CHAPTER XXXI."CROWMORE CASTLE."
"We have seen better days."
"We have seen better days."
"We have seen better days."
"We have seen better days."
"We have seen better days."
Larryand Finnigan's mare were not long in dwindling into a little speck in the distance; and when they had completely vanished Helen set out to walk to Cara Cross, the goal of the post-car races. Once there she had no difficulty in discovering the road to the left; and a quarter of a mile brought two massive pillars into view, each surmounted by a battered, wingless griffin. But there were no gates—unless a stone wall and a gate were synonymous terms in Ireland. Three feet of solid masonry completely barred the former entrance, and said "no admittance" in the plainest language. Helen leant her elbows on the coping-stones and gazed in amazement at the scene before her. She saw a grassy track that had once been an avenue lined by a dense thicket of straggling, neglected shrubs. To her right and left stood the roofless shells of two gate lodges. On the step of one of them she descried her bag; and only for this undeniable clue she would certainly have walked on and sought the entrance to Crowmore elsewhere. Being (as Larry had not failed to remark) an active, "souple" young lady, she lost no time in getting over the wall and rejoining her property. As she picked it up, she cast a somewhat timid glance into the interior of the ruin and beheld a most dismal, melancholy-looking kitchen, with the remains of ashes on the hearth; the roof and rugged rafters partly open to the skies; hideous green stains disfiguring the walls, and the floor carpeted with nettles and dockleaves. A bat came flickering out of an inner chamber, which warned her that time was advancing and she wasnot. So she hurriedly turned about and pursued the grass-grownavenue, which presently became almost lost in the wide, surrounding pasture. At first it ascended a gentle incline, over which numbers of sheep were scattered; some, who were reposing in her very track, rose reluctantly, and stared stolidly as she approached. On the top of the hill she came upon a full view of the Castle, and was filled with a sense of injury and disappointment at having been deceived by such a high-sounding title. Certainly therewasa kind of square, old keep, out of whose ivy-covered walls half-a-dozen large modern windows stared with unabashed effrontery. But a great, vulgar, yellow house, with long ears of chimneys, and a mean little porch, had evidently married the venerable pile, and impudently appropriated its name. "Yes," murmured Helen to herself, as she descended the hill, "uncle showed his sense in calling it simply 'Crowmore;' a far more suitable name, judging by the rookeries in the trees behind it and the flocks of crows—more crows—who are returning home."
An iron fence presently barred her further progress along the almost obliterated avenue, and, keeping by the railings, she arrived at a rusty gate leading into what might once have been a pleasure-ground,—but was now a wilderness. Traces of walks were still visible, and outlines of flower-beds could be distinguished—with a little assistance from one's imagination—flower-beds, in which roses, and fuchsias, and thistles, and ferns, were all alike strangled in the cruel bonds of "Robin round the hedge." She passed a tumble-down summer-house—a fitting pendant to the gate lodges—and some rustic seats, literally on their last legs. Everywhere she looked, neglect and decay stared her in the face.
As she pushed her way through a thicket of shrubs, that nearly choked a narrow foot-path, she observed a tall man, like a gamekeeper, approaching from the opposite direction. He wore a peaked cap, drawn far over his eyes, and a very long black beard, so that his face was almost entirely concealed; he was dressed in a shabby shooting-coat, and gaiters, and carried a bundle of netting on his back, and a stick in his hand. As he stood aside, so as to permit her to pass, she had aconviction—though she could not see his eyes—that he was scrutinizing her closely; nay, more, that he halted to look after her,—as she ceased to hear the onward tramp of his heavy, clumsy boots. Another two minutes brought her to a little wicket, which opened on a well-kept gravel drive, a complete contrast to the overgrown jungle which she had just quitted. There was no one to be seen, not even a dog, though a clean plate and a well-picked bone testified to a dog's recent dinner. The hall door stood wide open (Irish fashion), but no knocker was visible,—neither could she discover a bell. She waited on the steps for some minutes in great perplexity, and gazed into a large, cool, stone-paved hall, crossed here and there with paths of cocoa-nut matting, lined with strange ancient sporting prints, and apparently opening into half-a-dozen rooms. Not a sound was audible save the bleating of the sheep, the cawing of the rooks, and the loud ticking of a brazen-faced grandfather's clock, that immediately faced the stranger. Suddenly a fresh young voice came through an open door, so near that Helen gave a little nervous start; a fresh young voice with an undeniable Irish accent, and this was what it said,—
"Dido, Dido! do you want toboilthe mignonette, and all the unfortunate flowers?"
