noise of horsemen on the road behind us induced us to turn our heads.
They came along at a sharp trot, and we could soon perceive that
although the two or three foremost were civilians, they who followed
were dragoons. I thought I saw the priest change colour as the clank of
the accoutrements struck upon his ear. I had, however, but little time
for the observation, as the party soon overtook us.

'You are early on the road, gentlemen,' said a strong, powerfully-built
man, who, mounted upon a grey horse of great bone and action, rode close
up beside us.

'Ah, Sir Thomas, is it you?' said the priest, affecting at once his
former easy and indifferent manner. 'I'd rather see the hounds at your
back than those beagles of King George there. Is there anything wrong in
the country?'

'Let me ask you another question,' said the knight in answer. 'How long
have you been in it, and where did you pass the night, not to hear of
what has occurred?'

''Faith, a home question,' said the priest, summoning up a hearty laugh
to conceal his emotion; 'but if the truth must out, we came round by the
priory at Glenduff, as my friend here being an Englishman--may I beg to
present him to you? Mr. Hinton, Sir Thomas Garland--he heard wonders
of the monks' way of living up there, and I wished to let him judge for
himself.'

'Ah, that accounts for it,' said the tall man to himself. 'We have had a
sad affair of it, Father Tom. Poor Tarleton has been murdered.'

'Murdered!' said the priest, with an expression of horror in his
countenance I could scarcely believe feigned.

'Yes, murdered! The house was attacked a little after midnight. The
party must have been a large one, for while they forced in the hall
door, the haggard and the stables were seen in a blaze. Poor George
had just retired to bed, a little later than usual; for his sons had
returned a few hours before from Dublin, where they had been to attend
their college examination. The villains, however, knew the house well,
and made straight for his room. He got up in an instant, and seizing a
sabre that hung beside his bed, defended himself, with the courage of
desperation, against them all. The scuffle and the noise soon brought
his sons to the spot, who, although mere boys, behaved in the most
gallant manner. Overpowered at last by numbers, and covered with wounds,
they dragged poor Tarleton downstairs, shouting out as they went, “Bring
him down to Freney's! Let the bloody villain see the black walls and
the cold hearth he has made, before he dies!” It was their intention to
murder him on the spot where, a few weeks before, a distress for rent
had been executed against some of his tenants. He grasped the banisters
with a despairing clutch, while fixing his eyes upon his servant, who
had lived with him for some years past, he called out to him in his
agony to save him; but the fellow came deliberately forward and held the
flame of a candle beneath the dying man's fingers, until he relaxed his
hold and fell back among his murderers. Yes, yes, father, Henry Tarleton
saw it with his own eyes, for while his brother was stretched senseless
on the floor, he was struggling with the others at the head of the
staircase; and, strange enough too, they never hurt the boys, but when
they had wreaked their vengeance on the father, bound them back to back,
and left them.'

'Can you identify any of them?' said the priest, with intense emotion in
his voice and manner.

'Scarcely, I fear; their faces were blackened, and they wore shirts over
their coats. Henry thinks he could swear to two or three of the number;
but our best chance of discovery lies in the fact that several of them
were badly wounded, and one in particular, whom he saw cut down by
his father's sabre, was carried downstairs by his comrades, bathed in
blood.'

'He didn't recognise him?' said the priest eagerly.

'No; but here comes the poor boy, so I'll wish you good-morning.'

He put spurs to his horse as he spoke and dashed forward, followed by
the dragoons; while at the same moment, on the opposite side of the
road, a young man--pale, with his dress disordered, his arm in a
sling--rode by. He never turned a look aside; his filmy eye was fixed,
as it were, on some far-off object, and he seemed scarce to guide his
horse as he galloped onward over the rugged road.

The priest relaxed his pace to permit the crowd of horsemen to pass
on, while his countenance once more assumed its drooping and despondent
look, and he relapsed into his former silence.

'You see that high mountain to the left there?' said he after a long
pause. 'Well, our road lies around the foot of it; and, please God,
by to-morrow evening we 'll be some five-and-twenty miles on the other
side, in the heart of my own wild country, with the big mountains behind
you, and the great blue Atlantic rearing its frothing waves at your
feet.' He stopped for an instant, and then grasping my arm with his
strong hand, continued in a low, distinct voice: 'Never speak to me nor
question me about what we saw last night, and try only to remember it
as a dream. And now let me tell you how I intend to amuse you in the far
west.'

