CHAPTER XI.
The kettle was on the fire, tea-things set, every thing prepared for her guest by the hospitable hostess, who thinking the gentleman would take tea to his breakfast, had sent off a gossoon by the first light to Clonbrony, for an ounce of tea, a quarter of sugar, and a loaf of white bread; and there was on the little table good cream, milk, butter, eggs—all the promise of an excellent breakfast. It was a fresh morning, and there was a pleasant fire on the hearth, neatly swept up. The old woman was sitting in her chimney corner, behind a little skreen of whitewashed wall, built out into the room, for the purpose of keeping those who sat at the fire from the blast of the door. There was a loop-hole in this wall, to let the light in, just at the height of a person’s head, who was sitting near the chimney. The rays of the morning sun now came through it, shining across the face of the old woman, as she sat knitting: Lord Colambre thought he had seldom seen a more agreeable countenance, intelligent eyes, benevolent smile, a natural expression of cheerfulness, subdued by age and misfortune.
“A good morrow to you kindly, sir, and I hope you got the night well?—A fine day for us this holyday morning; my Grace is gone to early prayers, so your honour will be content with an old woman to make your tea. Oh, let me put in plenty of tea, for it will never be good; and if your honour takes stirabout, an old hand will engage to make that to your liking, any way; for by great happiness, we have what will just answer for you of the nicest meal the miller made my Grace a compliment of, last time she went to the mill.”
Lord Colambre observed, that this miller had good taste; and his lordship paid some compliment to Grace’s beauty, which the old woman received with a smile, but turned off the conversation.
“Then,” said she, looking out of the window, “is not that there a nice little garden the boy dug for her and me, at his breakfast and dinner hours? Ah! he’s a good boy, and good warrant to work; and the good son desarves the good wife, and it’s he that will make the good husband; and with my good-will he, and no other, shall get her, and with her good-will the same; and I bid ‘em keep up their heart, and hope the best, for there’s no use in fearing the worst till it comes.”
Lord Colambre wished very much to know the worst. “If you would not think a stranger impertinent for asking,” said he, “and if it would not be painful to you to explain.”
“Oh, impertinent, your honour! it’s very kind—and, sure, none’s a stranger to one’s heart, that feels for one. And for myself, I can talk of my troubles without thinking of them. So, I’ll tell you all—if the worst comes to the worst—all that is, is, that we must quit, and give up this little snug place, and house, and farm, and all, to the agent—which would be hard on us, and me a widow, when my husband did all that is done to the land; and if your honour was a judge, you could see, if you stepped out, there has been a deal done, and built the house, and all—but it plased Heaven to take him. Well, he was too good for this world, and I’m satisfied—I’m not saying a word again’ that—I trust we shall meet in heaven, and be happy, surely. And, meantime, here’s my boy, that will make me as happy as ever widow was on earth—if the agent will let him. And I can’t think the agent, though they that know him best call him Old Nick, would be so wicked to take from us that which he never gave us. The good lord himself granted us the lase; the life’s dropped, and the years is out; but we had a promise of renewal in writing from the landlord. God bless him! if he was not away, he’d be a good gentleman, and we’d be happy and safe.”
“But if you have a promise in writing of a renewal, surely you are safe, whether your landlord is absent or present.”
“Ah, no! that makes a great differ, when there’s no eye or hand over the agent. I would not wish to speak or think ill of him or any man; but was he an angel, he could not know to do the tenantry justice, the way he is living always in Dublin, and coming down to the country only the receiving days, to make a sweep among us, and gather up the rents in a hurry, and he in such haste back to town—can just stay to count over our money, and give the receipts. Happy for us if we get that same!—but can’t expect he should have time to see or hear us, or mind our improvements, any more than listen to our complaints! Oh, there’s great excuse for the gentleman, if that was any comfort for us,” added she, smiling.
“But, if he does not live amongst you himself, has not he some under agent, who lives in the country?” said Lord Colambre.
“He has so.”
“And he should know your concerns: does he mind them?”
“He should know—he should know better; but as to minding our concerns, your honour knows,” continued she, smiling again, “every one in this world must mind their own concerns: and it would be a good world, if it was even so. There’s a great deal in all things, that don’t appear at first sight. Mr. Dennis wanted Grace for a wife for his bailiff, but she would not have him; and Mr. Dennis was very sweet to her himself—but Grace is rather high with him as proper, and he has a grudge again’’ us ever since. Yet, indeed, there,” added she, after another pause, “as you say, I think we are safe; for we have that memorandum in writing, with a pencil, given under his own hand, on the back of the lase to me, by the same token when my good lord had his foot on the step of the coach, going away; and I’ll never forget the smile of her that got that good turn done for me, Miss Grace. And just when she was going to England and London, and, young as she was, to have the thought to stop and turn to the likes of me! Oh, then, if you could see her, and know her, as I did! That was the comforting angel upon earth—look, and voice, and heart, and all! Oh, that she was here present, this minute!—But did you scald yourself?” said the widow to Lord Colambre. “Sure you must have scalded yourself; for you poured the kettle straight over your hand, and it boiling!—O deear; to think of so young a gentleman’s hand shaking so like my own.”
