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.
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 withme?”
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.
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.
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 oftheirnatures, they had readhisfrom end to end. They scanned him with powers of observation no other people in Europe can compete with; and whilehewas philosophizing about the combined influence of their superstitions, their ignorance, and their apathy to suffering,theywere accurately speculating on all the possible benefits which might accrue from the residence amongst them, of so very kind-hearted, but such ameresimpleton 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.
“Mytenants!” 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.