Here the priest began a spirited and interesting description of the
scenery and the people--their habits, their superstitions, and their
pastimes. He sustained the interest of his account with legend and
story, now grave, now gay--sometimes recalling a trait from the older
history of the land; sometimes detailing an incident of the fair or the
market, but always by his wonderful knowledge of the peasantry,
their modes of thinking and reasoning, and by his imitation of their
figurative and forcible expressions, able to carry me with him, whether
he took the mountain's side for his path, sat beside some cotter's
turf-fire, or skimmed along the surface of the summer sea in the frail
bark of an Achill fisherman. I learned from him that in the wild region
where he lived there were above fifteen thousand persons, scarce one of
whom could speak or understand a word of English. Of these he was not
only the priest, but the ruler and judge. Before him all their disputes
were settled, all their differences reconciled. His word, in the
strongest sense of the phrase, was law--not indeed to be enforced by
bayonets and policemen, by constables and sheriffs' officers, but which
in its moral force demanded obedience, and would have made him who
resisted it an outcast among his fellows.

'We are poor,' said the priest, 'but we are happy. Crime is unknown
among us, and the blood of man has not been shed in strife for fifty
years within the barony. When will ye learn this in England? When will
ye know that these people may be led, but never driven; that they may be
persuaded, but never compelled? When will ye condescend to bend so far
the prerogative of your birth, your riches, and your rank, as to reason
with the poor and humble peasant that looks up to you for protection?
Alas! my young friend, were you to ask me what is the great source of
misery of this unhappy land, I should tell you the superior intelligence
of its people. I see a smile, but hear me out. Unlike the peasantry of
other countries, they are not content. Their characters are mistaken,
their traits misconstrued---partly from indifference, partly from
prejudice, and in a great measure because it is the fashion to recognise
in the tiller of the soil a mere drudge, with scarce more intelligence
than the cattle in his plough or the oxen in his team. But here you
really have a people quick, sharp-sighted, and intelligent, able to
scan your motives with ten times the accuracy you can guess at theirs;
suspicious, because their credulity has been abused; revengeful, because
their wild nature knows no other vindicator than their own right arm;
lawless, for they look upon your institutions as the sources of their
misery and the instruments of your tyranny towards them; reckless, for
they have nothing to lose; indolent, for they have nothing to gain.
Without an effort to win their confidence or secure their good-will,
you overwhelm them with your institutions, cumbrous, complicated,
and unsuitable; and while you neglect or despise all appeal to their
feelings or affections, you place your faith in your soldiery or a
special commission. Heaven help you! you may thin them off by the
gallows and transportation, but the root of the evil is as far from you
as ever. You do not know them, you will not know them. More prone to
punish than prevent, you are satisfied with the working of the law, and
not shocked with the accumulation of crime; and when, broken by poverty
and paralysed by famine, a gloomy desolation spreads over the land, you
meet in terms of congratulation to talk over tranquilised Ireland.'

In this strain did the good priest continue to develop his views
concerning his country--the pivot of his argument being, that, to a
people so essentially different in every respect, English institutions
and English laws were inadequate and unsuitable. Sometimes I could
not only but agree with him. At others I could but dimly perceive his
meaning and dissent from the very little I could catch.

Enough of this, however. In a biography so flimsy as mine, politics
would play but an unseemly part; and even were it otherwise, my
opportunities were too few and my own incapacity too great to make my
opinions of any value on a subject so complicated and so vast. Still,
the topic served to shorten the road, and when towards evening we
found ourselves in the comfortable parlour of the little inn at
Ballyhocsousth,* so far had we both regained our spirits that once more
the priest's jovial good-humour irradiated his happy countenance; and
I myself, hourly improving in health and strength, felt already the
bracing influence of the mountain air, and that strong sense of liberty
never more thoroughly appreciated than when regaining vigour after the
sufferings of a sick-bed.

     * Town of the Fight of Flails.

We were seated by an open window, looking out upon the landscape. It was
past sunset, and the tall shadows of the mountains were meeting across
the lake, like spirits who waited for the night-hour to interchange
their embraces. A thin pale crescent of a new moon marked the blue sky,
but did not dim the lustre of the thousand stars that glittered round
it. All was hushed and still, save the deep note of the rail, or the
measured plash of oars heard from a long distance. The rich meadows that
sloped down to the water sent up their delicious odours in the balmy
air, and there stole over the senses a kind of calm and peaceful
pleasure as such a scene at such an hour can alone impart.

'This is beautiful--this is very beautiful, father,' said I.

'So it is, sir,' said the priest. 'Let no Irishman wander for scenery;
he has as much right to go travel in search of wit and good fellowship.
We don't want for blessings; all we need is, to know how to enjoy them.
And, believe me, there is a plentiful feast on the table if gentlemen
would only pass down the dishes. And, now, that reminds me: what are
you drinking--negus? I wouldn't wish it to my greatest enemy. But, to be
sure, I am always forgetting you are not one of ourselves. There, reach
me over that square decanter. It wouldn't have been so full now if we
had had poor Bob here--poor fellow! But one thing is certain---wherever
he is, he is happy. I believe I never told you how he got into his
present scrape.'

