr. Mark, I hope I may never------”

“Well, Lanty, one word for all; I'd rather send a bullet through her
skull this minute, than let you have her for one of your fine English
patrons.”

“Won't you let me speak a word at all,” interposed the horse-dealer, in
an accent half imploring, half deprecating. “If I buy the mare--and
it isn't for want of a sporting offer if I don't--she'll never go to
England--no--devil a step. She's for one in the country here beside you;
but I won't say more, and there now.” At these words he drew a soiled
black leather pocket-book from the breast of his coat, and opening
it, displayed a thick roll of bank notes, tied with a piece of
string--“There now--there's sixty pounds in that bundle there--at least
I hope so, for I never counted it since I got it--take it for her or
leave it--just as you like; and may I never have luck with a beast,
but there's not a gentleman in the county would give the same money
for her.” Here he dropped his voice to a whisper, and added, “Sure the
speedy cut is ten pounds off her price any day, between two brothers.”

“What!” said the youth, as his brows met in passion, and his heightened
colour showed how his anger was raised.

“Well, well--it's no matter, there's my offer; and if I make a ten pound
note of her, sure it's all I live by; I wasn't born to an estate and a
fine property, like yourself.”

These words, uttered in such a tone as to be inaudible to the rest,
seemed to mollify the young man's wrath, for, sullenly stretching forth
his hand, he took the bundle and opened it on the table before him.

“A dry bargain never was a lucky one, they say, Lanty--isn't that so?”
 said the ODonoghue, as, seizing a small hand-bell, he ordered up a
supply of claret, as well as the more vulgar elements for punch, should
the dealer, as was probable, prefer that liquor.

“These notes seem to have seen service,” muttered Mark: “here's a lagged
fellow. There's no making out whether he's two or ten.”

“They were well handled, there's no doubt of it,” said Lanty, “the
tenants was paying them in; and sure you know yourself how they thumb
and finger a note before they part with it. You'd think they were trying
to take leave of them. There's many a man can't read a word, can tell
you the amount of a note, just by the feel of it!--Thank you, sir, I'll
take the spirits--it's what I'm most used to.”

“Who did you get them from, Lanty?” said the ODonoghue.

“Malachi Glynn, sir, of Cahernavorra, and, by the same token, I got a
hearty laugh at the same house once before.”

“How was that?” said the old man, for he saw by the twinkle of Lanty's
eye, that a story was coming.

“Faix, just this way, sir. It was a little after Christmas last year
that Mr. Malachi thought he'd go up to Dublin for a month or six weeks
with the young ladies, just to show them, by way of; for ye see, there's
no dealing at all downi here; and he thought he'd bring them up, and see
what could be done. Musha! but they're the hard stock to get rid of!
and somehow they don't improve by holding them over. And as there was
levees, and drawing-rooms, and balls going on, sure it would go hard but
he'd get off a pair of them anyhow. Well, it was an elegant scheme, if
there was money to do it; but devil a farthin' was to be had, high or
low, beyond seventy pounds I gave for the two carriage horses and the
yearlings that was out in the field, and sure that wouldn't do at all.
He tried the tenants for 'the November,' but what was the use of
it, though he offered a receipt in full for ten shillings in the
pound?--when a lucky thought struck him. Troth, and it's what ye
may call a grand thought too. He was walking about before the door,
thinking and ruminating how to raise the money, when he sees the sheep
grazing on the lawn fornint him--not that he could sell one of them, for
there was a strap of a bond or mortage on them a year before. 'Faix,'
and says he, when a man's hard up for cash, he's often obliged to wear
a mighty thread-bare coat, and go cold enough in the winter season--and
sure it's reason sheep isn't better than Christians; and begorra,' says
he, I'll have the fleece off ye, if the weather was twice as cowld.' No
sooner said than done. They were ordered into the haggard-yard the same
evening, and, as sure as ye're there, they cut the wool off them three
days after Christmas. Musha! but it was a pitiful sight to see them
turned out shivering and shaking, with the snow on the ground. And it
didn't thrive with him; for three died the first night. Well, when
he seen what come of it, he had them all brought in again, and they
gathered all the spare clothes and the ould rags in the house together,
and dressed them up, at least the ones that were worst; and such a set
of craytures never was seen. One had an old petticoat on; another a
flannel waistcoat; many, could only get a cravat or a pair of gaiters;
but the ram beat all, for he was dressed in a pair of corduroy breeches,
and an ould spencer of the master's; and may I never live, if I didn't
roll down full length on the grass when I seen him.”

For some minutes before Lanty had concluded his story, the whole party
were convulsed with laughter; even Sir Archy vouchsafed a grave smile,
as, receiving the tale in a different light, he muttered, to himself--

“They're a the same--ne'er-do-well, reckless deevils.”

One good result at least followed the anecdote--the good-humour of the
company was restored at once--the bargain was finally concluded; and
Lanty succeeded by some adroit flattery in recovering five pounds of the
price, under the title of luck-penny--a portion of the contract M'Nab
would have interfered against at once, but that, for his own especial
reasons, he preferred remaining silent.

The party soon after separated for the night, and as Lanty sought the
room usually destined for his accommodation, he muttered, as he went,
his self-gratulations on his bargain. Already he had nearly reached
the end of the long corridor, where his chamber lay, when a door was
cautiously opened, and Sir Archy, attired in a dressing-gown, and with a
candle in his hand, stood before him..

“A word wi' ye, Master Lawler,” said he, in a low dry tone, the
horse-dealer but half liked. “A word wi' ye, before ye retire to rest.”

Lanty followed the old man into the apartment with an air of affected
carelessness, which soon, however, gave way to surprise, as he surveyed
the chamber, so little like any other in that dreary mansion. The
walls were covered with shelves, loaded with books; maps and prints lay
scattered about on tables; an oak cabinet of great beauty in form
and carving, occupied a deep recess beside the chimney; and over
the fireplace a claymore of true Highland origin, and a pair of
silver-mounted pistols, were arranged like a trophy, surmounted by a
flat Highland cap, with a thin black eagle's feather.

Sir Archy seemed to enjoy the astonishment of his guest, and for some
minutes made no effort to break silence. At length he said--

“We war speaking about a sma' pony for the laird's son, Mister
Lawler--may I ask ye the price?”

The words acted like a talisman--Lanty was himself in a moment. The
mere mention of horse flesh brought back the whole crowd of his daily
associations, and with his native volubility he proceeded, not to reply
to the question, but to enumerate the many virtues and perfections of
the “sweetest tool that ever travelled on four legs.”

Sir Archy waited patiently till the eloquent eulogy was over, and then,
drily repeated his first demand.

“Is it her price!” said Lanty, repeating the question to gain time to
consider how far circumstances might warrant him in pushing a market.
“It's her price ye're asking me, Sir Archibald? Troth, and I'll tell you:
there's not a man in Kerry could say what's her price. Goold wouldn't
pay for her, av it was value was wanted. See now, she's not fourteen
hands high, but may I never leave this room if she wouldn't carry
me--ay, myself here, twelve stone six in the scales--over e'er a fence
between this and Inchigeela.”

“It's no exactly to carry you that I was making my inquiry,” said the
old man, with an accent of more asperity than he had used before.

“Well then, for Master Herbert--sure she is the very beast--”

“What are you, asking for her?--canna you answer a straightforred
question, man?” reiterated Sir Archy, in a voice there was no mistaking.

“Twenty guineas, then,” replied Lanty, in a tone of defiance; “and if ye
offer me pounds I won't take it.”

Sir Archy made no answer; but turning to the old cabinet, he unlocked
one of the small doors, and drew forth a long leather pouch, curiously
embroidered with silver; from this he took ten guineas in gold, and laid
them leisurely on the table. The horse dealer eyed them askance, but
without the slightest sign of having noticed them.

“I'm no goin' to buy your beast, Mr. Lawler,” said the old man, slowly;
“I'm just goin' merely to buy your ain good sense and justice. You say
the powney is worth twenty guineas.”

“As sure as I stand here. I wouldn't--”

“Weel, weel, I'm content. There's half the money; tak' it, but never
let's hear anither word about her here: bring her awa wi' ye; sell or
shoot her, do what ye please wi' her; but, mind me, man”--here, his
voice became full, strong, and commanding--“tak' care that ye meddle
not wi' that young callant, Herbert. Dinna fill his head wi' ranting
thoughts of dogs and horses. Let there be one of the house wi' a soul
above a scullion or a groom. Ye have brought ruin enough here; you can
spare the boy, I trow: there, sir, tak' your money.”

For a second or two, Lanty seemed undecided whether to reject or accept
a proposal so humiliating in its terms; and when at length he acceded,
it was rather from his dread of the consequences of refusal, than from
any satisfaction the bargain gave him.

“I'm afraid, Sir Archibald,” said he, half timidly, “I'm afraid you
don't understand me well.”

“I'm afraid I do,” rejoined the old man, with a bitter smile on his lip;
“but it's better we should understand each other. Good night.”

“Well, good night to you, any how,” said Lanty, with a slight sigh, as
he dropped the money into his pocket, and left the room.

“I have bought the scoundrel cheap!” muttered Sir Archy, as the door
closed.

“Begorra, I thought he was twice as knowing!” was Lanty's reflection, as
he entered his own chamber.

CHAPTER IV. KERRY O'LEARY.

Lanty Lawler was stirring the first in the house. The late sitting of
the preceding evening, and the deep potations he had indulged in, left
little trace of weariness on his well-accustomed frame. Few contracts
were ratified in those days without the solemnity of a drinking bout,
and the habits of the O'Donoghue household were none of the most
abstemious. All was still and silent then as the horse-dealer descended
the stairs, and took the path towards the stable, where he had left his
hackney the night before.

It was Lanty's intention to take possession of his new purchase, and set
out on his journey before the others were stirring; and with this object
he wended his way across the weed-grown garden, and into the wide and
dreary court-yard of the building.

Had he been disposed to moralize--assuredly an occupation he was little
given to--he might have indulged the vein naturally enough, as he
surveyed on every side the remains of long past greatness and present
decay. Beautifully proportioned columns, with florid capitals, supplied
the place of gate piers. Richly carved armorial bearings were seen
upon the stones used to repair the breaches in the walls. Fragments of
inscriptions and half obliterated dates appeared amid the moss-grown
ruins; and the very, door of the stable had been a portal of dark oak,
studded with large nails, its native strength having preserved it when
even the masonry was crumbling to decay. Lanty passed these with perfect
indifference. Their voice awoke no echo within his breast; and even when
he noticed them, it was to mutter some jeering allusion to their fallen
estate, rather than with any feeling of reverence for what they once
represented.

The deep bay of a hound now startled him, however. He turned suddenly
round, and close beside him, but within the low wall of a ruined
kennel-yard, lay a large foxhound, so old and feeble that, even roused
by the approach of a stranger, he could not rise from the ground, but
lay helplessly on the earth, and with uplifted throat sent forth a
long wailing note. Lanty leaned upon the wall, and looked at him. The
emotions which other objects failed to suggest, seemed to flock upon him
now. That poor dog, the last of a once noble pack, whose melody used to
ring through every glen and ravine of the wild mountains, was an appeal
to his heart he could not withstand; and he stood with his gaze fixed
upon him.

“Poor old fellow,” said he compassionately, “it's a lonely thing for you
to be there now, and all your old friends and companions dead and gone.
Rory, my boy, don't you know me?”

The tones of his voice seemed to soothe the animal, for he responded in
a low cadence indescribably melancholy.

“That's my boy. Sure I knew you didn't forget me;” and he stooped over
and patted the poor beast upon the head.

“The top of the morning to you, Mister Lawler,” cried out a voice
straight over his head--and at the same instant a strange-looking face
was protruded from a little one-paned window of a hay loft--“'tis early
you are to-day.”

“Ah, Kerry, how are you, my man? I was taking a look at Rory here.”

“Faix, he's a poor sight now,” responded the other with a sigh; “but
he wasn't so once. I mind the time he could lead the pack over
Cubber-na-creena mountain, and not a dog but himself catch the scent,
after a hard frost and a north wind. I never knew him wrong. His tongue
was as true as the priest's--sorra he in it.”

A low whine from the poor old beast seemed to acknowledge the praise
bestowed upon him; and Kerry continued--

“It's truth I'm telling; and if it wasn't, it's just himself would
contradict me.--Tallyho! Rory--tallyho! my ould boy;” and both man and
dog joined in a deep-toned cry together.

The old walls sent back the echoes, and for some seconds the sounds
floated through the still air of the morning.

Lanty listened with animated features and lit-up eyes to notes which so
often had stirred the strongest cords of his heart, and then suddenly,
as if recalling his thoughts to their former channel, cried out--

“Come down, Kerry, my man--come down here, and unlock the door of the
stable. I must be early on the road this morning.”

Kerry O'Leary--for so was he called, to distinguish him from those
of the name in the adjoining county--soon made his appearance in the
court-yard beneath. His toilet was a hasty one, consisting merely of a
pair of worn corduroy small clothes and an old blue frock, with faded
scarlet collar and cuffs, which, for convenience, he wore on the present
occasion buttoned at the neck, and without inserting his arms in the
sleeves, leaving these appendages to float loosely at his side. His legs
and feet were bare, as was his head, save what covering it derived from
a thick fell of strong black hair that hung down on every side like an
ill-made thatch.

Kerry was not remarkable for good looks. His brow was low, and shaded
two piercing black eyes, set so closely together, that they seemed to
present to the beholder one single continuous dark streak beneath his
forehead: a short snubby nose, a wide thick-lipped mouth, and a heavy
massive under-jaw, made up an assemblage of features, which, when at
rest, indicated little of remarkable or striking; but when animated
and excited, displayed the strangest possible union of deep cunning and
simplicity, intense curiosity and apathetic indolence. His figure was
short, almost to dwarfishness, and as his arms were enormously long,
they contributed to give that air to his appearance. His legs were
widely bowed, and his gait had that slouching, shambling motion, so
indicative of an education cultivated among horses and stable-men. So
it was, in fact, Kerry had begun life as a jockey. At thirteen he rode
a winning race at the Curragh, and came in first on the back of Blue
Blazes, the wickedest horse of the day in Ireland. From that hour he
became a celebrity, and until too old to ride, was the crack jockey of
his time. From jockey he grew into trainer--the usual transition of
the tadpole to the frog; and when the racing stud was given up by the
O'Donoghue in exchange for the hunting field, Kerry led the pack to
their glorious sport. As time wore on, and its course brought saddening
fortunes to his master, Kerry's occupation was invaded; the horses were
sold, the hounds given up, and the kennel fell to ruins. Of the large
household that once filled the castle, a few were now retained; but
among these was Kerry. It was not that he was useful, or that his
services could minister to the comfort or convenience of the family; far
from it, the commonest offices of in-door life he was ignorant of, and,
even if he knew, would have shrunk from performing them, as being a
degradation. His whole skill was limited to the stable-yard, and there,
now, his functions were unneeded. It would seem as if he were kept as
a kind of memento of their once condition, rather than any thing else.
There was a pride in maintaining one who did nothing the whole day but
lounge about the offices and the court-yard, in his old ragged suit of
huntsman. And so, too, it impressed the country people, who seeing him,
believed that at any moment the ancient splendour of the house might
shine forth again, and Kerry, as of yore, ride out on his thoroughbred,
to make the valleys ring with music. He was, as it were, a kind of
staff, through which, at a day's notice, the whole regiment might be
mustered. It was in this spirit he lived, and moved, and spoke. He was
always going about looking after a “nice beast to carry the master,” and
a “real bit of blood for Master Mark,” and he would send a gossoon to
ask if Barry O'Brien of the bridge “heard tell of a fox in the cover
below the road.” In fact, his preparations ever portended a speedy
resumption of the habits in which his youth and manhood were spent.

Such was the character who now, in the easy deshabille described,
descended into the court-yard with a great bunch of keys in his hand,
and led the way towards the stable.

“I put the little mare into the hack-stable, Mr. Lawler,” said he,
“because the hunters is in training, and I didn't like to disturb them
with a strange beast.”

“Hunters in training!” replied Lanty in astonishment. “Why, I thought he
had nothing but the grey mare with the black legs.”

“And sure, if he hasn't,” responded Kerry crankily, “couldn't he buy
them when he wants them.”

“Oh, that's it,” said the other, laughing to himself. “No doubt of it
Kerry. Money will do many a thing.”