Luckily, to prevent her pursuing her observations from the hand to the face, which might have betrayed more than Lord Colambre wished she should know, her own Grace came in at this instant—“There it’s for you, safe, mother dear—the lase!” said Grace, throwing a packet into her lap. The old woman lifted up her hands to heaven, with the lease between them—“Thanks be to Heaven!” Grace passed on, and sunk down on the first seat she could reach. Her face flushed, and, looking much fatigued, she loosened the strings of her bonnet and cloak—“Then, I’m tired;” but, recollecting herself, she rose, and curtsied to the gentleman.
“What tired ye, dear?”
“Why, after prayers, we had to go—for the agent was not at prayers, nor at home for us, when we called—we had to go all the way up to the castle; and there, by great good luck, we found Mr. Nick Garraghty himself, come from Dublin, and the lase in his hands; and he sealed it up that way, and handed it to me very civil. I never saw him so good—though he offered me a glass of spirits, which was not manners to a decent young woman, in a morning—as Brian noticed after. Brian would not take any either, nor never does. We met Mr. Dennis and the driver coming home; and he says, the rent must be paid to-morrow, or, instead of renewing, he’ll seize, and sell all. Mother dear, I would have dropped with the walk, but for Brian’s arm.”
“It’s a wonder, dear, what makes you so weak, that used to be so strong.”
“But if we can sell the cow for any thing at all to Mr. Dennis, since his eye is set upon her, better let him have her mother, dear; and that and my yarn, which Mrs. Garraghty says she’ll allow me for, will make up the rent—and Brian need not talk of America. But it must be in golden guineas, the agent will take the rent no other way; and you won’t get a guinea for less than five shillings. Well, even so, it’s easy selling my new gown to one that covets it, and that will give me in exchange the price of the gold; or, suppose that would not do, add this cloak—it’s handsome, and I know a friend would be glad to take it, and I’d part it as ready as look at it—Any thing at all, sure, rather than that he should be forced to talk of emigrating: or, oh, worse again, listing for the bounty—to save us from the cant or the jail, by going to the hospital, or his grave, maybe—oh, mother!”
“Oh, child! This is what makes you weak, fretting. Don’t be that way. Sure here’s the lase, and that’s good comfort; and the soldiers will be gone out of Clonbrony to-morrow, and then that’s off your mind. And as to America, it’s only talk—I won’t let him, he’s dutiful; and would sooner sell my dresser, and down to my bed, dear, than see you sell any thing of yours, love. Promise me you won’t. Why didn’t Brian come home all the way with you, Grace?”
“He would have seen me home,” said Grace, “only that he went up a piece of the mountain for some stones or ore for the gentleman,—for he had the manners to think of him this morning, though, shame for me, I had not, when I come in, or I would not have told you all this, and he by. See, there he is, mother.”
Brian came in very hot, out of breath, with his hat full of stones. “Good morrow to your honour. I was in bed last night; and sorry they did not call me up to be of sarvice. Larry was telling us, this morning, your honour’s from Wales, and looking for mines in Ireland, and I heard talk that there was one on our mountain—may be, you’d be curous to see, and so I brought the best I could, but I’m no judge.”
“Nor I, neither,” thought Lord Colambre; but he thanked the young man, and determined to avail himself of Larry’s misconception of false report; examined the stones very gravely, and said, “This promises well. Lapis caliminaris, schist, plum-pudding stone, rhomboidal, crystal, blend, garrawachy,” and all the strange names he could think of, jumbling them together at a venture.
“The lase!” cried the young man, with joy sparkling in his eyes, as his mother held up the packet. “Lend me the papers.”
He cracked the seals, and taking off the cover—“Ay, I know it’s the lase sure enough. But stay, where’s the memorandum?”
“It’s there, sure,” said his mother, “where my lord’s pencil writ it. I don’t read. Grace, dear, look.”
The young man put it into her hands, and stood without power to utter a syllable.
“It’s not here! It’s gone!—no sign of it.”
“Gracious Heaven! that can’t be,” said the old woman, putting on her spectacles; “let me see,’—I remember the very spot.”
“It’s taken away—it’s rubbed clean out!—Oh, wasn’t I fool?—But who could have thought he’d be the villain!”
The young man seemed neither to see nor hear, but to be absorbed in thought. Grace, with her eyes fixed upon him, grew as pale as death.—“He’ll go—he’s gone.”
“She’s gone!” cried Lord Colambre, and the mother just caught her in her arms as she was falling.
“The chaise is ready, plase your honour,” said Larry, coming into the room. “Death! what’s here?”
“Air!—she’s coming to,” said the young man—“Take a drop of water, my own Grace.”
“Young man, I promise you,” cried Lord Colambre, (speaking in the tone of a master,) striking the young man’s shoulder, who was kneeling at Grace’s feet, but recollecting and restraining himself, he added, in a quiet voice—“I promise you I shall never forget the hospitality I have received in this house, and I am sorry to be obliged to leave you in distress.”
These words uttered with difficulty, he hurried out of the house, and into his carriage. “Go back to them,” said he to the postilion: “go back and ask whether, if I should stay a day or two longer in this country, they would let me return at night and lodge with them. And here, man, stay, take this,” putting money into his hands, “for the good woman of the house.”
The postilion went in, and returned.
“She won’t at all—I knew she would not.”
“Well, I am obliged to her for the night’s lodging she did give me; I have no right to expect more.”