Emboldened by this sound, the new arrival rapped loudly on the door with her knuckles, and the same melodious brogue called out,—
"If that's you, Judy, no eggs to-day!"
"'Deed then, Miss Katie," expostulated a somewhat aged and cracked organ, "I'm not so sure ofthat.—We are rather tight in eggs, and you were talking of a cake, when the young lady comes——"
By this time the young lady had advanced to the threshold and looked in. She beheld a large, shabby dining-room, with three long windows, heavy old furniture, and faded hangings; a stout girl with fair curly hair, sitting with her back to the door, knitting a sock; her slender sister—presumably that Dido, who was working such destruction among the flowers—was stooping over a green stand covered with plants, which she was busily watering, with the contents of a small copper tea-urn;and a little trim old woman, in a large frilled cap, was in the act of removing the tea things. Helen's light footfall on the matting was inaudible, and she had ample time to contemplate the scene, ere the servant, who was just lifting the tray, laid it down and ejaculated,—
"The Lord presarve us!"
The girl with the tea-urn turned quickly round, and dropping her impromptu watering-pot, cried,—
"It's Helen, it must be cousin Helen!" running to her, and embracing her. "You are as welcome as the flowers in May. This is Katie,—I'm Dido.—We went to meet you in the morning by the twelve o'clock train; how in the world did you get here?"
All this poured out without stop, or comma, in a rich and rapid brogue.
"I missed the early train and came on by the next. I got a seat on the post-car, but the horse ran away and upset us, so I preferred to walk to the end of my journey. I told the man, Larry ——, Larry ——"
"Larry Flood, Miss," prompted the old woman eagerly. "A little ugly sleveen of a fellow—with a lip on him, would trip a goat!"
"Now, Biddy, how can you be so spiteful," remonstrated Katie, with a laugh, "and all just because he wants to marry Sally."
"That's the name—Larry Flood," continued Helen. "I told him I would walk, and he left my bag at the—the gate."
"Oh! so you came by the old avenue! and a nice way Larry treated you! Just wait till I see him," said Dido. "How long were you at the door, Helen?"
"About five minutes."
"And why on earth did you not come in?"
"I was looking for the bell or the knocker," she answered rather diffidently.
"And you might have been looking for a week, my dear! They are conspicuous by their absence. We don't stand on ceremony here; you either hammer with a stone—there is one left on the steps for that express purpose, only, of course,younever guessed its use—or you dispense with the stone, and walk in—the door stands open all daylong,—precisely as you see it."
"But, of course, you shut it after dark?"
"Yes, in a fashion; we put a chair against it just to keep the sheep from coming in! The lock is broken—it was taken off weeks ago by Micky the smith, and he has never brought it back yet. Now, I see you are horrified, Helen!—but this is not London—there are no thieves or housebreakers about, and we are as safe as if we had twenty locks and bolts. Here, Biddy," to the old servant, "Miss Denis is starving; bring up the cold fowl, and some more of those hot cakes, as fast as ever you can. Helen, give me your hat and jacket, and sit down in this arm-chair this minute, and relate every one of your adventures without delay."
It was impossible to be shy with Dido and Katie; in a few moments their cousin felt perfectly at home, and they were all holding animated eager conversation, and talking together as if they had known each other for weeks. Katie was an incessant chatter-box; no matter who was speaking, her voice was sure to chime in also, and to keep up a running accompaniment similar to the variations on a popular air! She was fair, very plump, and rather pretty,—with the beauty of rosy cheeks, bright eyes, and curly locks. Dido, the eldest, was tall, and graceful, with a head and throat that would have served for a sculptor's model; she had quantities of brown hair, and greenish-grey eyes. Without being exactly handsome, she had a look of remarkable distinction, and as she stood at the table busily carving a fowl for the delectation of her hungry guest, that guest said to herself, that her cousin Dido, for all her threadbare dress and washed-out red cotton pinafore, aye, and her brogue,—had the air—of—yes—of a princess!