“Oh, it's wishing it I am for money! Bad luck to the peace or ease I
ever seen since they became fond of money. I remember the time it was,
'Kerry go down and bring this, or take that,' and devil a more about it;
and lashings of every thing there was. See now! if the horses could eat
pease pudding, and drink punch, they'd got it for askin'; but now it's
all for saving, and saving. And sure, what's the use of goold? God be
good to us, as I heard Father Luke say, he'd do as much for fifteen
shillings as for fifty pounds, av it was a poor boy wanted it.”

“What nonsense are you talking, you old sinner, about saving. Why man,
they haven't got as much as they could bless themselves on, among them
all. You needn't be angry, Kerry. It's not Lanty Lawler you can humbug
that way. Is there an acre of the estate their own now? Not if every
perch of it made four, it wouldn't pay the money they owe.”

“And if they do,” rejoined Kerry indignantly, “who has a better right,
tell me that? Is it an O'Donoghue would be behind the rest of the
country--begorra, ye're bould to come up here and tell us that.”

“I'm not telling you any thing of the kind--I'm saying that if they are
ruined entirely--”

“Arrah! don't provoke me. Take your baste and go, in God's name.”

And so saying, Kerry, whose patience was fast ebbing, pushed wide
the stable-door, and pointed to the stall where Lanty's hackney was
standing.

“Bring out that grey mare, Master Kerry,” said Lanty in a tone of easy
insolence, purposely assumed to provoke the old huntsman's anger,
“Bring her out here.”

“And what for, would I bring her out?”

“May be I'll tell you afterwards,” was the reply. “Just do as I say,
now.”

“The devil a one o' me will touch the beast at your bidding; and what's
more, I'll not let yourself lay a finger on her.”

“Be quiet, you old fool,” said a deep voice behind him. He turned, and
there stood Mark O'Donoghue himself, pale and haggard after his night's
excess. “Be quiet, I say. The mare is his--let him have her.”

“Blessed Virgin!” exclaimed Kerry, “here's the hunting season beginning,
and sorrow thing you'll have to put a saddle on, barrin'--barrin'--”

“Barring what?” interposed Lanty, with an insolent grin.

The young man flushed at the impertinence of the insinuation, but said
not a word for a few minutes, then suddenly exclaimed--

“Lanty, I have changed my mind; I'll keep the mare.”

The horse-dealer started, and stared him full in the face--

“Why Mr. Mark, surely you're not in earnest? The beast is paid for--the
bargain all settled.”

“I don't care for that. There's your money again. I'll keep the mare.”

“Ay, but listen to reason. The mare is mine. She was so when you handed
me the luck-penny, and if I don't wish to part with her, you cannot
compel me.”

“Can't I?” retorted Mark, with a jeering laugh; “can't I, faith? Will
you tell me what's to prevent it? Will you take the law of me? Is that
your threat?”

“Devil a one ever said I was that mean, before!” replied Lanty, with an
air of deeply-offended pride. “I never demeaned myself to the law, and
I'm fifteen years buying and selling horses in every county in Munster.
No, Mr. Mark, it is not that; but I'll just tell you the truth, The mare
is all as one as sold already;--there it is now, and that's the whole
secret.”

“Sold! What do you mean?--that you had sold that mare before you ever
bought her?”

“To be sure I did,” cried Lanty, assuming a forced look of easy
assurance he was very far from feeling at the moment. “There's nothing
more common in my trade. Not one of us buys a beast without knowing
where the next owner is to be had.”

“And do you mean, sir,” said Mark, as he eyed him with a steady stare,
“do you mean to tell me that you came down here, as you would to a petty
fanner's cabin, with your bank-notes, ready to take whatever you may
pitch your fancy on, sure and certain that our necessities must make us
willing chapmen for all you care to deal in--do you dare to say that you
have done this with _me?_”

For an instant Lanty was confounded. He could not utter a word, and
looked around him in the vain hope of aid from any other quarter, but
none was forthcoming. Kerry was the only unoccupied witness of the
scene, and his face beamed with ineffable satisfaction at the turn
matters had taken, and as he rubbed his hands he could scarcely control
his desire to laugh outright, at the lamentable figure of his late
antagonist.

“Let me say one word, Master Mark,” said Lanty at length, and in a voice
subdued to its very softest key--“just a single word in your own ear,”
 and with that he led the young man outside the door of the stable, and
whispered for some minutes, with the greatest earnestness, concluding in
a voice loud enough to be heard by Kerry--

“And after that, I'm sure I need say no more.”

Mark made no answer, but leaned his back against the wall, and folded
his arms upon his breast.

“May I never if it is not the whole truth,” said Lanty, with a most
eager and impassioned gesture; “and now I leave it all to yourself.”

“Is he to take the mare?” asked Kerry, in anxious dread lest his enemy
might have carried the day.

“Yes,” was the reply, in a deep hollow voice, as the speaker turned away
and left the stable.

While Lanty was engaged in placing his saddle on his new purchase, an
operation in which Kerry contrived not to afford him any assistance
whatever, Mark O'Donoghue paced slowly to and fro in the courtyard, with
his arms folded, and his head sunk upon his breast; nor was he aroused
from his reverie until the step of the horse was heard on the pavement
beside him.

“Poor Kittane,” said he, looking up suddenly, “you were a great pet: I
hope they'll be as kind to you as I was; and they'd better, too,” added
he, half-savagely, “for you've a drop of the Celt in your blood, and can
revenge harsh treatment when you meet with it. Tell her owner that she
is all gentleness, if not abused, but get her temper once up, and, by
Jove, there's not a torrent on the mountain can leap as madly! She knows
her name, too: I trust they'll not change that. She was bred beside
Lough Kittane, and called after it. See how she can follow;” and with
that, the youth sprang forward, and placing his hand on the top bar of a
gate, vaulted lightly over; but scarcely had he reached the ground,
when the mare bounded after him, and stood with her head resting on his
shoulder.

Mark turned an elated look on the others, and then surveyed the
noble animal beside him with all the pride and admiration of a master
regarding his handiwork. She was, indeed, a model of symmetry, and well
worthy of all the praise bestowed on her.

For a moment or two the youth gazed on her, with a flashing eye and
quivering lip, while the mare, catching excitement from the free air of
the morning, and the spring she had made, stood with swelled veins and
trembling limbs, his counterpart in eagerness. One spirit seemed to
animate both. So Mark appeared to feel it, as with a bound he sprung
into the saddle, and with a wild cheer dashed forward. With lightning's
speed they went, and in a moment disappeared from view. Kerry jumped up
on a broken gate-pier, and strained his eyes to catch them, while Lanty,
muttering maledictions to himself, on the hair-brained boy, turned
everywhere for a spot where he might view the scene.

[Illustration: 55]

“There he goes,” shouted Kerry; “look at him now; he's coming to the
furze ditch into the big field: see! see! she does not see the fence;
her head's in the air. Whew--elegant, by the mortial--never touched a
hoof to it!--murther! murther! how she gallops in the deep ground, and
the wide gripe that's before her! Ah, he won't take it; he's turning
away.”

“I wish to the Lord he'd break a stirrup-leather,” muttered Lanty.

“Oh, Joseph!” screamed Kerry, “there was a jump--twenty feet as sure as
I'm living. Where is he now?--I don't see him.”

“May you never,” growled Lanty, whose indignant anger had burst all
bounds: “that's not treatment for another man's horse.”

“There he goes, the jewel; see him in the stubble field; sure it's a
real picture to see him going along at his ease. Whurroo--he's over the
wall. What the devil's the matter now?--they're away;” and so it was:
the animal that an instant before was cantering perfectly in hand, had
now set off at top speed, and at full stretch. “See the gate--mind the
gate--Master Mark--tear-and-ages, mind the gate,” shouted Kerry, as
though his admonition could be heard half a mile away. “Oh! holy Mary!
he's through it,” and true enough--the wild and now affrighted beast
dashed through the frail timbers, and held on her course, without
stopping. “He's broke the gate to flitters.”

“May I never, if I don't wish it was his neck,” said Lanty, in open
defiance.

“Do you, then?” called out Kerry. “Why, then, as sure as my name's Kerry
O'Leary, if there's a hair of his head hurted, I'll--”

What the threat was intended for, cannot be known; for his eye once more
caught sight of his idol, and he yelled out--

“Take care of the sheep. Bad luck to ye for sheep, ye're always in the
way. That's the darling--'twas myself taught you to have a light hand.
Ah, Kittane, you're coming to rayson now.”

“The mare won't be worth sixpence,” muttered Lanty.

“Twas as good as a day's sport to me,” said Kerry, wiping his brow
with the loose sleeve of his coat, and preparing to descend from the
elevation, for the young man now entered the distant part of the lawn,
and, at an easy canter, was returning to the stable-yard.

“There!” said Mark, as he flung himself from the saddle, “there Kittane,
it's the last time you're likely to have a bold burst of it, or myself
either, perhaps. She touched her counter on that gate, Lanty; but she's
nothing the worse of it.”

Lanty grumbled some indistinct mutterings, as he wiped a blood stain
from the mare's chest, and looked sulkily at her heaving flanks and
sides reeking with foam and sweat.

“Tis a darling you wor,” said Kerry, patting her over from her mane to
her hind quarters.

“Faix, that cut is ten pounds out of my pocket this morning, anyhow,”
 said Lanty, as he pointed to the slight scratch from which a few drops
of blood still flowed.

“Are you off the bargain, then,” said Mark sternly, as he turned his
head round; for he was already leaving the spot.

“I didn't say so,” was the answer.

For a second or two Mark seemed uncertain what reply to make, and then,
as if controlling his temper, he nodded carelessly, and with a “Good-by,
Lanty,” he sauntered slowly towards the house.

“Well, Mr. O'Leary,” said Lanty, in a voice of affected politeness,
Irishmen are occasionally very fond of employing when they intend great
self-respect, “may I trouble you to bring out that hack of mine.”

“'Tis a pleasure, Mr. Lawler, and no trouble in life, av it helps to get
rid of you,” responded Kerry, as he waddled off on the errand.

Lanty made no reply; perhaps he felt the encounter unequal--perhaps he
despised his antagonist; in any case, he waited patiently for Kerry's
appearance, and then, passing his arm within the bridle of each horse,
he slowly descended the avenue towards the high road.




CHAPTER V. IMPRESSIONS OF IRELAND.

It was not without a feeling closely allied to disappointment, that Sir
Marmaduke Travers found the advent to his Irish estates uncelebrated by
any of those testimonies on the part of his tenantry, his agent, Captain
Hemsworth, had often so graphically pictured before him. The post-horses
were suffered to drag his carriage unmolested to its destination;
there was no assemblage of people to welcome--not a bonfire to hail his
arrival. True, he had come totally unexpectedly. The two servants sent
forward to prepare the lodge for his reception, only reached there
a single day before himself. But Sir Marmaduke had often taken his
Yorkshire tenants as much by surprise, and, there, he always found a
deputation, and a cortege of mounted yeomen. There were addresses, and
triumphal arches, and newspaper paragraphs, and all the innumerable but
well-known accompaniments of those patronizing acts of condescension,
which consist in the visit of a rich man to his own home. Now, however,
all was different. No cheering sounds broke the quiet stillness of the
deep valley. No troops of people on horseback or on foot filled the
glen. The sun set, calm and golden, behind the purple hills, unscared by
the lurid glow of a single bonfire. Save from an appearance of increased
bustle, and an air of movement and stir around the lodge itself, there
was nothing to mark his coming. There, indeed, servants were seen to
pass and re-pass; workmen were employed upon the flower-garden and the
shrubbery walks; and all the indications of care and attention to
the villa and its grounds easily perceptible. Beyond these precincts,
however, all was still and solitary as before. For miles the road could
be seen without a single traveller. The mountains seemed destitute of
inhabitants. The peaceful solemnity of the deep glen, along which
the cloud shadows moved slowly in procession, increased the sense of
loneliness, and Sir Marmaduke already began to suspect, that this
last trial of a residence would scarcely prove more fortunate than the
previous ones.

Age and wealth are uncomplying task-masters--habit and power endure
restraint with an ill grace. The old baronet was half angry with himself
for what he felt a mistake, and he could not forgive the country which
was the cause of it. He had come expressly to see and pronounce for
himself--to witness with his own eyes, to hear with his own ears--and
yet he knew not how it was, nothing revealed itself before him. The
very labourers who worked in the garden seemed uncommunicative and shy.
Their great respect and reverence he understood as a cautious reserve.
He must send for Hemsworth--there was nothing else for it. Hemsworth
was used to them, and could explain the mode of dealing with them. Their
very idioms required translating, and he could not advance without an
interpreter.

Not so his daughter. To her the scene had all the charm of romance. The
lone dwelling beside the blue lake, the tall and peaked mountains lost
in the white clouds, the waving forest with its many a tangled path, the
bright islands that, gem-like, spangled the calm surface of the water,
realized many a poetic dream of her childhood, and she felt that
visionary happiness which serenity of mind, united to the warm
imagination of early life, alone can bestow.

It was a fairy existence to live thus secluded in that lonely valley,
where the flowers seemed to blossom for them alone; for them, the summer
birds sang their roundelays, and the fair moon shed her pale light over
hill and stream, with none to mark her splendour save themselves,
Not these thoughts alone filled her mind. Already had she noticed
the artless habits of the humble peasantry--their gratitude for the
slightest services, their affectionate greetings, the touching beauty of
their expressions, teeming with an imagery she never heard before.
All appealed to her mind with a very different force from what they
addressed themselves with to her father's. Already she felt attracted by
the figurative eloquence, so popular a gift among the people. The
warm fervour of fancy she had believed the attribute of highly-wrought
temperaments only, she found here amid poverty and privation; flashes of
bright wit broke from the gloom of daily suffering; and the fire
which gives life its energy, burned brightly amid the ashes of many
an extinguished hope. These were features she was not prepared to meet
among a peasantry living in a wild unvisited district, and day by day
they fascinated her more strongly.

It was not entirely to the difference between father and daughter that
these varied impressions were owing. The people themselves assumed a
tone quite distinctive to each. Sir Marmaduke they had always heard
spoken of, as a stern-tempered man, whose severity towards his tenantry
was, happily, tempered by the personal kindness of the agent. Captain
Hemsworth constantly impressed them with the notion that all harsh
measures originated with his principal--the favours came from himself
only, the exactions of high rents, the rigorous prosecution of the law,
he ever asserted were acts compulsory with him, but always repugnant to
his own better feelings. Every little act of grace he accompanied by an
assurance, that he “hoped Sir Marmaduke might not hear of it,” as the
consequences to himself might prove ruinous. In fact, he contrived to
mislead both parties in their estimate of each other, and their first
acquaintanceship, it could not be supposed, should dispel the illusion.
The peasantry, however, were the first to discover the error: long
before Sir Marmaduke had made any progress in deciphering the mystic
symbols of _their_ natures, they had read _his_ from end to end. They
scanned him with powers of observation no other people in Europe can
compete with; and while _he_ was philosophizing about the combined
influence of their superstitions, their ignorance, and their apathy
to suffering, _they_ were accurately speculating on all the possible
benefits which might accrue from the residence amongst them, of so very
kind-hearted, but such a _mere_ simpleton of a man as himself.

They listened with sincere pleasure--for they love any appeal to
themselves--to the precepts he so liberally bestowed regarding
“industry” and “frugality;” nor did they ever make the reply, which
was ready at every lip, that industry cannot be practised without
an occupation, nor frugality be pushed beyond the very borders of
starvation. No; they answered with a semblance of concurrence,--“True
for you, sir; the devil a lie in it--your honour knows it well.”
 Or, when pushed home by any argument against their improvidence, or
recklessness, the ever-present reply was--“Sure, sir, it's the will of
God;” a piece of fatalism, that rescued them from many a difficulty,
when no other aid was near.

“They are a simple set of people,” said Sir Marmaduke, as he sat at his
breakfast; in the small parlour of the lodge, which looked out upon the
glen, “Very ignorant, very barbarous, but easily led--I see through them
clearly.”

“I like them greatly,” said his daughter; “their gratitude knows no
bounds for the slightest services; they have a kind of native courtesy,
so rare to find amongst a peasantry? how that poor fellow last night
wished to climb the cliff, where the eagle's nest is, because I
foolishly said I had never seen a young eagle.”