“What is it?—Sure she bid me tell you,—‘and welcome to the lodging; for,’ said she, ‘he’s a kind-hearted gentleman;’ but here’s the money; it’s that I was telling you she would not have at all.”
“Thank you. Now, my good friend, Larry, drive me to Clonbrony, and do not say another word, for I’m not in a talking humour.”
Larry nodded, mounted, and drove to Clonbrony. Clonbrony was now a melancholy scene. The houses, which had been built in a better style of architecture than usual, were in a ruinous condition; the dashing was off the walls, no glass in the windows, and many of the roofs without slates. For the stillness of the place Lord Colambre in some measure accounted, by considering that it was holiday; therefore, of course, all the shops were shut up, and all the people at prayers. He alighted at the inn, which completely answered Larry’s representation of it. Nobody to be seen but a drunken waiter, who, as well as he could articulate, informed Lord Colambre, that “his mistress was in her bed since Thursday-was-a-week; the hostler at the wash-woman’s, and the cook at second prayers.”
Lord Colambre walked to the church, but the church gate was locked and broken—a calf, two pigs, and an ass, in the church-yard; and several boys (with more of skin apparent than clothes) were playing at pitch and toss upon a tombstone, which, upon nearer observation, he saw was the monument of his own family. One of the boys came to the gate, and told Lord Colambre, “There was no use in going into the church, because there was no church there; nor had not been this twelvemonth; beca-ase there was no curate: and the parson was away always, since the lord was at home—that is, was not at home—he nor the family.”
Lord Colambre returned to the inn, where, after waiting a considerable time, he gave up the point—he could not get any dinner—and in the evening he walked out again into the town. He found several public-houses, however, open, which were full of people; all of them as busy and as noisy as possible. He observed that the interest was created by an advertisement of several farms on the Clonbrony estate, to be set by Nicholas Garraghty, Esq. He could not help smiling at his being witness incognito to various schemes for outwitting the agents, and defrauding the landlord; but, on a sudden, the scene was changed; a boy ran in, crying out, that “St. Dennis was riding down the hill into the town; and, if you would not have the licence,” said the boy, “take care of yourself, Brannagan.” “If you wouldn’t have the licence,” Lord Colambre perceived, by what followed, meant, “If you have not a licence.” Brannagan immediately snatched an untasted glass of whiskey from a customer’s lips (who cried, murder!), gave it and the bottle he held in his hand to his wife, who swallowed the spirits, and ran away with the bottle and glass into some back hole; whilst the bystanders laughed, saying, “Well thought of, Peggy!”
“Clear out all of you at the back door, for the love of Heaven, if you wouldn’t be the ruin of me,” said the man of the house, setting a ladder to a corner of the shop. “Phil, hoist me up the keg to the loft,” added he, running up the ladder; “and one of yees step up street, and give Rose McGivney notice, for she’s selling, too.”
The keg was hoisted up; the ladder removed; the shop cleared of all the customers; the shutters shut; the door barred; the counter cleaned.
“Lift your stones, sir, if you plase,” said the wife, as she rubbed the counter, “and say nothing of what you seen at all; but that you’re a stranger and a traveller seeking a lodging, if you’re questioned, or waiting to see Mr. Dennis. There’s no smell of whiskey in it now, is there, sir?”
Lord Colambre could not flatter her so far as to say this—he could only hope no one would perceive it.
“Oh, and if he would, the smell of whiskey was nothing,” as the wife affirmed, “for it was every where in nature, and no proof again’ any one, good or bad.”
“Now, St. Dennis may come when he will, or Old Nick himself!” So she tied up a blue handkerchief over her head, and had the toothache “very bad.”
Lord Colambre turned to look for the man of the house.
“He’s safe in bed,” said the wife.
“In bed! When?”
“Whilst you turned your head, while I was tying the handkerchief over my face. Within the room, look, he is snug.”
And there he was in bed certainly, and his clothes on the chest.
A knock, a loud knock at the door.
“St. Dennis himself!—Stay, till I unbar the door,” said the woman; and, making a great difficulty, she let him in, groaning and saying. “We was all done up for the night, plase your honour, and myself with the toothache, very bad—And the lodger, that’s going to take an egg only, before he’d go into his bed. My man’s in it, and asleep long ago.”
With a magisterial air, though with a look of blank disappointment, Mr. Dennis Garraghty walked on, looked into the room, saw the good man of the house asleep, heard him snore, and then, returning, asked Lord Colambre, “who he was, and what brought him there?”
Our hero said, he was from England, and a traveller; and now, bolder grown as a geologist, he talked of his specimens, and his hopes of finding a mine in the neighbouring mountains; then adopting, as well as he could, the servile tone and abject manner, in which he found Mr. Dennis was to be addressed, “he hoped he might get encouragement from the gentlemen at the head of the estate.”
“To bore, is it?—Well, don’t bore me about it. I can’t give you any answer now, my good friend; I am engaged.”
Out he strutted. “Stick to him up the town, if you have a mind to get your answer,” whispered the woman. Lord Colambre followed, for he wished to see the end of this scene.
“Well, sir, what are you following and sticking to me, like my shadow, for?” said Mr. Dennis, turning suddenly upon Lord Colambre.
His lordship bowed low. “Waiting for my answer, sir, when you are at leisure. Or, may I call upon you to-morrow?”