"When shall I see uncle?" inquired his niece, with dutiful politeness.
"Oh, the Padré never appears in the daytime," replied Katie, "and he only goes out with the owls; but he will come down and welcome you, of course. He is very much occupied just now,—and grudges every moment, his time issoprecious."
A grunt of scornful dissent from the old woman here attracted Katie's notice, and once more resuming her knitting, and her chair, she said,—
"Well, what's the matter now, Biddy, eh? Tell me, what do you think of Miss Denis?" speaking precisely as if Miss Denis were a hundred miles away.
Biddy thus adjured, immediately laid down a plate, and resting her hands on her hips, surveyed the new-comer as coolly and deliberately as if she was a picture.
"Shure, I'm no great judge, Miss Katie! but since you ax me,—I'll just give ye me mind. I think she's a teetotally beautiful young lady,—and that it would be no harm if there was twins of her!"
Helen coloured and laughed, and Dido exclaimed, "Well, that's more than you ever said ofme, Biddy, and I'm your own nurse-child that you reared ever since I was six months old—you never wished for twins ofme!"
"Troth, and why would I? Many and many's the night that I lost me rest along of you. Aye, but you wor the peevish little scaltheen! Wan ofyouwas plenty!"
"And you never calledmea teetotally beautiful young lady! I'm offended."
"Arrah, Miss Dido, sure you would not be askin' me to parjure myself!" retorted Biddy, with some warmth. "Ye can see with your own two eyes, that your cousin is a sight better-looking than ayther of yees; but you are a lady all out! The Queen herself need not be ashamed to be seen walkin' with ye! Sure, and aren't you cliver! and isn't that enough for you? They don't go together, I'm thinking—great wit, and great looks!"
"Biddy MacGravy," replied Dido, with great solemnity, "you started off very nicely,—wishing Miss Helen was a twin—but now you have spoiled everything! I really think you had better go before you say something worse,—I really do."
"And sure, and what did I say but what was the pure truth?" folding her arms over her white apron, and evidently preparing to discuss the subject exhaustively.
"You have merely told her, that it was doubtful if she was a lady, and that it was very certain that she was a fool."
"Ah, now, Miss Dido!" in a tone of mournful reproach, "see, now, I declare to goodness—Whist! here's the masther." And seizing the tray, the nimble old woman vanished like a flash.
"She is quite one of the family," explained Dido, "and says just what she pleases. You would never imagine that she had been for years on the Continent! She acquired nothing there, but the art of making cakes and coffee——"
"And paying compliments," amended Katie, with a giggle.
At that moment the door opened slowly, and a tall, but bent, white-headed gentleman entered the room. He had a noble head, a cream-coloured beard, reaching almost to his waist, and sunken, dark eyes, that looked out on the world abstractedly, from beneath a penthouse of shaggy brows. His hands were long and thin, with singularly claw-like fingers, through which he had a habit of drawing the end of his beard, as he conversed. He was attired in an easy, grey dressing-gown, a black skull-cap, and red list slippers.
Helen rose as he approached and extended one of his long hands. His dreamy eyes flashed into momentary life, as he said, in a curiously slow, nasal voice,—
"And this is my English niece! Niece, I am glad to see you, for your own sake,—and for your father's.—He was a worthy brother to my wife. I hope you will be happy here. By-the-way, how did you come?"
Before Helen could open her lips, Katie, the irrepressible, had begun to relate her recent experiences, as volubly as if she herself had been a passenger by the Irish mail; not to mention the Terryscreen post-car!
But long ere her recital had come to an end, her parent's thoughts were miles away—presumably in the clouds. At length the sudden cessation of the narrative, recalled him to the present once more, and speaking very deliberately, he said,—
"You must take us as you find us, niece. We live far beyond any sordid, worldly circle, enjoying simple, domestic retirement, and a purely rural life. Our wealth is that of the mind. In mundane substance we are poor, but at any rate we can offer youonething, withoutstint—accept a welcome." And with a wave of his hand, implying that he had endowed Helen with some priceless treasure, and a bow signifying that the interview was at an end, Mr. Sheridan glided noiselessly away, leaving, as was his invariable wont, the door wide open behind him.