“They are totally misunderstood,” said Sir Marmaduke, sententiously,
rather following out the train of his own reflections, than noticing the
remark of his daughter, “all one hears of their absurd reverence for the
priest, or the devoted adherence they practise towards the old families
of the country, is mere nonsense, You heard how Dan laughed this
morning, when I joked with him about purgatory and the saints; and
what a droll description they gave of that queer household--the
chieftain--what is his name?

“The O'Donoghue.”

“Yes; I never can remember it. No, no; they are not so bigoted; they
are merely uninformed. We shall soon see many changes among them. I
have written to Bradston about the plans for the cottages, and also the
design for a school-house; and then, there's the chapel--that reminds
me I have not returned the priest's visit; he was here the day before
yesterday.”

“If you like, we'll ride there; I have heard that the glen is beautiful
higher up.”

“I was just going to propose it; that mare seems quiet enough: Lawler
says that she has been carrying a lady these last two years; will you
try her?”

“I am longing to do so--I'm certain she is gentleness itself.”

“Strange fellow that horse-dealer is, too,” said the old gentleman in
half soliloquy. “In no other country in the universe would such a mere
simpleton have taken to the trade of a jockey; he actually did not know
what price to ask for his horse; he left it all to ourselves. He'd soon
finish his career in London, at that rate of going; but what have we got
here--what in heaven's name is all this?” cried he aloud, as he suddenly
rose from the table, and approached a small glass door that opened upon
the lawn.

The object which so excited his astonishment was an assemblage of
something more than a hundred poor people of every sex and age--from
infancy to dotage--seated on the grass, in a wide semicircle, and
awaiting the moment when he should issue forth. Every phase of human
misery, which want and wretchedness can bestow, was there. The cheeks
of some were pale and haggard with recent sickness; others had but a few
tattered rags to cover them; many were cripples, unable to move without
assistance. There was wan and sickly childhood, and tremulous old age;
yet the tone of their voices showed no touch of sadness; they laughed
and talked with all the seeming of light-heartedness; and many a droll
and merry saying broke from that medley mass of suffering and sorrow.
The sudden appearance of Sir Marmaduke at the door instantaneously
checked all merriment, and a solemn silence ensued, as he walked forth
and stood in front of them.

“What do you want, my good people?” said he at length, as none seemed
disposed to open the proceedings.

Had their tongues been unlocked by the spell of a magician, the effect
could not have been more instantaneous--a perfect volley of speech
followed, in which Sir Marmaduke in vain endeavoured to follow the
words of any single speaker. Their rapid utterance, their vehement
gesticulation, and a certain guttural mode of pronunciation, quite
new to him, made them totally unintelligible, and he stood confused,
perplexed, and confounded for several minutes, staring around on every
side.

“Do, in heaven's name, be quiet,” cried he at last; “let one or two only
talk at a time, and I shall learn what you mean.”

A renewal of the clamour ensued; but this time it was a general effort
to enforce silence--a process which eventuated in a far greater uproar
than before.

“Who, or what are you?” cried Sir Marmaduke, at last losing all temper,
at the continuance of a tumult there seemed no prospect of coming to an
end.

“We're your honour's tenants, every one of us,” shouted the crowd with
one voice.

“_My_ tenants!” reiterated he in horror and astonishment. “What! is it
possible that you are tenants on my property? Where do you live, my poor
old man?” said he, addressing a venerable old fellow, with a head as
white as snow, and a beard like a patriarch's.

“He does not talk any English, your honour's worship--he has only Irish;
he lives in the glen beyond,” said a comely woman at his side.

“And you, where do you come from yourself?”

“I'm a poor widow, your honour, with six childer; and sorra bit I
have, but the little garden, and the grass of a goat; and sure, fifteen
shillings every half year is more nor I can pay, wid all the scrapin' in
life.”

Sir Marmaduke turned away his head, and as he did so, his eye fell upon
a poor creature, whose bloated cheeks and swollen figure denoted dropsy.
The man interpreting the look into a compassionate inquiry, broke forth
in a feeble voice--“I brought the nine shillings with me, yer honour;
and though the captain refused to take it, I'm sure you won't turn
me out of the little place, for being a trifle late. It's the watery
dropsy--glory be to God!--I'm under; but they say I'm getting better.”

While the poor creature spoke, a low muttering of pity burst from those
around him, and many a compassionate look, and many a cheering word was
expressed by those scarce less miserable than himself.

There was now a certain kind of order restored to the assembly; and
as Sir Marmaduke moved along the line, each in turn addressed his
supplication or complaint. One was threatened with a distress on his
pig, because he owed two half-years' rent, and could only pay a portion
of the debt; there was a failure in the potatoe crop, and a great famine
the consequence. Another was only recovering from the “shaking ague,”
 and begged for time, since if he thrashed his oats, now, they would
bring nothing in the market. A third entreated liberty to cut his turf
on a distant bog, as he was up to his knees in water, in the place
allotted to him.

Some came with odd shillings due on the last rent-day, and anxious to
get leave to send their children to the school without payment.

Every one had some favour to look for--some mere trifle to the granter;
the whole world to him who asked--and, for these, many had come miles
away from homes far in the mountains; a glimmering hope of succour, the
only encouragement to the weary journey.

As Sir Marmaduke listened with a feigned composure to narratives, at
which his very heart bled, he chanced to observe a strange-looking
figure, in an old scarlet uniform, and a paper cap, with a cock's
feather stuck slantwise in the side of it. The wearer, a tall, bony
youth, with yellow hair, carried a long wattle over his shoulder, as
if it were a gun, and when the old baronet's eye fell upon him, he
immediately stood bolt upright, and held the sapling to his breast, like
a soldier presenting arms.

“Shoulder hoo!” he cried, and as the words were heard, a hearty burst
of laughter ran through the crowd; every grief and sorrow was at once
forgotten; the eyes wet with tears of sadness, were now moistened with
those of mirth; and they laughed like those whose hearts had never known
suffering.

“Who is this fellow?” said Sir Marmaduke, half doubting how far he might
relish the jest like the others.

“Terry the Woods, your honour,” replied a score of voices together.

“Terry the Woods!” repeated he, “and is Terry a tenant of mine?”

“Faix, I am proud to say I am not,” said Terry, grounding his weapon,
and advancing a step towards him, “divil a farthin' of rent I ever paid,
nor ever will. I do have my health mighty well--glory be to God!--and
sleep sound, and have good clothes, and do nothing for it; and they say
I am a fool, but which of us is the greatest fool after all.”

Another outbreak of laughter was only quelled by Sir Marmaduke asking
the reason of Terry's appearance there, that morning--if he had nothing
to look for.

“I just came to pay my respects,” said Terry composedly, “to wish you a
welcome to the country. I thought that as you might be lading the same
kind of life as myself, we wouldn't be bad companions, you see, neither
of us having much on our hands; and then,” continued he, as he took off
his paper bonnet and made a deep reverence, “I wanted to see the young
lady there, for they tould me she was a born beauty.”

Miss Travers blushed. She was young enough to blush at a compliment from
such a source, as her father said laughingly--

“Well, Terry, and have they been deceiving you?”

“No,” said he, gravely, as with steady gaze he fixed his large blue eyes
on the fair features before him. “No--she is a purty crayture--a taste
sorrowful or so--but I like her all the better. I was the same myself
when I was younger.”

Terry's remark was true enough. The young girl had been a listener for
some time to the stories of the people, and her face betrayed the sad
emotions of her heart. Never before had such scenes of human suffering
been revealed before her--the tortuous windings of the poor man's
destiny, where want and sickness he in wait for those whose happiest
hours are the struggles against poverty and its evils.

“I can show you the beautifullest places in the whole country,” said
Terry, approaching Miss Travers, and addressing her in a low voice,
“I'll tell you where the white heath is growing, with big bells on it,
like cups, to hould the dew. Were you ever up over Keim-an-eigh?”

“Never,” said she, smiling at the eagerness of her questioner.

“I'll bring you, then, by a short-cut, and you can ride the whole way,
and maybe we'll shoot an eagle--have you a gun in the house?”

“Yes, there are three or four,” said she humouring him.

“And if I shoot him, I'll give you the wing-feathers--that's what they
always gave their sweethearts long ago, but them times is gone by.”

The girl blushed deeply, as she remembered the present of young
O'Donoghue, on the evening they came up the glen. She called to mind the
air of diffidence and constraint in which he made the proffer, and for
some minutes paid no attention to Terry, who still, continued to talk as
rapidly as before.

“There, they are filing off,” said Terry--“orderly time,” as he once
more shouldered his sapling and stood erect. This observation was made
with reference to the crowd of poor people, whose names and place of
residence Sir Marmaduke having meanwhile written down, they were now
returning to their homes with happy and comforted hearts. “There they
go,” cried Terry, “and an awkward squad they are.”

“Were you ever a soldier, Terry?” said Miss Travers.

The poor youth grew deadly pale--the very blood forsook his lips, as
he muttered, “I was.” Sir Marmaduke came up at the instant, and Terry
checked himself at once and said--

“Whenever you want me, leave word at Mary M'Kelly's, in the glen below,
and I'll hear of it.”

“But don't you think you had better remain here with us? you could help
in the garden and the walks.”

“No; I never do be working at all--I hate work.”

“Yes, but easy work, Terry,” said Miss Travers, “among the flowers and
shrubs here.”

“No--I'd be quite low and sorrowful if I was to be staying in one place,
and maybe--maybe”--here he whispered so low, as only to be heard by
her--“maybe they'd find me out.”

“No; there's no fear of that,” said she, “we'll take care no one shall
trouble you--stay here, Terry.”

“Well, I believe I will,” said he, after a pause, “I may go away when I
like.”

“To be sure, and now let us see how you are to be lodged,” said Sir
Marmaduke, who already, interested by that inexplicable feeling which
grows out of our pity for idiotcy, entered into his daughter's schemes
for poor Terry's welfare.

A small cottage near the boat-house on the verge of the lake, inhabited
by a labourer and his children, offered the wished-for asylum, and
there Terry was at once installed, and recognised as a member of the
household.




CHAPTER VI. THE BLACK VALLEY.

Although deferred by the accidents of the morning, Sir Marmaduke's visit
to the priest was not abandoned, and at length, he and his daughter
set out on their excursion up the glen. Their road, after pursuing the
highway for about two miles, diverged into a narrow valley, from which
there was no exit save by the mode in which it was entered. Vast masses
of granite rock, piled heap above heap, hung as it were suspended over
their heads, the tangled honey-suckle falling in rich festoons from
these, and the purple arbutus glowing like grape-clusters among the
leaves. It was a mellow, autumnal day, when the warmth of colouring is
sobered down by massive shadows--the impress of the clouds which moved
slowly above. The air was hot and thick, and save when an occasional
breeze came, wafted from the water, was even oppressive.

The silence of the glen was profound--not a bird was heard, nor was
there in the vast expanse of air, a single wing seen floating. As they
rode, they often stopped to wonder at the strange but beautiful effects
of light that glided now slowly along the mountains--disappeared--then
shone again; the giant shadows seeming to chase each other through the
dreary valley. Thus, sauntering along they took no note of time, when at
last the long low cottage, where the priest lived, came in sight. It was
an humble abode, but beautifully situated at the bottom of the glen; the
whole valley lying expanded in front, with its bright rivulet and its
bold sides of granite. The cottage itself was little better than that of
a poor farmer; and save from the ornament of some creepers, which were
trained against the walls, and formed into a deep porch at the
entrance, differed in no respect from such. A few straggling patches of
cultivation, of the very rudest kind, were seen, here and there, but
all without any effort at fence or enclosure. Some wild fruit-trees were
scattered over the little lawn in front, if the narrow strip of grass
that flanked the river could be called such, and here, a small Kerry cow
was grazing, the only living thing to be seen.

A little well, arched over with pieces of rock, and surmounted by a
small wooden cross, stood close to the road-side, and the wild-thorn
that overshadowed it was hung on every side with small patches of rags
of every colour and texture that human dress ever consisted of; a sight
new to the eyes of the travellers, who knew not, that the shrine was
deemed holy, and the tree, the receptacle of the humble offering of
those, whose sorrows of mind and body came there for alleviation and
succour.

Sir Marmaduke dismounted and approached the door, which lay wide open;
he knocked gently with his whip, and as no answer to his summons was
returned, repeated it again and again. He now ventured to call aloud,
but no one came, and at last, both father and daughter began to suspect
there might be no one in the house.

“This is most strange,” said he, after a long pause, and an effort to
peep in through the windows, half hid with honey-suckle.

“The place seems totally deserted. Let us try at the back, however.”

As the old baronet wended his way to the rear of the cottage, he
muttered a half upbraiding against his daughter for not complying with
his desire to have a groom along with them--a want, which now increased
the inconvenience of their position. She laughingly defended herself
against the charge, and at the same moment sprang down from her saddle,
to assist in the search.

“I certainly perceived some smoke from the chimney as we came up the
glen and there must have been some one here lately, at least,” said
she, looking eagerly around on every side.

“This is indeed solitude,” muttered her father, as he listened for some
minutes, during which the stillness had an effect most appalling.

While he was speaking, Miss Travers had drawn near to a low latticed
window which lay half open, and as she peeped in, immediately drew back,
and beckoned with her hand for her father to approach, intimating by a
cautious gesture that he should do so noiselessly. Sir Marmaduke came
stealthily to her side, and, leaning over her shoulder, looked into the
room. As both father and daughter exchanged glances, they seemed with
difficulty to refrain from laughing, while astonishment was strongly
depicted on the countenance of each. As they continued to gaze, their
first emotion gradually yielded to a look of intense interest at the
scene before them.

Seated beside the large turf fire of the priest's kitchen, for such it
was, was a youth of some fifteen or sixteen years. His figure, light and
well proportioned, was clad in a fashion which denoted his belonging to
the better class, though neglect and time had made many an inroad on the
Costume. His brow was lofty and delicately formed--the temples marked
with many a thin blue rein, which had given ft look of delicacy to the
countenance, if the deep glow of health had not lit up his cheeks, and
imparted a bright lustre to his eyes. He held before him an open volume,
from which he declaimed rather than read aloud, as it seemed, for the
special delight and amusement of a small ragged urchin of about nine
years old--who, with bare legs and feet, was seated on a little pyramid
of turf, right opposite to him.

Well might Sir Marmaduke and his daughter feel surprise; the volume was
Homer, from which, with elevated voice and flashing eye, the boy was
reading--the deep-toned syllables ringing through the low-vaulted
chamber with a sweet but a solemn music. Contrasted with the fervid
eloquence of the youth, was the mute wonder and rapt attention of the
little fellow who listened. Astonishment, awe, and eager curiosity,
blended together in that poor little face, every lineament of which
trembled with excitement. If a high soaring imagination and elevated
tone of thought were depicted in the one, the other, not less forcibly
realized the mute and trembling eagerness of impassioned interest.

The youth paused for a few seconds, and seemed to be reflecting over
what he read, when the boy, in an accent broken with anxiety, cried
out--

“Read it, again, Master Herbert. Oh, read it again. It's like the cry of
the big stag-hound at Carrig-na-curra.”

“It is the language of the gods, Mickey--finer and grander than ever
man spoke,” replied the youth with fervour. “Listen to this, here;” and
then, with solemn cadence he declaimed some twenty lines, while, as
if the words were those of an incantation, the little fellow sat
spellbound, with clasped hands and staring eye-balls gazing before him.

“What does it mean, Master Herbert?--what is it?” said he, in panting
eagerness.

“It's about a great hero, Mickey, that was preparing for battle. He was
putting on his armour, a coat and a cap of steel, and he was belting on
his sword.”

“Yes, yes,” broke in the little fellow, “and wasn't he saying how he'd
murther and kill all before him?”

“Bight enough,” said the youth, laughing. “You guessed it well.”

“Ah, I knew it,” said the boy. “I saw how you clenched your fist, and
your eyes wor shinin' like sparks of fire, and I knew it was darin' them
he was, in the book there. What did he do after, Master Herbert? Just
tell me that, sir.”

“He went out in his chariot--”

“Say it like himself first, sir, av it's plazin' to ye,” said he, with
a most imploring look of entreaty. “I do be glad to hear it out of the
book.”

The youth, thus entreated, resumed the volume, and read on for several
minutes without stopping.

“Oh, that's grand!” said the boy, in a burst of enthusiasm. “'Tis for
all the world the way the thunder comes down the glen--moanin' first,
far off on the mountains, and then swellin' into a big roar, and
afterwards going clap! clap! like a giant clapping his hands. Did he
kill the inimy, master dear?”