“You seem to be a civil kind of fellow; but, as to boring, I don’t know—if you undertake it at your own expense. I dare say there may be minerals in the ground. Well, you may call at the castle to-morrow, and when my brother has done with the tenantry, I’ll speak to him for you, and we’ll consult together, and see what we think. It’s too late to-night. In Ireland, nobody speaks to a gentleman about business after dinner,—your servant, sir; any body can show you the way to the castle in the morning.” And, pushing by his lordship, he called to a man on the other side of the street, who had obviously been waiting for him; he went under a gateway with this man, and gave him a bag of guineas. He then called for his horse, which was brought to him by a man whom Lord Colambre had heard declaring that he would bid for the land that was advertised; whilst another, who had the same intentions, most respectfully held his stirrup, whilst he mounted without thanking either of these men. St. Dennis clapped spurs to his steed, and rode away. No thanks, indeed, were deserved; for the moment he was out of hearing, both cursed him after the manner of their country.
“Bad luck go with you, then!—And may you break your neck before you get home, if it was not for the lase I’m to get, and that’s paid for.”
Lord Colambre followed the crowd into a public-house, where a new scene presented itself to his view.
The man to whom St. Dennis gave the bag of gold was now selling this very gold to the tenants, who were to pay their rent next day at the castle.
The agent would take nothing but gold. The same guineas were bought and sold several times over, to the great profit of the agent and loss of the poor tenants; for as the rents were paid, the guineas were resold to another set: and the remittances made through bankers to the landlord, who, as the poor man that explained the transaction to Lord Colambre expressed it, “gained nothing by the business, bad or good, but the ill-will of the tenantry.”
The higgling for the price of the gold; the time lost in disputing about the goodness of the notes, among some poor tenants, who could not read or write, and who were at the mercy of the man with the bag in his hand; the vexation, the useless harassing of all who were obliged to submit ultimately—Lord Colambre saw: and all this time he endured the smell of tobacco and whiskey, and the sound of various brogues, the din of men wrangling, brawling, threatening, whining, drawling, cajoling, cursing, and every variety of wretchedness.
“And is this my father’s town of Clonbrony?” thought Lord Colambre. “Is this Ireland? No, it is not Ireland. Let me not, like most of those who forsake their native country, traduce it. Let me not, even to my own mind, commit the injustice of taking a speck for the whole. What I have just seen is the picture only of that to which an Irish estate and Irish tenantry may be degraded in the absence of those whose duty and interest it is to reside in Ireland, to uphold justice by example and authority; but who, neglecting this duty, commit power to bad hands and bad hearts—abandon their tenantry to oppression, and their property to ruin.”
It was now fine moonlight, and Lord Colambre met with a boy, who said he could show him a short way across the fields to the widow O’Neil’s cottage.
CHAPTER XII.
All were asleep at the cottage, when Lord Colambre arrived, except the widow, who was sitting up, waiting for him; and who had brought her dog into the house, that he might not fly at him, or bark at his return. She had a roast chicken ready for her guest, and it was—but this she never told him—the only chicken she had left; all the others had been sent with the duty fowl, as a present to the under-agent’s lady. While he was eating his supper, which he ate with the better appetite, as he had had no dinner, the good woman took down from the shelf a pocket-book, which she gave him: “Is not that your book?” said she. “My boy Brian found it after you in the potatoe furrow, where you dropped it.”
“Thank you,” said Lord Colambre; “there are bank notes in it, which I could not afford to lose.”
“Are there?” said she: “he never opened it—nor I.”
Then, in answer to his inquiries about Grace and the young man, the widow answered, “They are all in heart now, I thank ye kindly, sir, for asking; they’ll sleep easy to-night, any way, and I’m in great spirits for them and myself—for all’s smooth now. After we parted you, Brian saw Mr. Dennis himself about the lase and memorandum, which he never denied, but knew nothing about. ‘But, be that as it may,’ says he, ‘you’re improving tenants, and I’m confident my brother will consider ye; so what you’ll do is, you’ll give up the possession to-morrow to myself, that will call for it by cock-crow, just for form’s sake; and then go up to the castle with the new lase ready drawn, in your hand, and if all’s paid off clear of the rent, and all that’s due, you’ll get the new lase signed: I’ll promise you this upon the word and honour of a gentleman.’ And there’s no going beyond that, you know, sir. So my boy came home as light as a feather, and as gay as a lark, to bring us the good news; only he was afraid we might not make up the rent, guineas and all; and because he could not get paid for the work he done, on account of the mistake in the overseer’s tally, I sold the cow to a neighbour, dog-cheap; but needs must, as they say, when Old Nick drives,” said the widow, smiling. “Well, still it was but paper we got for the cow; then that must be gold before the agent would take or touch it—so I was laying out to sell the dresser, and had taken the plates and cups, and little things off it, and my boy was lifting it out with Andy the carpenter, that was agreeing for it, when in comes Grace, all rosy and out of breath—it’s a wonder I never minded her run out, nor ever missed her. ‘Mother,’ says she, ‘here’s the gold for you; don’t be stirring your dresser.’—‘And where’s your gown and cloak, Grace?’ says I. But, I beg your pardon, sir; may be, I’m tiring you?”
Lord Colambre encouraged her to go on.