“No, he was killed himself, and his body dragged over the battlefield.”

“Wirra, wirra, wirra!” broke in the child, while he rung his hands, and
burst forth into a torrent of tumultuous grief.

“He was killed, Mickey, and listen to the lament of his friends for his
death.”

Scarcely had the youth read a few lines, when Sir Marmaduke, advancing a
little farther, his shadow fell across the chamber. The youth sprang up
at once, and came towards them. The flush of surprise--it might be, too,
of shame--was on his features; but there was less of awkwardness than
many might have exhibited in the manner of his address, as he said--

“Father Luke is from home, sir. He has been sent for to Ballyvourney--”

“You are his relation, I presume?” said Sir Marmaduke, without letting
him finish his speech.

“I am his pupil,” replied the youth, with a tone in which offended pride
was clearly confessed.

“_I_ ask pardon,” said the baronet hastily. “It was merely that I might
convey my respectful greetings to the worthy father that I asked the
question. Perhaps you will allow me to trespass so far upon you, and
say, that Sir Marmaduke Travers has been here.”

“While Sir Marmaduke was speaking, the youth's eyes were fixed with a
steadfast gaze on the features of the young girl, of whose presence till
then he seemed unconscious. Fixed and earnest as his stare was,
there was nothing in it of rudeness, still less of insult. It was the
unequivocal expression of astonishment, the suddenly-awakened sense of
admiration in one, on whom, till that very instant, beauty had shed no
fascination. His eyes were bent upon her, as Sir Marmaduke thus finished
speaking, and the old man smiled as he saw the wonder-struck admiration
of the boy.

“You will please to say Sir Marmaduke Travers,” repeated he once more,
to recall the scattered senses of the youth.

“And his daughter?” murmured the other, as he still continued to stare
at her.

“Yes, his daughter,” replied Sir Marmaduke, smiling. “May I ask if there
be no shorter road back to 'the Lodge,' than that yonder? for I perceive
it is full two hours later than I suspected.”

“None for those on horseback. The mountain path lies yonder, but even on
foot it is not without danger.”

“Come, then, Sybella; let us lose no time. We must ride briskly, to
reach home by day-light. We are late enough already.”

“Too late, if you ride not very fast,” replied the youth. “The rain
has fallen heavily on the mountains this afternoon. See that waterfall
yonder. I crossed it dry-shod at day-break, and now, it is a cataract.
This river rises rapidly, and in a single night's rain I have seen the
valley all one lake.”

“What are we to do then?” cried Miss Travers, eagerly, for now she felt
self-reproach at her refusal to take a groom along with them, and was
vexed with herself, as well as uneasy for her father.

“Keep the left of the valley till you reach the tall black rock they call
'the pulpit'--you know it, at least you must have seen it, as you came
along--then cross the stream, it will be fordable enough by that time,
and make the best of your way along under the cliffs, till you arrive
at the broken bridge--the two buttresses, I mean. Re-cross the stream
there, and gain the meadows, and in some hundred yards you are safe upon
the high road. Away then; lose no more time, now; a minute is all the
space between risk and safety;” and with these words he sprang forward,
and lifted the young girl to her saddle, ere she had time or forethought
to decline the service.

“May we not know the name of our kind adviser?” asked Sir Marmaduke, as
he mounted his horse.

“Hark! there it comes!” said the youth, pointing upwards to the brow of
a cliff, over which a leaping torrent had just bounded. “The mountain
lakes are flooded, when Derrybahn is spouting. Away! away! if you care
for safety.”

They turned their horses' heads as he spoke, and with a hasty “good bye”
 they spurred forwards. Short as the time had been since they travelled
the same path, the scene was wonderfully changed; the placid stream that
stole along, murmuring over its gravelly bed, now rushed onward with a
yellow current streaked with white foam; the tiny rivulets that came in
slender drops upon the road-side, were now become continuous streams of
water, hurrying on to bear their tribute to the river. The sky itself
was black and louring, resting midway on the mountains, or drifting past
in heavy clouds, while no breeze was stirring below. The many torrents
as they fell, filled the air with a low monotonous sound, like the noise
of tree tops moved by a distant-storm.

“I thought I heard a voice calling to us,” said Sir Marmaduke, as for
the first time they slackened their pace, to clear several loose stones
that obstructed the way--“did you hear it?”

“I half thought so, too,” replied his daughter; “but I can see no one
near. There it is again!”

They halted and listened; but the swelling uproar of the waterfalls
drowned every sound, and they spurred forward once more, fearing to
loiter longer; yet, both as they went, thought they could trace
the words, “come back, come back;” but from some strange dread of
communicating fears that might not be real, neither told the other.

“He said the left side of the valley; but surely he mistook: see how the
water has gained here, and the opposite bank seems dry.”

“Let us follow the advice, father,” cried Sybella, “we have no guidance
save his; he could not--would not deceive us, Is it not grand! with all
its danger, I can admire it.”

As she spoke, a tremendous clap of thunder broke above their heads, and
made the valley tremble with the sound, while, as if by the shock the
charged clouds were rent open, and the rain descended in torrents. With
the swooping gush of the ocean spray, storm-lashed and drifted, the rain
came down, wrapping in misty darkness every object around them. And now,
the swollen cataracts tore madly down the mountain sides, leaping from
crag to crag, and rending the clayey soil in deep clefts and gashes.
Again the thunder pealed out, and every echo sent hack the sound, till
the whole glen vibrated with the deafening clamour. Still they sped
onward. The terrified horses strained every limb, and dashing madly
on--mid rock and rushing water they went, now, clearing at a bound the
course of some gushing stream--now, breasting the beating rain with
vigorous chest.

The storm increased; the howling wind joined with the deep-toned thunder
into one long continuous roar, that seemed to shake the very air itself.

“Yonder!” said the father, as he pointed to the tall dark pinnacle of
rock, known by the country people as “the Pulpit”--“yonder!”

Sybella strained her eye to see through the dense beating rain, and
at last caught sight of the huge mass, around whose summit the charged
clouds were flying.

“We must cross the river in this place,” said the old man, as he
suddenly checked his horse, and looked with terrified gaze on the
swollen stream that came boiling and foaming over to where they stood,
with branches of trees and fragments of rock rolling onward in the tide.
“The youth told us of this spot.”

“Let us not hesitate, father,” cried the young girl, with a tone of
firm, resolute daring she had not used before--“remember what he said, a
minute may save or ruin us. Great heaven! what is that?”

A terrific shriek followed her words, and she fell with her head upon
her horse's mane; a broad flash of lightning had burst from a dark
cloud, and came with vivid force upon her eyeballs.

“Father, dear father, my sight is gone,” she screamed aloud, as lifting
up her head she rubbed the orbs now paralyzed by the shock.

“My child, my child!” cried the old man, with the piercing shriek of a
breaking heart; “look on me, look towards me. Oh, say that you can see
me, now--my brain is turning.”

“Oh God, I thank thee!” said the terrified girl, as once more her vision
was restored, and, dimly, objects began to form themselves before her.

With bare head and upturned eyes, the aged man looked up, and poured
forth his prayer of thankfulness to heaven. The raging storm beat on
his brow unfelt; his thoughts were soaring to the Throne of Mercies, and
knew not earth, nor all its sorrows.

A clap of thunder at the moment broke from the dense cloud above them,
and then, in quick succession, like the pealing of artillery, came
several more, while the forked lightning shot to and fro, and at last,
as if the very earth was riven to its centre, a low booming sound was
heard amid the clouds; the darkness grew thicker, and a crash followed
that shook the ground beneath them, and splashed the wild waves on every
side. The spray sprung madly up, while the roaring of the stream grew
louder; the clouds swept past, and the tall Pulpit rock was gone! Struck
by lightning, it had rolled from its centre, and fallen across the
river, the gushing waters of which poured over it in floods, and fell in
white sheets of foam and spray beyond it.

“God is near us, my child,” said the old man with fervour; “let us
onward.”

Her streaming eyes turned on him one look of affection--the emblem of a
heart's love--and she prepared to follow.

To return was now impossible, the river had already extended the whole
way across the valley in the rear; the only chance of safety lay in
front.

“Keep by my side, dearest,” said the father, as he rode first into the
stream, and tried to head the terrified animal against the current.

“I am near you, father, fear not for me,” said she firmly, her hold
heart nerved to the danger.

For some seconds the affrighted horses seemed rooted to the earth, and
stood amid the boiling current as if spell-bound; a fragment of a tree,
however, in its course, struck the flank of the leading horse, and
he sprung madly forward, followed by the other. Now, breasting the
stream--now, sinking to the mane beneath it, the noble beasts struggled
fiercely on till near the spot, where the Pulpit-rock had left a space
between it and the opposite bank, and here, a vast volume of water now
poured along unchecked by any barrier.

“To my side--near me, dearest--near me,” cried the father, as his horse
dashed into the seething flood and sunk above the crest beneath it.

“I cannot, father--I cannot,” screamed the affrighted girl, as with a
bound of terror her horse sprang back from the chasm, and refused to
follow. The old man heard not the words--the current had swept him far
down into the stream, amid the rent branches and the rolling rocks--“My
child, my child,” the only accents heard above the raging din.

Twice did the heroic girl try to face the current, but in vain--the
horse plunged wildly up and threatened to fall back, when suddenly
through the white foam a figure struggled on and grasped the bridle at
the head; next moment, a man leaped forward and was breasting the surge
before her--

“Head the stream--head the stream if you can,” cried he, who still held
on, while the wild waves washed over him; but the poor horse, rendered
unmanageable through fear, had yielded to the current, and was now each
moment nearing the cataract.

“Cling to me, now,” cried the youth, as with the strength of desperation
he tore the girl from the saddle, while with the other hand he grasped
an ash bough that hung drooping above his head. As he did so, the mare
bounded forward--the waves closed over her, and she was carried over the
precipice.

“Cling fast to me, and we are safe,” cried the youth, and with vigorous
grasp he held on the tree, and thus supported, breasted the stream and
reached the bank. Exhausted and worn out, both mind and body powerless,
they both fell senseless on the grass.

The last shriek of despair broke from the father's heart as the horse,
bereft of rider, swept past him in the flood. The cry aroused the
fainting girl; she half rose to her feet and called upon him. The next
moment they were locked in each other's arms.

“It was he who saved me, father,” said she in accents broken with joy
and sorrow; “he risked his life for mine.”

The youth recovered consciousness as the old man pressed him to his
heart.

“Is she safe?” were the first words he said as he stared around him
vaguely, and then, as if overcome, he fell heavily back upon the sward.
A joyous cheer broke forth from several voices near, and at the instant,
several country people were seen coming forward, with Terry at their
head.

“Here we are--here we are, and in good time too,” cried Terry; “and if
it wasn't that you took a fool's advice, we'd have gone the other road.
The carriage is in the glen, my lady,” said he, kneeling down beside
Sybella, who still remained clasped in her father's arms.

By this time, some of Sir Marmaduke's servants had reached the spot, and
by them the old man and his daughter were assisted toward the high road,
while two others carried the poor youth, by this time totally unable to
make the least exertion.

“This brave boy--this noble fellow,” said Sir Marmaduke, as he stooped
to kiss the pale high forehead, from which the wet hair hung
backwards--“Can no one tell me who he is?”

“He's the young O'Donoghue,” replied a half dozen voices together; “a
good warrant for courage or bravery any day.”

“The O'Donoghue!” repeated Sir Marmaduke, vainly endeavouring in the
confusion of the moment to recall the name, and where he had heard it.

“Ay, the O'Donoghue,” shouted a coarse voice near him, as a new figure
rode up on a small mountain pony. “It oughtn't to be a strange name in
these parts. Rouse yourself, Master Herbert, rouse up, my child--sure it
isn't a wettin' would cow you this way?”

“What! Kerry, is this you?” said the youth faintly, as he looked around
him with half-closed eyelids. “Where's my father?”

“Faix, he's snug at the parlour fire, my darlin', where his son ought
to be, if he wasn't turning guide on the mountains, to the enemy of his
kith and kin.”

These words were said in a whisper, but with an energy that made the boy
start from the arms of those who bore him.

“Here's the pony, Master Herbert, get up on him, and be off at once;
sure there isn't a blackguard there, with lace on his coat, wouldn't be
laughing at your old clothes when the light comes.”

Sir Marmaduke and his daughter were a few paces in advance as these
words were spoken, the old baronet giving directions for bestowing every
care and attention on one he deemed his guest.

The boy, ashamed and offended both, yielded to the counsel, and suffered
himself to be placed upon the saddle.

“Now, then, hould fast, and I'll guide him,” said Kerry, as elbowing
the crowd right and left, he sprung forward at a run, and in less than a
minute had disappeared in the darkness.

Sir Marmaduke became distracted at the loss of his benefactor, and
message after message was despatched to bring him back, but all in vain;
Kerry and his pony had already gained so much in advance, none could
overtake them.

“To-morrow then, my child,” said Sir Marmaduke, “to-morrow will, I
hope, enable me to speak my gratitude, though I shall not sleep well
to-night--I never rested with so heavy a debt unpaid before.”

And with these words they slowly wended their way homeward.




CHAPTER VII. SIR ARCHY'S TEMPER TRIED

It was strange that, although the old man and his tender daughter should
have sustained no other ill results from their adventure, than the
terror which even yet dwelt on their minds, the young and vigorous
youth, well trained to every accident of flood or field, felt it most
seriously.

The exertions he made to overtake Sir Marmaduke and his daughter,
followed by the struggle in the swollen stream, had given such a shock
to his frame, that ere day broke the following morning, he was in a
fever. The mental excitement conspiring with fatigue and exhaustion, had
brought on the symptoms of his malady with such rapidity, that it was
evident, even to the unaccustomed observers around him, his state was
precarious.

Sir Archibald was the first person at the sick youth's bed-side.
The varied fortunes of a long life, not devoid of its own share of
vicissitude, had taught him so much of medical skill, as can give
warning of the approach of fever; and as he felt the strong and frequent
pulse, and saw the flushed and almost swollen features before him, he
recognized the commencement of severe and dangerous illness.

Vague and confused images of the previous night's adventure, or visions
of the dark valley and the tempest, occupied all the boy's thoughts; and
though he endeavoured, when spoken to, to preserve coherency and memory,
the struggle was unavailing; and the immediate impression of a question
past, his mind wandered back to the theme which filled his brain.

“How was it then?” said Sir Archy, who, as he sat beside the sick bed,
questioned the youth about his adventure. “You said something of a
horse?”

“Yes; she was riding. Oh, how bravely she rode too! It was fine to see
her as the spray fell over her like a veil, and she shook the drops from
her hair.”

“Whence came she? Who was the lady?”

“Take care--take care,” said the youth in a solemn whisper, and with a
steadfast look before him; “Derrybahn has given warning--the storm is
coming. It is not for one so tender as you to tempt the river of the
black valley.”

“Be still, my boy,” said the old man; “you must not speak thus; your
head will ache if you take not rest--keep quiet.”

“Yes; my head, my head,” muttered he vaguely, repeating the words which
clinked upon his mind. “She put her arm round my neck--There--there,”
 cried he, starting up wildly in his bed, “catch it--seize it--my feet
are slipping--the rock moves--I can hold no longer; there--there,” and
with a low moaning sigh he sunk back fainting on the pillow.

Sir Archibald applied all his efforts to enforce repose and rest; and
having partially succeeded, hastened to the O'Donoghue's chamber, to
confer with the boy's father on what steps should be taken to procure
medical aid.

It was yet some hours earlier than the accustomed time of his waking, as
the old man saw the thin and haggard face of Sir Archy peering between
the curtains of his bed.

“Well, what is it?” said he, in some alarm at the unexpected sight. “Has
Gubbins issued the distress? Are the scoundrels going to sell us out?”

“No, no; it is another matter brings me here,” replied M 'Nab, with a
gravity even deeper than usual.

“That infernal bond! By God, I knew it; it never left my dreams these
last three nights. Mark was too late, I suppose, or they wouldn't take
the interest, and the poor fellow sold his mare to get the money.”

“Dinna fash about these things now,” said M'Nab with impatience, “It's
that poor callant, Herbert--he's very ill--it's a fever he's caught.
I'm thinking.”

“Oh Herbert!” said O'Donoghue, with a tone of evident relief, that
his misfortunes had taken any other shape than the much-dreaded one of
money-calamity. “What of him?”

“He's in a fever; his mind is wandering already.”

“Not a bit of it; it's a mere wetting--a common cold: the boy fell into
the river last night at the old bridge there; Kerry told me something
about it; and so, maybe, Mark may reach Cork in good time after all.”

“I am no speaking of Mark just now,” said M'Nab tartly, “but of
the other lad, wha may be dangerously ill, if something be nae done
quickly.”

“Then, send for Roach. Let one of the boys saddle a horse and ride over
to Killarney. Oh! I was forgetting; let a fellow go off on foot, he'll
get there before evening. It is confoundedly hard to have nothing in the
stables, even to mount a messenger. I hope Mark may be able to manage
matters in Cork. Poor fellow, he hates business as much as I do myself.”

Sir Archy did not wait for the conclusion of this rambling reply. Long
before it was over, he was half-way down stairs in search of a safe
messenger to despatch to Killarney for Doctor Roach, muttering between
his teeth as he went--

“We hae nae muckle chance of the docter if we canna send the siller to
fetch him, as weel as the flunkie. Eh, sirs?--he's a cannie chiel, is
auld Roach, and can smell a fee as soon as scent a fever,” and with this
sensible reflection he proceeded on his way.

Meanwhile the O'Donoghue himself had summoned energy enough to slip
on an old and ragged dressing-gown, and a pair of very unlocomotive
slippers, with which attired, he entered the sick boy's room.

“Well, Herbert, lad,” said he, drawing the curtains back, and suffering
the grey light to fall on the youth's features, “what is the matter?
your uncle has been routing me up with a story about you.”

He ceased suddenly, as his eyes beheld the change a few hours had
wrought in the boy's appearance: “His eyes, deep-buried in their orbits,
shone with an unnatural lustre--his cheeks were pale and sunken, save
where a bright patch of florid red marked the centre of each; his lips
were dry and shrivelled, and had a slight tremulous motion, as if he
were muttering to himself.

“Poor fellow,” said the father, “how dreadfully ill he looks. Have you
any pain, my boy?”

The boy knew the voice, and recognized the kindly accent, but could not
hear or understand the words; and as his eyes glistened with delight,
he stole his burning hand from beneath the bed-clothes, and held it out,
all trembling, towards his father.

“How sudden this has been: you were quite well last night, Herbert.”

“Last night!” echoed the boy, with a strange emphasis on the only words
he had caught up.

“No, by the way, it was the night before I mean. I did not see you last
night; but, cheer up, my dear boy; we've sent for Roach--he'll put you
to rights at once. I hope Mark may reach home before the doctor goes.
I'd like to have his advice about that strain in the back.”

These last words were uttered in soliloquy, and seemed to flow from a
train of thought very different from that arising from the object before
him. Sunk in these reflections, he drew near the window, which looked
out upon the old court-yard behind the house, and where now a very
considerable crowd of beggars had assembled to collect the alms usually
distributed each morning from the kitchen. Each was provided with
an ample canvas bag, worn over the neck by a string, and capable of
containing a sufficiency of meal or potatoes, the habitual offering, to
support the owner for a couple of days at least. They were all busily
engaged in stowing away the provender of various sorts and kinds, as
luck, or the preference of the cook, decided, laughing or grumbling
over their portions, as it might be, when Sir Archibald M'Nab hurriedly
presented himself in the midst of them--an appearance which seemed to
create no peculiar satisfaction, if one were to judge from the increased
alacrity of their movements, and the evident desire they exhibited to
move off.

[Illustration: 079]

The ODonoghue laughed as he witnessed the discomfiture of the ragged
mob, and let down the window-sash to watch the scene.

“'Tis going we are; God be good to us!”

“Ye needn't be cursing that way,” said an old hag, with a sack on her
back, large enough to contain a child.

“Eyah! the Lord look down on the poor,” said a little fat fellow, with
a flannel night-cap and stockings without any feet; “there's no pity now
at all, at all.”

“The heavens be your bed, any way,” said a hard-featured little woman,
with an accent that gave the blessing a very different signification
from the mere words.

“Blessed Joseph! sure it isn't robbers and thieves we are, that ye need
hunt us out of the place.”

Such were the exclamations on every side, intermingled with an
undergrowl of the “Scotch naygur”--“the ould scrape-gut,” and other
equally polite and nattering epithets.

“This is no a place for ye, ye auld beldames and blackguards; awa wi'
ye--awa wi' ye at once.”

“Them's the words ye'll hear in heaven yet, darlint,” said an old fiend
of a woman with one eye, and a mouth garnished by a single tooth.
“Them's the very words St. Peter will spake to yourself.”

“Begorra, he'll not be strange in the other place anyhow,” muttered
another. “'Tis there hell meet most of his countrymen.”

This speech was the signal for a general outburst of laughter.

“Awa wi ye, ye ragged deevils; ye'r a disgrace to a Christian country.'

“Throth we wear breeches an us,” said an old fellow on crutches; “and
sure I hear that's more nor they do, in the parts your honour comes
from.”

Sir Archy's passion boiled over at this new indignity. He stormed and
swore, with all the impetuous rage of one beside himself with passion;
but the effect on his hearers was totally lost The only notice they took
was an occasional exclamation of--

“There it is now! Oh, blessed father! hear what he says! Oh, holy
mother! isn't he a terrible man?”--comments by no means judiciously
adapted to calm his irritation. Meanwhile symptoms of evacuating the
territory were sufficiently evident. Cripples were taken on the backs
and shoulders of their respective friends; sacks and pouches were slung
over the necks. Many a preparatory shake of the rags showed that the
wearer was getting ready for the road, when Sir Archy, suddenly checking
himself in the full torrent of his wrath, cried out--

“Bide a wee--stay a minit, ye auld beasties--I hae a word to say to some
amang ye.”

The altered tone of voice in which he spoke seemed at once to have
changed the whole current of popular feeling; for now they all chimed in
with--

“Arrah, he's a good man after all; sure 'tis only a way he
has”--sentiments which increased in fervency as Sir Archibald took a
tolerably well-filled purse from his pocket, and drew out some silver
into his hand, many exclaiming--

“'Tis the kind heart often has the hard word; and sure ye can see in his
face he isn't cruel.'

“Hear till me,” cried Sir Archy aloud, as he held up a shilling before
their wistful eyes, “there's mony a ane among ye, able to earn siller.
Which o' ye now will step down to Killarney, and tell the docter he's
wanted up here wi a' despatch? Ye maun go fast and bring him, or send
him here to-night; and if ye do, I'll gie ye this piece o' siller money
when ye come back.”

A general groan from that class whose age and infirmities placed them
out of the reach of competitorship, met this speech, while from the
more able section, a not less unequivocal expression of discontent broke
forth.

“Down to Killarney,” cried one; “begorra, I wonder ye didn't say Kenmare
when ye war about it--the devil a less than ten miles it is.”

“Eyah! I'll like to see my own four bones going the same road; sorra a
house the whole way where there's a drop of milk or a pratie.”

“That's the charity to the poor, I suppose,” said the fat fellow of the
night-cap. “'Tis wishing it I am, the same charity.”

“We wor to bring the doctor on our back, I hope,” said a cripple in a
bowl.

“Did ever man hear or see the like o' this?” exclaimed M'Nab, as with
uplifted hands he stared in wonderment around him. “One wad na believe
it.”

“True for you, honey,” joined in one of the group. “I'm fifty-three
years on the road, and I never heerd of any one askin' us to do a hand's
turn, afore.”

“Out of my sight, ye worthless ne'er-do-weels; awa wi ye at once and for
ever. I'll send twenty miles round the country, but I'll hae a mastiff
here, 'ill worry the first o' ye that dares to come near the house.”

“On my conscience, it will push you hard to find a wickeder baste nor
yourself.”

“Begorra, he won't be uglier any how.”

And with these comments, and the hearty laughter that followed, the
tattered and ragged group defiled out of the yard with all the honours
of war, leaving Sir Archy alone, overwhelmed with astonishment and
anger.

A low chuckling laugh, as the sash was closed over head, made him look
up, and he just caught a glimpse of O'Donoghue as he retired from the
window; for in his amusement at the scene, the old man forgot the sick
boy and all about him, and only thought of the ridiculous interview he
had witnessed.

“His ain father--his ain father!” muttered Sir Archy, as with his
brows contracted and his hands clasped behind his back, he ruminated in
sadness on all he saw. “What brings ye back again, ye lazy scoundrels?
How dare ye venture in here again?”

This not over-courteous interrogatory was addressed to poor Terry the
Woods, who, followed by one of Sir Marmaduke's footmen, had at that
instant entered the yard.

“What for, are ye come, I say? and what's the flunkie wanting beside
ye?”

Terry stood thunderstruck at the sudden outbreak of temper, and turned
at once to the responsible individual, to whom he merely acted as guide,
to make a reply.

“And are ye tramping it too?” said M'Nab, with a sneering accent as he
addressed the footman. “Methinks ye might hae a meal's meat out o'
the goold lace on your hat, and look mair like a decent Christian
afterwards. Ye'r out of place maybe.”

These last words were delivered in an irony, to which a tone of
incredulity gave all the sting; and these only were intelligible to the
sleek and well-fed individual to whom they were addressed.

In all likelihood, had he been charged with felony or highway robbery,
his self-respect might have sustained his equanimity; any common
infraction of the statute-law might have been alleged against him
without exciting an undue indignation; but the contemptuous insinuation
of being “out of place”--that domestic outlawry, was more than human
endurance could stomach; nor was the insult more palatable coming from
one he believed to be a servant himself. It was therefore with the true
feeling of outraged dignity he replied--

“Not exactly out of place jest now, friend; though, if they don't treat
you better than your looks show, I'd recommend you trying for a new
situation.”

Of a verity, Sir Archibald's temper was destined to sore trials that
morning; but this was a home thrust, for which no forethought could have
prepared him.

“I hope I am no' going to lose my senses,” said he, as he pressed his
hands on either side of his temples. “May the Lord keep me from that
worst of a' human calamities.”

This pious wish, uttered with real, unfeigned fervency, seemed to act
like a charm upon the old man's temper, as though the very appeal had
suggested a calmer and more patient frame of mind. It was, then, with
all the dignity of his natural character, when unclouded by momentary
flashes of passion, that he said--

“What may be your errand here this morning?”

Few and simple as the words were, there was that in their quiet,
unassuming delivery, which in a second recalled the footman to a
full consciousness of his impertinent mistake. He saw at once the
immeasurable gulph, impassible to any effort of assumption or insolence,
which separated them, and with the ready tact of his calling, he
respectfully took off his hat, and held forth a sealed letter, without
one word of reply or apology.

Sir Archibald put on his spectacles, and having carefully read the
superscription, turned back towards the house without speaking.

“Here is a letter for you, O'Donoghue,” said he, as he entered the
parlour where the chief was already seated at his breakfast, while
Kerry O'Leary, a short distance behind his chair, was relating the
circumstances of the last night's adventure.

“Is it from Mark?” said the old man eagerly; and then glancing at
the writing, he threw it from him in disappointment, and added, “I am
getting very uneasy about that lad.”

“Had ye no' better read the letter; the messenger wha brought it seems
to expect an answer,” interposed M'Nab.

“Messenger!--eh--not by post? Is Hemsworth come back?” exclaimed
O'Donoghue, with an evident degree of fear in his manner.

“No, sir,” said Kerry, guessing to what topic his master's thoughts were
turning; “the Captain is not coming, they say, for a month or six weeks
yet.”

“Thank God,” muttered O'Donoghue; “that scoundrel never leaves me a
night's rest, when I hear he's in the neighbourhood. Will you see what's
in it, Archy?--my head is quite confused this morning; I got up three
hours before my time.”

Sir Archibald resumed his spectacles, and broke the seal. The contents
were at some length it would seem, for as he perused the letter to
himself, several minutes elapsed.

“Go on, Kerry,” said O'Donoghue; “I want to hear all about this
business.”

“Well, I believe your honour knows the most of it now; for when I came
up to the glen, they were all safe over, barrin' the mare; poor Kittane,
she was carried down the falls, and they took her up near a mile below
the old bridge, stone dead; Master Mark will fret his heart out when he
hears it.”

“This is a very polite note,” interposed Sir Archy, as he laid the
letter open before him, “from Sir Marmaduke Travers, begging to know
when he may be permitted to pay his personal respects to you, and
express his deep and grateful sense--his own words--of your son's
noble conduct in rescuing his daughter at the hazard of his life. It is
written with much modesty and good sense, and the writer canna be other
than a true gentleman.”

“Travers--Travers,” repeated O'Donoghue; “why that's the man himself. It
was he bought the estate; he's Hemsworth's principal.”

“And if he be,” replied M'Nab, “canna an honest man ha'e a bad servant?
There's nothing about Hemsworth here. It's a ceevil demand from one
gentleman to anither.”

“So it is, then, Sir Marmaduke, that has been staying at the lodge these
some weeks past. That was Mark's secret--poor dear boy, he wouldn't tell
me, fearing it would annoy me. Well, what is it he wants.”

“To visit you, O'Donoghue.”

“What nonsense; the mischiefs done already. The mortgage is forclosed;
and as for Carrignacurra, they can do nothing before the next term;
Swaby says so, at least.”

“Can ye no' comprehend. It is no law document; but a ceevil way to make
your acquaintance. Sir Marmaduke wad pay his respects to ye.”

“Well, let him come,” said O'Donoghue, laughing; “he's sure to find
me at home. The sheriff takes care of that for him. Mark will be here
to-morrow or next day; I hope he won't come before that.”

“The answer must be a written one,” said M'Nab; “it wad na be polite to
gie the flunkie the response.”

“With all my heart, Archy, so that I am not asked to indite it. Miles
O'Donoghue are the only words I have written for many a year”--and he
added, with a half bitter laugh--“it would have been as well for poor
Mark, if I had forgotten even that same.”

Sir Archibald retired to write the answer, with many a misgiving as to
the substance of the epistle; for while deeply gratified at heart, that
his favourite, Herbert, had acquitted himself so nobly, his own pride
was mortified, as he thought over the impressions a visit to the
O'Donoghue household might have on the mind of a “haughty Southern,” for
such in his soul he believed him.

There was no help for it, however; the advances were made in a spirit
so very respectful, every line breathed such an evident desire, on the
writer's part, to be well received, that a refusal, or even a formal
acceptance of the proffered visit, was out of the question. His reply,
then, accepted the intended honour, with a profession of satisfaction;
apologising for his omission in calling on Sir Marmaduke, on the score
of ill health, and concluded by a few words about Herbert, for whom
many inquiries were made in the letter. This, written in the clear,
but quaint, old-fashioned characters of the writer's time, and signed,
“O'Donoghue,” was carefully folded, and enclosed in a large square
envelope, and with it in his hand, M'Nab re-entered the breakfast room.

“Wad you like to hear the terms of the response, O'Donoghue, before I
seal it up?” asked Sir Archy, with an air of importance.

“No, no; I am sure it's all right and proper. You mentioned, of course,
that Mark was from home, but we were expecting him back every day.”

“I didna make ony remark o' that kind. I said ye wad be happy to see
him, and felt proud at the honour of making acquaintance wi' him.”

“Damn me if I do, then, Archy,” broke in the old man roughly. “For so
great a stickler for truth as yourself, the words were somewhat out
of place. I neither feel pride nor honour on the subject. Let it go,
however, and there's an end to it.”

“I've despatched a messenger for Roach to Killarney; that bit of a
brainless body, Terry, is gone by the mountain road, and we may expect
the docter here to-night;” and with these words, Sir Archy departed to
send off his epistle; and the O'Donoghue leaned back in his easy chair,
sorely wearied and worried by the fatigues of the day.




CHAPTER VIII. THE HOUSE OF SICKNESS

How painfully is the sense of severe illness diffused through every
part of a household. How solemn is the influence it sheds on every
individual, and every object; the noiseless step, the whispered words,
the closed curtains, the interruption to the ordinary avocations of
life, or the performance of them in gloom and sadness. When wealth and
its appliances exist, these things take all the features of extreme care
and solicitude for the sufferer; all the agencies of kindness and
skill are brought into active exertion, to minister to the rich man in
sickness; but when poverty and its evils are present--when the struggle
is against the pressure of want, as well as the sufferings of malady,
the picture is indeed a dark one.