“‘Where’s your gown and cloak, Grace?’ says I. ‘Gone,’ says she. ‘The cloak was too warm and heavy, and I don’ doubt, mother, but it was that helped to make me faint this morning. And as to the gown, sure I’ve a very nice one here, that you spun for me yourself, mother; and that I prize above all the gowns ever came out of a loom; and that Brian said become me to his fancy above any gown ever he see me wear; and what could I wish for more?’ Now I’d a mind to scold her for going to sell the gown unknown’st to me, but I don’t know how it was, I couldn’t scold her just then, so kissed her, and Brian the same, and that was what no man ever did before. And she had a mind to be angry with him, but could not, nor ought not, says I, ‘for he’s as good as your husband now, Grace; and no man can part yees now,’ says I, putting their hands together. Well, I never saw her look so pretty; nor there was not a happier boy that minute on God’s earth than my son, nor a happier mother than myself; and I thanked God, that had given them to me; and down they both fell on their knees for my blessing, little worth as it was; and my heart’s blessing they had, and I laid my hands upon them. ‘It’s the priest you must get to do this for you to-morrow,’ says I. And Brian just held up the ring, to show me all was ready on his part, but could not speak. ‘Then there’s no America between us any more!’ said Grace, low to me, and her heart was on her lips; but the colour came and went, and I was afeard she’d have swooned again, but not for sorrow, so I carried her off. Well, if she was not my own—but she is not my own born, so I may say it—there never was a better girl, not a more kind-hearted, nor generous; never thinking any thing she could do, or give, too much for them she loved, and any thing at all would do for herself; the sweetest natured and tempered both, and always was, from this high; the bond that held all together, and joy of the house.”
“Just like her namesake,” cried Lord Colambre.
“Plase your honour!”
“Is not it late?” said Lord Colambre, stretching himself and gaping; “I’ve walked a great way to-day.”
The old woman lighted his rushlight, showed him to his red check bed, and wished him a very good night; not without some slight sentiment of displeasure at his gaping thus at the panegyric on her darling Grace. Before she left the room, however, her short-lived resentment vanished, upon his saying, that he hoped, with her permission, to be present at the wedding of the young couple.
Early in the morning Brian went to the priest, to ask his reverence when it would be convenient to marry him; and whilst he was gone, Mr. Dennis Garraghty came to the cottage, to receive the rent and possession. The rent was ready, in gold, and counted into his hand.
“No occasion for a receipt; for a new lase is a receipt in full for every thing.”
“Very well, sir,” said the widow; “I know nothing of law. You know best—whatever you direct—for you are acting as a friend to us now. My son got the attorney to draw the pair of new lases yesterday, and here they are ready, all to signing.”
Mr. Dennis said, his brother must settle that part of the business, and that they must carry them up to the castle; “but first give me the possession.”
Then, as he instructed her, she gave up the key of the door to him, and a bit of the thatch of the house; and he raked out the fire, and said every living creature must go out. “It’s only form of law,” said he.
“And must my lodger get up, and turn out, sir?” said she.
“He must turn out, to be sure—not a living soul must he left in it, or it’s no legal possession, properly. Who is your lodger?”
On Lord Colambre’s appearing, Mr. Dennis showed some surprise, and said, “I thought you were lodging at Brannagan’s; are not you the man who spoke to me at his house about the gold mines?”
“No, sir, he never lodged at Brannagan’s,” said the widow.
“Yes, sir, I am the person who spoke to you about the gold mines at Brannagan’s; but I did not like to lodge—”
“Well, no matter where you liked to lodge; you must walk out of this lodging now, if you please, my good friend.”
So Mr. Dennis pushed his lordship out by the shoulders, repeating, as the widow turned back, and looked with some surprise and alarm, “only for form sake, only for form sake!” then locking the door, took the key, and put it into his pocket. The widow held out her hand for it: “The form’s gone through now, sir; is not it? Be plased to let us in again.”
“When the new lease is signed, I’ll give you possession again; but not till then—for that’s the law. So make away with you to the castle; and mind,” added he, winking slily, “mind you take sealing-money with you, and something to buy gloves.”
“Oh, where will I find all that?” said the widow.
“I have it, mother; don’t fret,” said Grace. “I have it—the price of—what I can want10. So let us go off to the castle without delay. Brian will meet us on the road, you know.”
They set off for Clonbrony Castle, Lord Colambre accompanying them. Brian met them on the road. “Father Tom is ready, dear mother; bring her in, and he’ll marry us. I’m not my own man till she’s mine. Who knows what may happen?”
“Who knows? that’s true,” said the widow.
“Better go to the castle first,” said Grace.
“And keep the priest waiting! You can’t use his reverence so,” said Brian.
So she let him lead her into the priest’s house, and she did not make any of the awkward draggings back, or ridiculous scenes of grimace sometimes exhibited on these occasions; but blushing rosy red, yet with more self-possession than could have been expected from her timid nature, she gave her hand to the man she loved, and listened with attentive devotion to the holy ceremony.
“Ah!” thought Lord Colambre, whilst he congratulated the bride, “shall I ever be as happy as these poor people are at this moment?” He longed to make them some little present, but all he could venture at this moment was to pay the priest’s dues.
The priest positively refused to take any thing.
“They are the best couple in my parish,” said he; “and I’ll take nothing, sir, from you, a stranger and my guest.”
“Now, come what will, I’m a match for it. No trouble can touch me,” said Brian.
“Oh, don’t be bragging,” said the widow.