The many deficiencies in comfort, which daily habit has learned to
overlook, the privations which in the active conflict with the world
are forgotten, now, come forth in the solitude of the sick house, to
affright and afflict us, and we sorrow over miseries long lost to memory
till now.

Never since the fatal illness which left O'Donoghue a widower, had
there been any thing like dangerous sickness in the house; and like most
people who have long enjoyed the blessings of uninterrupted health,
they had no thought for such a calamity, nor deemed it among the
contingencies of life. Now, however, the whole household felt the
change. The riotous laughter of the kitchen was silenced, the loud
speaking hushed, the doors banged by the wind, or the ruder violence
of careless hands, were closed noiselessly--every thing betokened that
sorrow was there. O'Donoghue himself paced to and fro in the chamber of
the old tower, now, stopping to cast a glance down the glen, where he
still hoped to see Mark approaching, now, resuming his melancholy walk
in sadness of heart.

In the darkened sick-room, and by the bed, sat Sir Archibald, concealed
by the curtain, but near enough to give assistance to the sick boy
should he need it. He sat buried in his own gloomy thoughts, rendered
gloomier, as he listened to the hurried breathings and low mutter-ings
of the youth, whose fever continued to increase upon him. The old
ill-tempered cook, whose tongue was the terror of the region she dwelt
in, sat smoking by the fire, nor noticed the presence of the aged fox
hound, who had followed Kerry into the kitchen, and now lay asleep
before the fire. Kerry himself ceased to hum the snatches of songs and
ballads, by which he was accustomed to beguile the weary day. There was
a gloom on every thing, nor was the aspect without doors more cheering.
The rain beat heavily in drifts against the windows; the wind shook the
old trees violently, and tossed their gnarled limbs in wild confusion,
sighing with mournful cadence along the deep glen, or pouring a long
melancholy note through the narrow corridors of the old house. The sound
of the storm, made more audible by the dreary silence, seemed to weigh
down every heart. Even the bare-legged little gossoon, Mickey, who had
come over from Father Luke's with a message, sat mute and sad, and as
he moved his naked foot among the white turf ashes, seemed to feel the
mournful depression of the hour.

“'Tis a dreadful day of rain, glory be to God!” said Kerry, as he drew
a fragment of an old much-soiled newspaper from his pocket, and took
his seat beside the blazing fire. For some time he persevered in his
occupation without interruption; but Mrs. Branaghan having apparently
exhausted her own reflections, now turned upon him to supply a new
batch.

“What's in the news, Kerry O'Leary? I think ye might as well read it
out, as be mumbling it to yourself there,” said she, in a tone seldom
disputed in the realm she ruled.

“Musha then,” said Kerry, scratching his head, “the little print bates
me entirely; the letters do be so close, they hav'n't room to stir in,
and my eyes is always going to the line above, and the line below, and
can't keep straight in the furrow at all. Come here, Mickey, alanah!
'tis you ought to be a great scholar, living in the house with his
reverence. They tell me,” continued he, in a whisper to the cook--“they
tell me, he can sarve mass already.”

Mrs. Branaghan withdrew her dudeen at these words, and gazed at the
little fellow with unmixed astonishment, who, in obedience to the
summons, took his place beside Kerry's chair, and prepared to commence
his task.

“Where will I begin, sir?”

“Begin at the news, av coorse,” said Kerry, somewhat puzzled to decide
what kind of intelligence he most desired. “What's this here with a
large P in the first of it?”

“Prosperity of Ireland, sir,” said the child.

“Ay, read about that, Mickey,” said the cook, resuming her pipe.

[Illustration: 088]

With a sing-song intonation, which neither regarded paragraph nor
period, but held on equably throughout a column, the little fellow
began--

“The prospect of an abundant harvest is now very general throughout the
country; and should we have a continuance off the heavenly weather for a
week or so longer, we hope the corn will all be saved.”

As the allusion made here by the journalist, was to a period of several
years previous, the listeners might be excused for not feeling a perfect
concurrence in the statement.'

“Heavenly weather, indeed!” grunted out the cook, as she turned her eyes
towards the windows, against which the plashing rain was beating--Mike
read on.

“Mr. Foran was stopped last night in Baggot-street, and robbed of his
watch and clothes, by four villains who live in Stoney-batter; they are
well known, and are advised to take care, as such depredations cannot
go long unpunished. The two villains that broke into the house of the
Archbishop of Dublin, and murdered the house-maid, will be turned off
'Lord Temple's trap,' on Saturday next; this, will be a lesson to
the people about the Cross-Poddle, that we hope may serve to their
advantage.”

“Sir Miles M'Shane begs to inform the person who found his shoe-buckle
after the last levee, that he will receive one and eight pence reward
for the same, by bringing it to No. 2, Ely-place; or if he prefer it,
Sir Miles will toss up who keeps the pair. They are only paste, and not
diamond, though mighty well imitated.”

“Paste!” echoed Mrs. Branahan; “the lying thieves!” her notions on the
score of that material being limited to patties and pie-crusts.

“The 'Bucks' are imitating the ladies in all the arts of beautifying the
person.--Many were seen painted and patched at the duchess's last ball.
We hope this effeminacy may not spread any farther.--It is Mr. Rigby,
and not Mr. Harper, is to have the silk gown. Sir George Rose is to get
the red ribbon for his services in North America.”

“A silk gown and a red ribbon!” cried Mrs. Branaghan. “Bad luck to me,
but they might be ashamed of themselves.”

“Faix, I never believed what Darby Long said before,” broke in Kerry.
“He tould me he saw the bishop of Cork in a black silk petticoat like a
famale. Is there no more murders, Mickey?”

“I don't know, sir, barrin' they're in the fashionable intelligence.”

“Well, read on.”

“Donald, the beast, who refused to leave his cell in Trim gaol at the
last assizes, and was consequently fired at by a file of infantry, had
his leg amputated yesterday by Surgeon Huston of this town, and is doing
remarkably well.”

“Where's the sporting news?” said Kerry. “Is not this it, here?” as he
pointed to a figure of a horse above a column.

“Mr. Connolly's horse, Gabriel, would have been in first, but he stopped
to eat Whaley, the jockey, when he fell. The race is to be run again
on Friday next. It was Mr. Daly, and not Mr. Crosbie, horse-whipped the
attorney over the course last Tuesday. Mr. Crosbie spent the day with
the Duke of Leinster, and is very angry at his name being mentioned in
the wrong, particularly as he is bound over to keep the peace towards
all members of the bar for three years.”

“Captain Heavyside and Mr. Malone exchanged four shots each on the
Bull this morning. The quarrel was about racing and politics, and
miscellaneous matters.”

“It is rumoured that if the Chief Justice be appointed from England, he
will decline giving personal satisfaction to the Master of the Rolls;
but we cannot credit the report--”

“The Carmelites have taken Banelagh-house for a nunnery.”

“That's the only bit in the paper I'd give the snuff of my pipe for,”
 said Mrs. Branaghan. “Read it again, acushla.”

The boy re-read the passage.

“Well, well, I wonder if Miss Kate will ever come back again,” said she,
in a pause.

“To be sure she will,” said Kerry; “what would hinder her? hasn't she
a fine fortune out of the property? ten thousand, I heerd the master
say.”

“Ayeh! sure it's all gone many a day ago; the sorra taste of a brass
farthen's left for her or any one else. The master sould every stick an'
stone in the place, barrin' the house that's over us, and sure that's
all as one as sould too. Ah, then, Miss Kate was the purty child, and
had the coaxing ways with her.”

“'Tis a pity to make her a nun,” said Kerry.

“A pity! why would it be a pity, Kerry O'Leary?” said the old lady,
bristling up with anger. “Isn't the nuns happier, and dacenter, and
higher nor other women, with rapscallions for husbands, and villians
of all kinds for childher? Is it the likes of ye, or the crayture beside
ye, that would teach a colleen the way to heaven? Musha, but they have
the blessed times of it--fastin' and prayin', and doing all manner of
penance, and talking over their sins with holy men.”

“Whisht! what's that? there's the bell ringing above stairs,” said
Kerry, suddenly starting up and listening. “Ay, there it is again,”
 and, so saying, he yawned and stretched himself, and after several
interjectional grumblings over the disturbance, slowly mounted the
stairs towards the parlour.

“Are ye sleepin' down there, ye lazy deevils?” cried Sir Archy from the
landing of the stairs. “Did ye no hear the bell?”

“'Tis now I heerd it,” said Kerry composedly, for he never vouchsafed
the same degree of deference to Sir Archy, he yielded to the rest of the
family.

“Go see if there be any lemon's in the house, and lose no time about
it.”

“Faix, I needn't go far then to find out,” whined Kerry; “the
master had none for his punch these two nights; they put the little
box into a damp corner, and, sure enough, they had beards on them
like Jews, the same lemons, when they went to look for them.”

“Go down then to the woman, M'Kelly's, in the glen, and see if she hae
na some there.”

“Oh murther! murther!” muttered Kerry to himself, as the whistling storm
reminded him of the dreadful weather without doors. “'Tis no use in
going without the money,” said he slyly, hoping that by this home-thrust
he might escape the errand. “Ye maun tell her to put it in the account,
man.” “'Tis in bad company she'd put it then,” muttered Kerry below
his breath, then added aloud--“Sorrow one she'd give, if I hadn't the
sixpence in my hand.”

“Canna ye say it's no' for yoursel', it's for the house--she wad na
refuse that.”

“No use in life,” reiterated he solemnly; “she's a real naygur, and
would, not trust Father Luke with a week's snuff, and he's dealt there
for sneeshin these thirty years.”

“A weel, a weel,” said M'Nab in a low harsh voice; “the world's growing
waur and waur. Ye maun e'en gie her a shilling, and mind ye get nae bad
bawbees in change; she suld gie ye twelve for saxpence.”

Kerry took the money without a word in reply; he was foiled in the plan
of his own devising, and with many a self-uttered sarcasm on the old
Scotchman, he descended the stairs once more.

“Is Master Herbert worse?” said the cook, as the old huntsman entered
the kitchen.

“Begorra he must be bad entirely, when ould Archy would give a shilling
to cure him. See here, he's sending me for lemons down to Mary's.”

Kerry rung the coin upon the table as if to test its genuiness, and
muttered to himself--

“'Tis a good one, devil a lie in it.”

'“There's the bell again; musha, how he rings it.”

This time the voice of Sir Archy was heard in loud tones summoning Kerry
to his assistance, for Herbert had become suddenly worse, and the old
man was unable to prevent him rising from his bed and rushing from the
room.

The wild and excited tones of the youth were mixed with the deeper
utterings of the old man, who exerted all his efforts to calm and
restrain him as Kerry reached the spot. By his aid the boy was conveyed
back to his bed, where, exhausted by his own struggles, he lay without
speaking or moving for some hours.

It was not difficult to perceive, however, that this state boded more
unfavourably than the former one. The violent paroxysms of wild insanity
betokened, while they lasted, a degree of vital energy and force, which
now seemed totally to have given way; and although Kerry regarded the
change as for the better, the more practised and skilful mind of Sir
Archibald drew a far different and more dispiriting augury.

Thus passed the weary hours, and at last the long day began to decline,
but still no sign, nor sound, proclaimed the doctor's coming, and
M'Nab's anxiety became hourly more intense.

“If he come na soon,” said he, after a long and dreary silence, “he need
na tak' the trouble to look at him.”

“'Tis what I'm thinking too.” said Kerry, with a sententious gravity
almost revolting--“when the fingers does be going that way, it's a
mighty bad sign. If I seen the hounds working with their toes, I never
knew them recover.”




CHAPTER IX. A DOCTOR'S VISIT

The night was far advanced as the doctor arrived at the O'Donoghue's
house, drenched with rain, and fatigued by the badness of the roads,
where his gig was often compelled to proceed for above a mile at a foot
pace. Doctor Roach was not in the most bland of tempers as he reached
his destination; and, of a verity, his was a nature that stood not in
any need of increased acerbity. The doctor was a type of a race at one
time very general, but now, it is hard to say wherefore, nearly extinct
in Ireland. But so it is; the fruits of the earth change not in course
of years more strikingly, than the fashions of men's minds. The habits,
popular enough in one generation, survive as eccentricities in another,
and are extinct in a third.

There was a pretty general impression in the world, some sixty or
seventy years back, that a member of the medical profession, who had
attained to any height in his art, had a perfect right to dispense with
all the amenities and courtesies which regulate social life among less
privileged persons. The concessions now only yielded to a cook, were
then extended to a physician; and in accordance with the privilege by
which he administered most nauseous doses to the body, he was suffered
to extend his dominion, and apply scarcely more palatable remedies
to the minds of his patients. As if the ill-flavoured draughts had
tinctured the spirit that conceived them, the tone of his thoughts
usually smacked of bitters, until at last he seemed to have realized, in
his own person, the conflicting agencies of the pharmacopoeia, and was
at once acrid, and pungent, and soporific together.

The College of Physicians could never have reproached Doctor Roach with
conceding a single iota of their privileges. Never was there one who
more stoutly maintained, in his whole practice through life, the blessed
immunity of “the Doctor.” The magic word “Recipe,” which headed his
prescriptions, suggested a tone of command to all he said, and both his
drugs and dicta were swallowed without remonstrance.

It may not be a flattering confession for humanity, but it is assuredly
a true one, that the exercise of power, no matter how humble its sphere,
or how limited its range, will eventually generate a tyrannical habit in
him who wields it. Doctor Roach was certainly not the exception to this
rule. The Czar himself was not more autocrat in the steppes of Russia,
than was he in any house where sickness had found entrance. From that
hour he planted his throne there. All the caprices of age, all the
follies of childhood, the accustomed freedoms of home, the indulgences
which grow up by habit in a household, had to give way before a monarch
more potent than all, “the Doctor.” Men bore the infliction with the
same patient endurance they summoned to sustain the malady. They felt
it to be grievous and miserable, but they looked forward to a period of
relief, and panted for the arrival of the hour, when the disease and the
doctor would take their departure together.

If the delight they experienced at such a consummation was extreme,
so to the physician it savoured of ingratitude. “I saved his life
yesterday,” saith he, “and see how happy he is, to dismiss me to-day.”
 But who is ever grateful for the pangs of a toothache?--or what heart
can find pleasure in the memory of sententiousness, senna, and low diet?

Never were the blessings of restored health felt with a more suitable
thankfulness than by Doctor Roach's patients. To be free once more from
his creaking shoes, his little low dry cough, his harsh accents, his
harsher words, his contradictions, his sneers, and his selfishness,
shed a halo around recovery, which the friends of the patient could not
properly appreciate.

Such was the individual whose rumbling and rattling vehicle now entered
the court-yard of Carrig-na-curra, escorted by poor Terry, who had
accompanied him the entire way on foot. The distance he had come, his
more than doubts about the fee, the severity of the storm, were not the
accessories likely to amend the infirmities of his temper; while a still
greater source of irritation than all existed in the mutual feeling of
dislike between him and Sir Archibald M'Nab. An occasional meeting at a
little boarding-house in Killarney, which Sir Archy was in the habit of
visiting each summer for a few days--the only recreation he permitted
himself--had cultivated this sentiment to such a pitch, that they never
met without disagreement, or parted without an actual quarrel. The
doctor was a democrat, and a Romanist of the first water; Sir Archy was
a member of the Scottish Episcopal Church; and, whatever might have been
his early leanings in politics, and in whatever companionship his
active years were passed, experience had taught him the fallacy of many
opinions, which owe any appearance of truth or stability they possess,
to the fact, that they have never advanced beyond the stage of
speculative notions, into the realms of actual and practical
existence;--but, above all, the prudent Scotchman dreaded the prevalence
of these doctrines among young and unsettled minds, ever ready to prefer
the short and hazardous career of fortune, to the slow and patient
drudgery of daily industry.

If the doctor anticipated but little enjoyment in the society of Sir
Archy, neither did the latter hope for any pleasure to himself from
Roach's company. However, as the case of poor Herbert became each hour
more threatening, the old man resolved to bury in oblivion every topic
of mutual disagreement, and, so long as the doctor remained in the
house, to make every possible or impossible concession to conciliate the
good-will of one, on whose services so much depended.

“Do ye hear?” cried Roach in a harsh voice to Kerry, who was summoned
from the kitchen-fire to take charge of his horse; “let the pony have a
mash of bran--a hot mash, and don't leave him till he's dry.”