“Whatever trouble God sends, he has given one now will help to bear it, and sure I may be thankful,” said Grace.
“Such good hearts must be happy,—shall be happy!” said Lord Colambre.
“Oh, you’re very kind,” said the widow, smiling; “and I wouldn’t doubt you, if you had the power. I hope, then, the agent will give you encouragement about them mines, that we may keep you among us.”
“I am determined to settle among you, warm-hearted, generous people!” cried Lord Colambre; “whether the agent gives me encouragement or not,” added he.
It was a long walk to Clonbrony Castle; the old woman, as she said herself, would not have been able for it, but for a lift given to her by a friendly carman, whom she overtook on the road with an empty car. This carman was Finnucan, who dissipated Lord Colambre’s fears of meeting and being recognized by Mrs. Raffarty; for he, in answer to the question of “Who is at the castle?” replied, “Mrs. Raffarty will be in it afore night; but she’s on the road still. There’s none but Old Nick in it yet; and he’s more of a neger than ever; for think, that he would not pay me a farthing for the carriage of his shister’s boxes and band-boxes down. If you’re going to have any dealings with him, God grant ye a safe deliverance!”
“Amen!” said the widow, and her son and daughter.
Lord Colambre’s attention was now engaged by the view of the castle and park of Clonbrony. He had not seen it since he was six years old. Some faint reminiscence from his childhood made him feel or fancy that he knew the place. It was a fine castle, spacious park; but all about it, from the broken piers at the great entrance, to the mossy gravel and loose steps at the hall-door, had an air of desertion and melancholy. Walks overgrown, shrubberies wild, plantations run up into bare poles; fine trees cut down, and lying on the ground in lots to be sold. A hill that had been covered with an oak wood, where in his childhood our hero used to play, and which he called the black forest, was gone; nothing to be seen but the white stumps of the trees, for it had been freshly cut down, to make up the last remittances.—“And how it went, when sold!—but no matter,” said Finnucan; “it’s all alike.—It’s the back way into the yard, I’ll take you, I suppose.”
“And such a yard! but it’s no matter,” repeated Lord Colambre to himself; “it’s all alike.”
In the kitchen, a great dinner was dressing for Mr. Garraghty’s friends, who were to make merry with him when the business of the day was over.
“Where’s the keys of the cellar, till I get out the claret for after dinner,” says one; “and the wine for the cook—sure there’s venison,” cries another.—“Venison!—That’s the way my lord’s deer goes,” says a third, laughing.—“Ay, sure! and very proper, when he’s not here to eat ‘em.”—“Keep your nose out of the kitchen, young man, if you plase,” said the agent’s cook, shutting the door in Lord Colambre’s face. “There’s the way to the office, if you’ve money to pay, up the back stairs.”
“No; up the grand staircase they must,—Mr. Garraghty ordered,” said the footman; “because the office is damp for him, and it’s not there he’ll see any body to-day; but in my lady’s dressing-room.”
So up the grand staircase they went, and through the magnificent apartments, hung with pictures of great value, spoiling with damp.
“Then, isn’t it a pity to see them? There’s my lady, and all spoiling,” said the widow.
Lord Colambre stopped before a portrait of Miss Nugent—“Shamefully damaged!” cried he.
“Pass on, or let me pass, if you plase,” said one of the tenants; “and don’t be stopping the door-way.”
“I have business more nor you with the agent,” said the surveyor; “where is he?”
“In the presence-chamber,” replied another: “Where should the viceroy be but in the presence-chamber?”
There was a full levee, and fine smell of great coats.—“Oh! would you put your hats on the silk cushions?” said the widow to some men in the doorway, who were throwing off their greasy hats on a damask sofa.
“Why not? where else?”
“If the lady was in it, you wouldn’t,” said she, sighing.
“No, to be sure, I wouldn’t: great news! would I make no differ in the presence of Old Nick and my lady?” said he, in Irish. “Have I no sense or manners, good woman, think ye?” added he, as he shook the ink out of the pen on the Wilton carpet, when he had finished signing his name to a paper on his knee.
“You may wait long before you get to the speech of the great man,” said another, who was working his way through numbers.
They continued pushing forward, till they came within sight of Mr. Nicholas Garraghty, seated in state; and a worse countenance, or a more perfect picture of an insolent, petty tyrant in office, Lord Colambre had never beheld.
We forbear all further detail of this levee. “It’s all the same!” as Lord Colambre repeated to himself, on every fresh instance of roguery or oppression to which he was witness; and having completely made up his mind on the subject, he sat down quietly in the back-ground, waiting till it should come to the widow’s turn to be dealt with, for he was now interested only to see how she would be treated. The room gradually thinned I Mr. Dennis Garraghty came in, and sat down at the table, to help his brother to count the heaps of gold.
“Oh, Mr. Dennis, I’m glad to see you as kind as your promise, meeting me here,” said the widow O’Neil, walking up to him;
“I’m sure you’ll speak a good word for me: here’s the lases—who will I offer this to?” said she, holding the glove-money and sealing-money, “for I’m strange and ashamed.”
“Oh, don’t be ashamed—there’s no strangeness in bringing money or taking it,” said Mr. Nicholas Garraghty, holding out his hand. “Is this the proper compliment?”
“I hope so, sir: your honour knows best.”
“Very well,” slipping it into his private purse. “Now what’s your business?”