“Never fear, sir,” replied Kerry, as he led the jaded and way-worn beast
into the stable, “I'll take care of him as if he was a racer;” and then,
as Roach disappeared, added--“I'd like to see myself strapping the likes
of him--an ould mountaineer. A mash of bran, indeed! Cock him up with
bran! Begorra, 'tis thistles and docks he's most used to;” and, with
this sage reflection on the beast's habits, he locked the stable door,
and resumed his former place beside the blazing turf fire.

O'Donoghue's reception of the doctor was most cordial. He was glad to
see him on several accounts. He was glad to see any one who could tell
him what was doing in the world, from which all his intercourse was
cut off; he was glad, because the supper was waiting an hour and a
half beyond its usual time, and he was getting uncommonly hungry; and,
lastly, he really felt anxious about Herbert, whenever by any chance his
thoughts took that direction.

“How are you, Roach?” cried he, advancing to meet him with an extended
hand. “This is a kind thing of you--you've had a dreadful day, I fear.”

“D--n me, if I ever saw it otherwise in this confounded glen. I never
set foot in it, that I wasn't wet through.”

“We have our share of rain, indeed,” replied the other, with a
good-humoured laugh; “but if we have storm, we have shelter.”

Intentionally misunderstanding the allusion, and applying to the ruined
mansion the praise bestowed on the bold mountains, the doctor threw a
despairing look around the room, and repeated the word “shelter” in a
voice far from complimentary.

The O'Donoghue's blood was up in a moment. His brow contracted and his
cheek flushed, as, in a low and deep tone, he said--

“It is a crazy old concern. You are right enough--neither the walls nor
the company within them, are like what they once were.”

The look with which these words were given, recalled the doctor to a
sense of his own impertinence; for, like certain tethered animals, who
never become conscious of restraint till the check of the rope lays them
on their back, nothing short of such a home-blow could have staggered
his self-conceit.

“Ay, ay,” muttered he, with a cackling apology for a laugh, “time is
telling on us all.--But I'm keeping the supper waiting.”

The duties of hospitality were always enough to make O'Donoghue forget
any momentary chagrin, and he seated himself at the table with all his
wonted good-humour and affability.

As the meal proceeded, the doctor inquired about the sick boy, and the
circumstances attending his illness; the interest he bestowed on the
narrative mainly depending on the mention of Sir Marmaduke Travers's
name, whose presence in the country he was not aware of before, and
from whose residence he began already to speculate on many benefits to
himself.

“They told me,” continued O'Donoghue, “that the lad behaved admirably.
In fact, if the old weir-rapid be any thing like what I remember it, the
danger was no common one. There used to be a current there strong enough
to carry away a dozen horsemen.”

“And how is the young lady? Is she nothing the worse from the cold, and
the drenching, and the shock of the accident?”

“Faith, I must confess it, I have not had the grace to ask after her.
Living as I have been for some years back, has left me sadly in arrear
with every demand of the world. Sir Marmaduke was polite enough to say
he'd call on me; but there is a still greater favour he could bestow,
which is, to leave me alone.”

“There was a law-suit or dispute of some kind or other between you, was
there not?”

“There is something of that kind,” said O'Donoghue, with an air of
annoyance at the question; “but these are matters gentlemen leave to
their lawyers, and seek not to mix themselves up with.”

“The strong purse is the sinew of war,” muttered the inexorable doctor;
“and they tell me he is one of the wealthiest men in England.”

“He may be, for aught I know or care.”

“Well, well,” resumed the other, after a long deliberative pause,
“there's no knowing how this little adventure may turn out. If your
son saved the girl's life, I scarcely think he could press you so hard
about--”

“Take care, sir,” broke in O'Donoghue, and with the words he seized the
doctor's wrist in his strong grasp; “take care how you venture to speak
of affairs which no wise concern you;” then, seeing the terrified look
his speech called up, he added--“I have been very irritable latterly,
and never desire to talk on these subjects; so, if you please, we'll
change the topic.”

The door was cautiously opened at this moment, and Kerry presented
himself, with a request from Sir Archibald, that, as soon as Doctor
Roach found it convenient, he would be glad to see him in the sick-room.

“I am ready now,” said the doctor, rising from his chair, and not by
any means sorry at the opportunity of escaping a _tête-a-tête_ he had
contrived to render so unpalatable to both parties. As he mounted the
stairs, he continued in broken phrases to inveigh against the house
and the host in a half soliloquy--“A tumble-down old barrack it is--not
fifty shillings worth of furniture under the roof--the ducks were as
tough as soaked parchment--and where's the fee to come from--I wish I
knew that--unless I take one of these old devils instead of it;” and
he touched the frame of a large, damp, discoloured portrait of some
long-buried ancestor, several of which figured on the walls of the
stair-case.

“The boy is worse--far worse,” whispered a low, but distinct voice
beside him. “His head is now all astray--he knows no one.”

Doctor Roach seemed vexed at the ceremony of salutation being forgotten
in Sir Archibald's eagerness about the youth, and drily answered--

“I have the honour to see you well, sir, I hope.”

“There is one here very far from well,” resumed Sir Archy, neither
caring for, nor considering the speech. “We have lost too much time
already--I trust ye may na be too late now.”

The doctor made no reply, but rudely taking the candle from his hand,
walked towards the bed--

“Ay, ay,” muttered he, as he beheld the lustrous eyes and widespread
pupils--the rose-red cheek, and dry, cracked lips of the youth; “he has
it sure enough.”

“Has what?--what is it?”

“The fever--brain fever, and the worst kind of it too.”

“And there is danger then?” whispered M'Nab.

“Danger, indeed! I wonder how many come through it. Pshaw! there's
no use trying to count his pulse;” and he threw the hand rudely back
upon the bed. “That's going as fast as ever his father went with the
property.” A harsh, low, cackling laugh followed this brutal speech,
which demanded all Sir Archy's predetermined endurance to suffer
unchecked.

“Do you know me?” said the doctor, in the loud voice used to awaken the
dormant faculty of hearing. “Do you know me?”

“Yes,” replied the boy, staring steadfastly at him.

“Well, who am I, then? Am I your father?”

A vacant gaze was all the answer.

“Tell me, am I your father?”

No reply followed.

“Am I your uncle, then?” said the doctor, still louder.

The word, “uncle,” seemed to strike upon some new chord of his awakened
sense: a faint smile played upon his parched lips, and his eyes wandered
from the speaker, as if in search of some object, till they fell upon
Sir Archy, as he stood at the foot of the bed, when suddenly his whole
countenance was lighted up, and he repeated the word, “uncle,” to
himself in a voice indescribably sweet and touching.

“He has na forgotten me,” murmured M'Nab, in a tone of deep emotion. “My
ain dear boy--he knows me yet.”

“You agitate him too much,” said Roach, whose nature had little sympathy
with the feelings of either. “You must leave me alone here to examine
him myself.”

M'Nab said not a word, but, with noiseless step, stole from the room.
The doctor looked after him as he went, and then followed to see that
the door was closed behind. This done, he beckoned to Kerry, who still
remained, to approach, and deliberately seated himself in a chair near
the window.

“Tell me, my good fellow,” said he, affecting an air of confidence as he
spoke, “an't they all broke here? Isn't the whole thing smashed?”

“Broke--smashed!” repeated Kerry, as he held up both hands in feigned
astonishment; “'tis a droll smash: begorra, I never see money as plenty
this many a year. Sure av there wasn't lashings of it, would he be
looking out for carriage-horses, and buying hunters, not to say putting
the kennel in order.”

“Is it truth you are telling?” said Roach, in astonishment.

“True as my name is Kerry O'Leary. We offered Lanty Lawler a hundred and
twenty guineas on Friday last for a match wheeler, and we're not off of
him yet; he's a big brown horse, with a star on his face; and the cob
for the master cost forty pounds. He'll be here tomorrow, or next day,
sure ye'll see him yourself.”

“The place is falling to ruin--the roof will never last the winter,”
 broke in the doctor.

“Well, and whose fault is it, but that spalpeen Murphy's, that won't
set the men to work till he gets oak timber from the Black Say--'tis the
finest wood in the world, they tell me, and lasts for ever and ever.”

“But, don't they owe money every where in the country? There isn't a
little shop in Killarney without an account of their's in it.”

“Of course they do, and the same in Cork--ay, and in Tralee, for the
matter of that. Would you have them not give encouragement to more
places nor one? There's not one of those crayturs would send in their
bill--no, though we do be asking for it, week after week. They're afraid
of losing the custom; and I'll engage now, they do be telling you they
can't get their money by hook or by crook; that's it--I knew it well.”

The doctor meditated long on these strange revelations, so very opposite
to all he had heard of the circumstances of the O'Donoghues; and while
his own convictions were strongly against Kerry's narrative, that worthy
man's look of simplicity and earnest truth puzzled him considerably, and
made him hesitate which side to credit.

After a long pause, from which the incoherent ravings of the sick boy
aroused him, he looked up at Kerry, and then, with a motion of his thumb
towards the bed, he muttered--

“He's going fast.”

“Going fast!” echoed Kerry, in a voice very different from his former
accent. “Oh, wirra! there's nothing so bad as death! Distress and
poverty is hard enough, but that's the raal misfortune.”

A dry sarcastic grin from the doctor seemed to say that poor Kerry's
secret was discovered. The allusion to want of means came too naturally
not to be suggested by present circumstances; and the readiness of
Doctor Roach's apprehension clinched the discovery at once.

“We'll go down now,” said the doctor; “I believe I know the whole state
of the case;” and, with these words of ambiguous meaning he returned to
the drawing-room.




CHAPTER X. AN EVENING AT “MARY” M'KELLY's

If sorrow had thrown its sombre shadow over the once-proud house of the
O'Donoghue, within whose walls now noiseless footsteps stole along, and
whispered words were spoken: a very different scene presented itself at
the small hostel of Mary M'Kelly. There, before the ample fireplace,
a quarter of a sheep was roasting--while various utensils of cookery,
disposed upon and around the fire, diffused a savoury odour through the
apartment. A table, covered with a snow-white napkin, and containing
covers for a party of six, occupied the middle of the room; cups and
drinking vessels of richly chased silver, silver forks and spoons,
of handsome pattern, were there also--strange and singular spectacle
beneath the humble thatch of a way-side cabin. Mary herself displayed
in her toilet a more than usual care and attention, and wore in her
becoming cap, with a deep lace border, a bouquet of tri-colored ribbons,
coquettishly knotted, and with the ends falling loosely on her neck.
While she busied herself in the preparation for the table, she
maintained from time to time a running conversation with a person who
sat smoking in the chimney corner. Although screened from the glare of
the fire, the light which was diffused around showed enough of the dress
and style of the wearer to recognize him at once for Lanty Lawler,
the horse-dealer. His attitude, as he lolled back on one chair, and
supported his legs on another, bespoke the perfection of ease, while in
the jaunty manner he held the long pipe-stick between his fingers, could
be seen the affectation of one who wished to be thought at home, as well
as to feel so.

“What hour did they mention, Mary?” said he, after a pause of some
minutes, during which he puffed his pipe assiduously.

“The gossoon that came from Beerhaven, said it would be nine o'clock at
any rate; but sure it's nigher to ten now. They were to come up on
the flood tide. Whisht, what was that?--Wasn't that like the noise of
wheels?”

“No; that's the wind, and a severe night it is too. I'm thinking, Mary,
the storm may keep them back.”

“Not a bit of it; there's a creek down there, they tell me, safer nor
e'er a harbour in Ireland; and you'd never see a bit of a vessel till
you were straight over her: and sure it's little they mind weather. That
Captain Jack, as they call him, says there's no time for business like a
gale of wind. The last night they were here there was two wrecks in the
bay.”

“I mind it well, Mary. Faix, I never felt a toast so hard to drink as
the one they gave after supper.”

“Don't be talking about it,” said Mary, crossing herself devoutly;
“they said it out of devilment, sorra more.”

“Well, may be so,” muttered he sententiously. “They're wild chaps any
way, and they've a wild life of it.”

“Troth, if I was a man, tis a life I'd like well,” said Mary, with a
look of resolute determination, well becoming the speech. “Them's the
fine times they have, going round the world for sport, and nothing to
care for--as much goold as they'd ask--fine clothes--the best of eating
and drinking; sure there's not one of them would drink out of less than
silver.”

“Faix, they may have iron round their ancles for it, after all, Mary.”

“Sorra bit of it--the jail isn't built yet, that would howld them.
What's that noise now? That's them. Oh, no; it's the water running down
the mountain.”

“Well, I wish they'd come any way,” said Lanty; “for I must be off
early to-morrow--I've an order from the ould banker here above, for six
beasts, and I'd like to get a few hours' sleep before morning.”

“'Tis making a nice penny you are there, Lanty,” said Mary, with a
quizzical look from the corner of her eye.

“A good stroke of business, sure enough, Mary,” replied he, laughingly.
“What d'ye think I did with him yesterday morning? I heerd here, ye
know, what happened to the grey mare I bought from Mark O'Donoghue--that
she was carried over the weir-gash and drowned. What does I do, but
goes up to the Lodge and asks for Sir Marmaduke; and says I, 'I'm come,
sir, to offer a hundred and fifty for the little mare I sould you the
other day for a hundred; 'tis only now I found out her real value, and
I can get two hundred for her in Cork, the day I bring her up; and sure
your honour wouldn't prevent a poor man making a trifle in the way of
his trade.' 'You're an honest fellow, Lanty,' says he--divil a lie in
it Mary, don't be laughing--'you're an honest fellow; and although I
cannot let you have your mare back again, for she was killed last night,
you shall have your own price for the four carriage-horses and the two
roadsters I ordered.' With that I began blubbering about the mare, and
swore I was as fond of her as if she was my sister. I wish you'd seen
his daughter then; upon my conscience it was as good as a play. 'They
have so much feelin', says she to her father. 'For fun,' says I to
myself. 'O murther, murther. Mary, and them's the people that rules
us!'”

“Omadhauns they are, the devil a' more!” interposed Mary, whose hearty
contempt for the Saxon originated in the facility by which he could be
imposed upon.

“That's what I'm always saying,” said Lanty. “I'd rather have the
chaytin' than the bayting of John Bull, any day! You'll humbug him out
of his shirt, and faix it's the easiest way to get it after all.”

“It's a mane way, Lanty,” interposed Mary, with a look of pride; “it's
a dirty, mane way, and doesn't become an Irishman?”

“Wait till the time comes, Mary M'Kelly,” said Lanty, half angrily, “and
maybe I'd be as ready as another.”

“I wish it was come,” said Mary, sighing; “I wish to the Virgin it was;
I'm tired heerin' of the preparations. Sorra one of me knows what
more they want, if the stout heart was there. There's eight barrels of
gunpowder in that rock there,” said she, in a low whisper, “behind yer
back--you needn't stir, Lanty. Begorra, if a spark was in it, 'twould
blow you and me, and the house that's over us, as high as Hungry
mountain.”

“The angels be near us!” said Lanty, making the sign of the cross.

“Ay,” resumed Mary, “and muskets for a thousand min, and pikes for two
more. There's saddles and bridles, eighteen hogsheads full.”

“True enough,” chimed in Lanty; “and I have an order for five hundred
cavalry horses--the money to be paid out of the Bank of France. Musha, I
wish it was some place nearer home.”

“Is it doubting them ye are, Lanty Lawler?”

“No, not a bit; but it's always time enough to get the beasts, when we
see the riders. I could mount two thousand men in a fortnight, any day,
if there was money to the fore; ay, and mount them well, too: not the
kind of devils I give the government, that won't stand three days of
hard work. Musha, Mary, but it's getting very late; that mutton will be
as dry as a stick.”

“The French likes it best that way,” said Mary, with a droll glance, as
though to intimate she guessed the speaker's object. “Take a look down
the road, Lanty, and try if you can hear any one coming.”

Lanty arose from his comfortable corner with evident reluctance, and
laid down his pipe with a half sigh, as he moved slowly towards the door
of the cabin, which having unbarred he issued forth into the darkness.

“It's likely I'd hear any thing such a night as this,” grumbled he to
himself, “with the trees snapping across, and the rocks tumbling down!
It's a great storm entirely.”

“Is there any sign of them, Lanty?” cried Mary, as she held the door
ajar, and peeped out into the gloomy night.

“I couldn't see my hand fornint me.”

“Do you hear nothing?”

“Faix I hear enough over my head; that was thunder! Is there any fear of
it getting at the powder, Mary?”