“The lases to sign—the rent’s all paid up.”
“Leases! Why, woman, is the possession given up?”
“It was, plase your honour; and Mr. Dennis has the key of our little place in his pocket.”
“Then I hope he’ll keep it there. Your little place—it’s no longer yours; I’ve promised it to the surveyor. You don’t think I’m such a fool as to renew to you at this rent.”
“Mr. Dennis named the rent. But any thing your honour plases—any thing at all that we can pay.”
“Oh, it’s out of the question—put it out of your head. No rent you can offer would do, for I have promised it to the surveyor.”
“Sir, Mr. Dennis knows my lord gave us his promise in writing of a renewal, on the back of the ould lase.”
“Produce it.”
“Here’s the lase, but the promise is rubbed out.”
“Nonsense! coming to me with a promise that’s rubbed out. Who’ll listen to that in a court of justice, do you think?”
“I don’t know, plase your honour; but this I’m sure of, my lord and Miss Nugent, though but a child at the time, God bless her! who was by when my lord wrote it with his pencil, will remember it.”
“Miss Nugent! what can she know of business?—What has she to do with the management of my Lord Clonbrony’s estate, pray?”
“Management!—no, sir.”
“Do you wish to get Miss Nugent turned out of the house?”
“Oh, God forbid!—how could that be?”
“Very easily; if you set about to make her meddle and witness in what my lord does not choose.”
“Well, then, I’ll never mention Miss Nugent’s name in it at all, if it was ever so with me. But be plased, sir, to write over to my lord, and ask him; I’m sure he’ll remember it.”
“Write to my lord about such a trifle—trouble him about such nonsense!”
“I’d be sorry to trouble him. Then take it on my word, and believe me, sir; for I would not tell a lie, nor cheat rich or poor, if in my power, for the whole estate, nor the whole world: for there’s an eye above.”
“Cant! nonsense!—Take those leases off the table; I never will sign them. Walk off, ye canting hag; it’s an imposition—I will never sign them.”
“You will, then, sir,” cried Brian, growing red with indignation; “for the law shall make you, so it shall; and you’d as good have been civil to my mother, whatever you did—for I’ll stand by her while I’ve life; and I know she has right, and shall have law. I saw the memorandum written before ever it went into your hands, sir, whatever became of it after; and will swear to it too.”
“Swear away, my good friend; much your swearing will avail in your own case in a court of justice,” continued Old Nick.
“And against a gentleman of my brother’s established character and property,” said St. Dennis. “What’s your mother’s character against a gentleman’s like his?”
“Character! take care how you go to that, any way, sir,” cried Brian.
Grace put her hand before his mouth, to stop him.
“Grace, dear, I must speak, if I die for it; sure it’s for my mother,” said the young man, struggling forward, while his mother held him back; “I must speak.”
“Oh, he’s ruined, I see it,” said Grace, putting her hand before her eyes, “and he won’t mind me.”
“Go on, let him go on, pray, young woman,” said Mr. Garraghty, pale with anger and fear, his lips quivering; “I shall be happy to take down his words.”
“Write them; and may all the world read it, and welcome!”
His mother and wife stopped his mouth by force.
“Write you, Dennis,” said Mr. Garraghty, giving the pen to his brother; for his hand shook so he could not form a letter. “Write the very words, and at the top” (pointing) “after warning, with malice prepense.”
“Write, then—mother, Grace—let me,” cried Brian, speaking in a smothered voice, as their hands were over his mouth. “Write then, that, if you’d either of you a character like my mother, you might defy the world; and your word would be as good as your oath.”
“Oath! mind that, Dennis,” said Mr. Garraghty.
“Oh, sir! sir! won’t you stop him?” cried Grace, turning suddenly to Lord Colambre.
“Oh, dear, dear, if you haven’t lost your feeling for us,” cried the widow.
“Let him speak,” said Lord Colambre, in a tone of authority; “let the voice of truth be heard.”
“Truth!” cried St. Dennis, and dropped the pen.
“And who the devil are you, sir?” said Old Nick.
“Lord Colambre, I protest!” exclaimed a female voice; and Mrs. Raffarty at this instant appeared at the open door.
“Lord Colambre!” repeated all present, in different tones.
“My lord, I beg pardon,” continued Mrs. Raffarty, advancing as if her legs were tied; “had I known you was down here, I would not have presumed. I’d better retire; for I see you’re busy.”
“You’d best; for you’re mad, sister,” said St. Dennis, pushing her back; “and we are busy; go to your room, and keep quiet, if you can.”
“First, madam,” said Lord Colambre, going between her and the door, “let me beg that you will consider yourself as at home in this house, whilst any circumstances make it desirable to you. The hospitality you showed me you cannot think I now forget.”
“Oh, my lord, you’re too good—how few—too kind—kinder than my own;” and, bursting into tears, she escaped out of the room.
Lord Colambre returned to the party round the table, who were in various attitudes of astonishment, and with faces of fear, horror, hope, joy, doubt.
“Distress,” continued his lordship, “however incurred, if not by vice, will always find a refuge in this house. I speak in my father’s name, for I know I speak his sentiments. But never more shall vice,” said he, darting such a look at the brother agents as they felt to the back-bone—“never more shall vice, shall fraud enter here.”
He paused, and there was a momentary silence.