“Divil a fear; don't be unasy about that,” said the stout-hearted Mary.
“Can you see nothing at all?”

“Sorra a thing, barrin' the lights up at Carrig-na-curra; they're moving
about there, at a wonderful rate. What's O'Donoghue doing at all?”

“'Tis the young boy, Herbert, is sick,” said Mary, as she opened the
door to admit Lanty once more. “The poor child is in a fever. Kerry
O'Leary was down here this evening for lemons for a drink for him. Poor
Kerry! he was telling me, himself has a sore time of it, with that ould
Scotchman that's up there; nothing ever was like him for scoulding, and
barging, and abusing; and O'Donoghue now minds nothing inside or out,
but sits all day long in the big chair, just as if he was asleep. Maybe
he does take a nap sometimes, for he talks of bailiffs, and writs, and
all them things. Poor ould man! it's a bad end, when the law comes with
the grey hairs!”

“They've a big score with yourself, I'll be bound,” said Lanty
inquiringly.

“Troth, I'd like to see myself charge them with any thing,” said she,
indignantly. “It's to them and their's I owe the roof that's over me,
and my father, and my father's father before me owes it. Musha, it would
become me to take their money, for a trifle of wine and spirits, and tay
and tobacco, as if I wasn't proud to see them send down here--the raal
ould stock that's in it! Lanty, it must be very late by this. I'm afeard
something's wrong up in the bay.”

“'Tis that same I was thinking myself,” said Lanty, with a sly look
towards the roasted joint, whose savoury odour was becoming a temptation
overmuch for resistance.

“You've a smart baste in the stable,” said Mary; “he has eaten his corn
by this time, and must be fresh enough; just put the saddle on him,
Lanty dear, and ride down the road a mile or two--do, and good luck
attend you.”

There never was a proposition less acceptable to the individual to whom
it was made; to leave a warm fire-side was bad enough, but to issue
forth on a night it would have been inhumanity to expose a dog to, was
far too much for his compliance; yet Lanty did not actually refuse; no,
he had his own good reasons for keeping fair with Mary M'Kelly; so he
commenced a system of diplomatic delay and discussion, by which time at
least might be gained, in which it was possible the long-expected guests
would arrive, or the project fall to the ground on its own merits.

“Which way will they come, Mary?” said he, rising from his seat.

“Up the glen, to be sure--what other way could they from the Bay. You'll
hear them plain enough, for they shout and sing every step of the road,
as if it was their own; wild devils they are.”

“Sing is it? musha, now, do they sing?”

“Ay, faix, the drollest songs ever ye heerd; French and Roosian
songs--sorra the likes of them going at all.”

“Light hearts they have of their own.”

“You may say that, Lanty Lawler; fair weather or foul, them's the boys
never change; but come now be alive, and get out the baste.”

“I'm going, I'm going; it's myself would like to hear them sing a
Roosian song. Whisht! what's that? did ye hear a shout there?”

“Here they are; that's them,” said Mary, springing towards the door,
and withdrawing the bolt, while a smart knock was heard, and the same
instant, a voice called out--

“Holloa! house ahoy!”

The door at the moment flew open, and a short, thick-set looking man,
in a large boat cloak, entered, followed by a taller figure, equally
muffled. The former dropping his heavy envelope, and throwing off an
oil-skin cap from his head, held out his arms wide as, he said--

“_Marie, ma mie! embrasse moi_;” and then, not waiting for a compliance
with the request, sprang forward, and clasped the buxom landlady in
his arms, and kissed her on each cheek, with an air compounded of true
feeling, and stage effect.

“Here's my friend and travelling companion, Henry Talbot, come to share
your hospitality, Mary,” said he in English, to which the slightest
foreign accent lent a tone of recitative. “One of us, Mary--one of us.”

The individual alluded to had by this time dropped his cloak to the
ground, and displayed the figure of a slight and very young man, whose
features were singularly handsome, save for a look of great effeminacy;
his complexion was fair as a girl's, and, flushed by exercise, the tint
upon his cheek was of a pale rose colour; he was dressed in a riding
coat, and top boots, which, in the fashion of the day, were worn short,
and wrinkled around the leg; his hair he wore without powder, and long
upon his neck; a heavy riding whip, ornamented with silver, the only
weapon he carried, composed his costume--one as unlike his companion's
as could be.

Captain Jacques Flahault was a stout-built, dark-complexioned fellow, of
some four or five and forty; his face a grotesque union of insolence and
drollery; the eyes black as jet, shaded by brows so arched, as to give
always the idea of laughing to a countenance, the lower part of which,
shrouded in beard and moustache, was intended to look stern and savage.

His dress was a short blue frock, beneath which he wore a jersey shirt,
striped in various colours, across which a broad buff leather belt,
loosely slung, supported four pistols and a dirk; jack boots reached
about the middle of the thigh, and were attached to his waist by thongs
of strong leather, no needless precaution apparently, as in their
looseness the wearer might at any moment have stepped freely from them;
a black handkerchief, loosely knotted round his neck, displayed a
throat brawny and massive as a bull's, and imparted to the whole head an
appearance of great size--the first impression every stranger conceived
regarding him.

“Ah! ah! Lawler, you here; how goes it, my old friend? Sit down here,
and tell me all your rogueries since we parted. _Par St, Pierre_, Henry,
this is the veriest _fripon_ in the kingdom”--Talbot bowed, and with a
sweetly courteous smile saluted Lanty, as if accepting the speech in the
light of an introduction--“a fellow that in the way of his trade could
cheat the Saint Père himself.”

“Where's the others, Captain Jack?” said Mary, whose patience all this
time endured a severe trial--“where's the rest?”

“_Place pour la potage! Ma Mie!_--soup before a story; you shall hear
every thing by and by. Let us have the supper at once.”

Lanty chimed in a willing assent to this proposition, and in a few
moments the meat smoked upon the table, around which the whole party
took their places with evident good-will.

“While Mary performed her attentions as hostess, by heaping up each
plate, and ever supplying the deficiency caused by the appetite of
the guests, the others eat on like hungry men. Captain Jacques alone
intermingling with the duties of the table, a stray remark from time to
time.

“_Ventre bleu!_ how it blows; if it veers more to the southard, there
will be a heavy strain on that cable. _Trinquons mon ami, Trinquons
toujours; Ma belle Marie_, you eat nothing.”

“'Tis unasy I am, Captain Jack, about what's become of the others,” said
Mrs. M'Kelly.

“Another bumper, _Ma Mie_, and I'm ready for the story--the more as it
is a brief one. _Allons donc_--now for it. We left the bay about nine
o'clock, or half-past, perhaps, intending to push forward to the glen at
once, and weigh with the morning's tide, for it happens that this time
our cargo is destined for a small creek, on the north-west coast; our
only business here being to land my friend, Harry”--here Talbot bowed
and smiled--“and to leave two hogsheads of Bourdeaux, for that very
true-hearted, kind, _brave homme_, Hemsworth, at the Lodge there. You
remember last winter we entered into a compact with him to stock his
cellar, provided no information of our proceedings reached the revenue
from any quarter. Well, the wine was safely stored in one of the caves
on the coast, and we started with a light conscience; we had neither
despatches nor run-brandy to trouble us--nothing to do but eat our
supper; saluer madame”--here he turned round, and with an air of mock
respect kissed Mary's hand--“and get afloat again. As we came near the
'Lodge,' I determined to make my visit a brief one; and so leaving all
my party, Harry included, outside, I approached the house, which, to my
surprise, showed lights from nearly every window. This made me cautious,
and so I crept stealthily to a low window, across which the curtain
was but loosely drawn, and _Mort de ma vie!_ what did I behold, but the
prettiest face in Europe. _Une ange de beauté_. She was leaning over
a table copying a drawing, or a painting of some sort or other. _Tête
bleu!_ here was a surprise. I had never seen her before, although I was
with Hemsworth a dozen times.”

“Go on--go on,” said Lanty, whose curiosity was extreme to hear what
happened next.

“_Eh bien_--I tried the sash, but it was fastened. I then went round
the house, and examined the other windows, one after the other--all the
same. _Que faire!_ I thought of knocking boldly at the back-door, but
then I should have no chance of a peep at _la belle_ in that way.”

“What did you want with a peep at her?” asked Mary, gruffly.

“_Diable!_ what did I want? _Pour l'admirer, l'adorer_--or, at least to
make my respects, as becomes a stranger, and a Frenchman. _Pursuivons_.
There was no _entrée_, without some noise--so I preferred the room
she was in, to any other, and gently disengaging my dirk, I slipped it
between the two sashes, to lift up the latch that fastened them. _Mort
bleu!_ the weapon slipped, and came slap through the pane, with a
tremendous fracas. She started up, and screamed--there was no use in any
more delay. I put my foot through the window, and pushed open the sash
at once--but before I was well in the room, bells were ringing in every
quarter of the house, and men's voices calling aloud, and shouting to
each other--when, suddenly, the door opened, and whiz went a pistol-ball
close by my head, and shattered the shutter behind me. My fellows,
outside, hearing the shot, unslung their pieces, and before I could
get down to them, poured in a volley--why, wherefore, or upon whom, the
devil himself, that instigated them, can tell. The garrison mustered
strong, however, and replied--that they did, by Jove, for one of ours,
Emile de Louvois, is badly wounded. I sounded the retreat, but the
scoundrels would not mind me--and before I was able to prevent it,
_tête bleu!_ they had got round to the farmyard, and set fire to the
corn-stacks; in a second, the corn and hay blazed up, and enveloped
house and all in smoke. I sounded the retreat once more, and off the
villains scampered, with poor Emile, to the boat; and I, finding my
worthy friend here an inactive spectator of the whole from a grove near
the road, resolved not to give up my supper--and so, _me voici!_--but
come, can none of you explain this affair? What is Hemsworth doing,
with all this armed household, and this captive princess?”

“Is the 'Lodge' burned down?” said Lanty, whose interest in the
inhabitants had a somewhat selfish origin.

“No, they got the fire tinder. I saw a wild-looking devil mount one of
the ricks, with a great canvas sail all wetted, and drag it over the
burning stack--and before I left the place, the Lodge was quite safe.”

“I'm sorry for it,” said Mary, with a savage determination. “I'm sorry
to the heart's core. Luck nor grace never was in the glen, since the
first stone of it was laid--nor will be again, till it is a ruin! Why
didn't they lay it in ashes, when they were about it?”

“Faith, it seemed to me,” said Talbot, in a low soft voice, “they would
have asked nothing better. I never saw such bull-dogs in my life. It was
all you could do, Flahault, to call them off.”

“True enough,” replied Jacques, laughing. “They enjoy a _brisée_ like
that with all their hearts.”

“The English won't stay long here, after this night,” was Lanty's sage
reflection, but one which he did not utter aloud in the present company.
And then, in accordance with Jacques' request, he proceeded to explain
by what different tenants the Lodge became occupied since his last
visit; and that an English baronet and his daughter, with a household
of many servants, had replaced Hemsworth and his few domestics. At every
stage of the recital, Flahault stopped the narrative, to give him
time to laugh. To him the adventure was full of drollery. Even the
recollection of his wounded comrade little damped his enjoyment of a
scene, which might have been attended by the saddest results; and he
chuckled a hundred times over what he suspected the Englishman must
feel, on this, his first visit to Ireland. “I could rob the mail
to-morrow, for the mere fun of reading his letters to his friends,” said
he. “_Mort bleu!_ what a description of Irish rapparrees, five hundred
in number, armed with pikes.”

“I wish ye'd gave him the cause to do it,” said Mary, bitterly--“what
brings them here? who wants them? or looks for them?”

“You are right, Mary,” said Talbot, mildly. “Ireland for the Irish!”

“Ay, Ireland for the Irish!” repeated Mary and Lanty; and the sentiment
was drank with all the honours of a favoured toast.

For some time the party continued to discuss Flahault's story, and
calculate on every possible turn the affair might give rise to. All
agreeing, finally, on one point, that Sir Marmaduke would scarcely
venture to protract his stay in a country, where his visit had been
signalized by such a reception. The tone of the conversation seemed
little to accord with Captain Jacques' humour, whose convivial
temperament found slight pleasure in protracted or argumentative
discussions of any kind.

“_Que le diable l'importe_,” cried he, at last. “This confounded talk
has stopped the bottle this half-hour. Come, Talbot, let's have a song,
my lad; never shake your head, _mon enfant,_---- Well, then, here goes.”

Thus saying, Flahault pushed back his chair a little from the table, and
in a rich deep bass voice, which rung through the high rafters of the
cabin, chanted out the following rude verses, to a French vaudeville
air--giving the final _e_ of the French words, at the end of each
line, that peculiar accentuation of _a_--which made the word sound
_contrabanda!_

Though this information as to Captain Jacques' performance seems of
little moment, yet such was the fact, that any spirit the doggerel
possessed could only be attributed to the manner of the singer, and the
effect produced by the intonation we have mentioned.

                 LA CONTRABANDE.

     A bumper, “mes enfans,” to swallow your care,
     A full bumper, we pledge, “a L'Irlande;”
      The land of “belles femmes”--le pays de bonne chere,
     “Et toujours de la Contrabande.”


     Some like to make love, and some like to make war,
     Some of beauty obey “la commande;”
      But what is a glance from an eye, “bleu,” or “noir,”
      Except it be, “la Contrabande.”

     When a prince takes the cash that a peasant can't spare,
     And lets him lie down “sur la lande;”
      Call it, as you like--but the truth is, I swear,
     “C'est bien pire que--la Contrabande.”

     Stolen kisses are ever the sweetest, we're told,
     They sink like a “navire qui fende;”
      And what's true of a kiss, is the same, too, of gold,
     They're both, in their way, “Contrabande!”

     When kings take your money, they won't even say,
     “Mon ami le Dieu vous le rende;”
      While even the priest, for a blessing takes pay,
     “C'est partout et toujours, Contrabande.”

     The good things of life are not equal, I'm sure,
     Then, how pleasant to make the “amende;”
      To take from the wealthy, and give to the poor,
     “Voila! que j'appelle, Contrabande.”

     Yet, as matters go, one must not deem it strange,
     That even “La France et L'Irlande,”
      If good wishes and friendship they simply exchange,
     There are folks who call that,  “Contrabande.”

“_Vive la Contrabande, mes amis_,” shouted out Jacques, as he arose
glass in hand, and made the room ring with the toast. And every voice
repeated the words, in such imitations as they were able.

“'Tis an elegant song, any way,” said Lanty, “if one only understood it
all--and the tune's mighty like the 'Cruiskeen Lawn.'”

“Well, Harry,” said Flahault, slapping his friend on the shoulder,
“will the song persuade you to turn smuggler? I fear not. You'd rather
practise your own 'Contrabande' among the bright eyes and dark locks of
the capital. Well, there are worse 'metiers.' I have had a turn at it
these fifteen years, and whether on the waters of Ontario, or Champlain,
or scudding along under the fog-banks of the Scheldt, I never grew
weary of it. But, now for a little business talk--where is the _Padre?_
where's Father Luke? was he not to have been here to-night?”

Mary whispered the answer in the captain's ear.

“_Ah! parbleu_,” exclaimed he aloud--“is it so? Practising a little
'Contrebande' of his own--trying to see a poor fellow safe over the
frontier, into the next world.”

“Fie for shame, Captain Jacques,” said Mary, with pious horror. “That's
not the way to talk of the holy offices.”

“I wish I had old Maurice Dulang here, the priest of Trois Rivières,
he's the boy could despatch them without trouble.”

Neither Lanty nor Mary gave any encouragement to Flahault's new turn of
the conversation, and so, addressing himself to Talbot, he went on--

“We were dining together one day, at the little inn at Trois Rivières,
when a messenger came from Lachégon, for the Père to administer the last
rites to a 'mourant.' Maurice promised to be there in half-an-hour,
but never stirred--and though three other messengers came for him, the
answer was all the same--until, at last came word, '_Cest trop tard, il
est mort_.'

“'_Trop tard!_' said Maurice, 'not a bit of it; give me a pen and ink,
and some paper.' With that he folded a piece, note fashion, and wrote--

“'Mon cher Pierre--Fais ton petit possible pour cet pauvre diable, qui
s'est glissé hors du monde sans mes soins. Apparement il était bien
pressé; mais tu l'arrangera pour le mieux.

“'Ton viel ami.'

“'Maurice Dulang. “'St. Pie

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