“There spoke the true thing! and the rael gentleman; my own heart’s satisfied,” said Brian, folding his arms, and standing erect.
“Then so is mine,” said Grace, taking breath, with a deep sigh.
The widow advancing, put on her spectacles, and, looking up close at Lord Colambre’s face—“Then it’s a wonder I didn’t know the family likeness.”
Lord Colambre, now recollecting that he still wore the old great coat, threw it off.
“Oh, bless him! Then now I’d know him any where. I’m willing to die now, for we’ll all be happy.”
“My lord, since it is so—my lord, may I ask you,” said Mr. Garraghty, now sufficiently recovered to be able to articulate, but scarcely to express his ideas; “if what your lordship hinted just now—”
“I hinted nothing, sir; I spoke plainly.”
“I beg pardon, my lord,” said Old Nick; “respecting vice, was levelled at me; because, if it was, my lord,” trying to stand erect; “let me tell your lordship, if I could think it was—”
“If it did not hit you, sir, no matter at whom it was levelled.”
“And let me ask, my lord, if I may presume, whether, in what you suggested by the word fraud, your lordship had any particular meaning?” said St. Dennis.
“A very particular meaning, sir—feel in your pocket for the key of this widow’s house, and deliver it to her.”
“Oh, if that’s all the meaning, with all the pleasure in life. I never meant to detain it longer than till the leases were signed,” said St. Dennis.
“And I’m ready to sign the leases this minute,” said the brother.
“Do it, sir, this minute; I have read them; I will be answerable to my father.”
“Oh, as to that, my lord, I have power to sign for your father.”
He signed the leases; they were duly witnessed by Lord Colambre.
“I deliver this as my act and deed,” said Mr. Garraghty:
“My lord,” continued he, “you see, at the first word from you; and had I known sooner the interest you took in the family, there would have been no difficulty; for I’d make it a principle to oblige you, my lord.”
“Oblige me!” said Lord Colambre, with disdain.
“But when gentlemen and noblemen travel incognito, and lodge in cabins,” added St. Dennis, with a satanic smile, glancing his eye on Grace, “they have good reasons, no doubt.”
“Do not judge my heart by your own, sir,” said Lord Colambre, coolly; “no two things in nature can, I trust, be more different. My purpose in travelling incognito has been fully answered: I was determined to see and judge how my father’s estates were managed; and I have seen, compared, and judged. I have seen the difference between the Clonbrony and the Colambre property; and I shall represent what I have seen to my father.”
“As to that, my lord, if we are to come to that—but I trust your lordship will suffer me to explain these matters. Go about your business, my good friends; you have all you want; and, my lord, after dinner, when you are cool, I hope I shall be able to make you sensible that things have been represented to your lordship in a mistaken light; and, I flatter myself, I shall convince you, I have not only always acted the part of a friend to the family, but am particularly willing to conciliate your lordship’s good-will,” said he, sweeping the rouleaus of gold into a bag; “any accommodation in my power, at any time.”
“I want no accommodation, sir—were I starving, I would accept of none from you. Never can you conciliate my good-will; for you can never deserve it.”
“If that be the case, my lord, I must conduct myself accordingly: but it’s fair to warn you, before you make any representation to my Lord Clonbrony, that, if he should think of changing his agent, there are accounts to be settled between us—that may be a consideration.”
“No, sir; no consideration—my father never shall be the slave of such a paltry consideration.”
“Oh, very well, my lord; you know best. If you choose to make an assumpsit, I’m sure I shall not object to the security. Your lordship will be of age soon, I know—I’m sure I’m satisfied—but,” added he, with a malicious smile, “I rather apprehend you don’t know what you undertake: I only premise that the balance of accounts between us is not what can properly be called a paltry consideration.”
“On that point, perhaps, sir, you and I may differ.”
“Very well, my lord, you will follow your own principles, if it suits your convenience.”
“Whether it does or not, sir, I shall abide by my principles.”
“Dennis! the letters to the post—When do you go to England, my lord?”
“Immediately, sir,” said Lord Colambre: his lordship saw new leases from his father to Mr. Dennis Garraghty, lying on the table, unsigned.
“Immediately!” repeated Messrs. Nicholas and Dennis, with an air of dismay. Nicholas got up, looked out of the window, and whispered something to his brother, who instantly left the room.
Lord Colambre saw the postchaise at the door, which had brought Mrs. Raffarty to the castle, and Larry standing beside it: his lordship instantly threw up the sash, and holding between his finger and thumb a six shilling piece, cried, “Larry, my friend, let me have the horses.”
“You shall have ‘em—your honour,” said Larry.
Mr. Dennis Garraghty appeared below, speaking in a magisterial tone. “Larry, my brother must have the horses.”
“He can’t, plase your honour—they’re engaged.”
“Half a crown!—a crown!—half a guinea!” said Mr. Dennis Garraghty, raising his voice, as he increased his proffered bribe. To each offer Larry replied, “You can’t, plase your honour, they’re engaged;” and, looking up to the window at Lord Colambre, he said, “As soon as they have ate their oats, you shall have ‘em.”
No other horses were to be had. The agent was in consternation. Lord Colambre ordered that Larry should have some dinner, and whilst the postilion was eating, and the horses finished their oats, his lordship wrote the following letter to his father, which, to prevent all possibility of accident, he determined to put, with his own hand, into the post-office at Clonbrony, as he passed through the town.