'No, father; and that's precisely the very thing I wish to ask you.'

'You shall hear it, and it isn't a bad story in its way. But don't you
think the night-air is a little too much for you? Shall we close the
window?'

'If it depend on me, father, pray leave it open.'

'Ha, ha! I was forgetting again,' said the old fellow, laughing
roguishly--'_Stella sunt amantium oculi_, as Pharis says. There now,
don't be blushing, but listen to me.

'It was somewhere about last November that Bob got a quiet hint from
some one at Daly's that the sooner he got out of Dublin the more
conducive it would be to his personal freedom, as various writs were
flying about the capital after him. He took the hint, and set off the
same night, and reached his beautiful château of Newgate without let
or molestation--which having victualled for the winter, he could, if
necessary, sustain in it a reasonable siege against any force the law
was likely to bring up. The house had an abundant supply of arms. There
were guns that figured in '41, pikes that had done good service a little
later, swords of every shape, from the two-handed weapon of the twelfth
century to a Roman pattern made out of a scythe by a smith in
the neighbourhood; but the grand terror of the country was an old
four-pounder of Cromwell's time, that the Major had mounted on the roof,
and whose effects, if only proportionately injurious to the enemy to the
results nearer home, must indeed have been a formidable engine, for
the only time it was fired--I believe to celebrate Bob's birthday--it
knocked down a chimney with the recoil, blew the gardener and another
man about ten feet into the air, and hurled Bob himself through a
skylight into the housekeeper's room. No matter for that; it had a great
effect in raising the confidence of the country-people, some of whom
verily believed that the ball was rolling for a week after.

'Bob, I say, victualled the fortress; but he did more, for he assembled
all the tenants, and in a short but pithy speech told them the state of
his affairs, explaining with considerable eloquence what a misfortune it
would be for them if by any chance they were to lose him for a landlord.

'“See, now, boys,” said he, “there's no knowing what misfortune wouldn't
happen ye; they'd put a receiver on the property--a spalpeen with
bailiffs and constables after him--that would be making you pay up
the rent, and 'faith I wouldn't say but maybe he 'd ask you for the
arrears.”

'“Oh, murther, murther! did any one ever hear the like!” the people
cried on every side; and Bob, like a clever orator, continued to picture
forth additional miseries and misfortunes to them if such a calamitous
event were to happen, explaining at the same time the contemptible
nature of the persecution practised against him.

'“No, boys,” cried he, “there isn't a man among them all that has the
courage to come down and ask for his money, face to face; but they set
up a pair of fellows they call John Doe and Richard Roe--there's names
for you! Did you ever hear of a gentleman in the country with names like
that? But that's not the worst of it, for you see even these two chaps
can't be found. It's truth I'm telling you, and some people go so far
as to say that there is no such people at all, and it's only a way they
have to worry and annoy country gentlemen with what they call a fiction
of the law; and my own notion is, that the law is nothing but lies and
fiction from beginning to end.”

'A very loud cheer from Bob's audience proclaimed how perfectly they
coincided in his opinion; and a keg of whisky being brought into the
lawn, each man drained a glass to his health, uttering at the same time
a determination with respect to the law-officers of the crown that boded
but little happiness to them when they made a tour in the neighbourhood.

'In about a week after this there was a grand drawing-home: that's, you
understand, what we call in Ireland bringing in the harvest. And sure
enough, the farmyard presented a very comely sight, with ricks of hay,
and stacks of corn and oats and barley, and outhouses full of potatoes,
and in fact everything the country produces, besides cows and horses,
sheep, pigs, goats, and even turkeys; for most of the tenants paid their
rents in kind, and as Bob was an easy landlord, very few came without a
little present--a game-cock, a jackass, a ram, or some amusing beast or
other. Well, the next day--it was a fine dry day with a light frost, and
as the bog was hard, Bob sent them all away to bring in the turf. Why,
then, but it is a beautiful sight, Captain, and I wish you saw it--maybe
two or three hundred cars all going as fast as they can pelt, on a fine
bright day, with a blue sky and a sharp air, the boys standing up in the
kishes driving without rein or halter, always at a gallop--for all the
world like Ajax, Ulysses, and the rest of them that we read of; and the
girls, as pretty craytures as ever you threw an eye upon, with their
short red petticoats, and their hair plaited and fastened up at the back
of their heads: on my conscience the Trojan women was nothing to them!

'But to come back. Bob Mahon was coming home from the bog about five
o'clock in the evening, cantering along on a little dun pony he had,
thinking of nothing at all, except maybe the elegant rick of turf that
he 'd be bringing home in the morning, when what did he see before him
but a troop of dragoons, and at their head old Basset, the sub-sheriff,
and another fellow whose face he had often seen in the Four Courts of
Dublin. “By the mortial,” said Bob, “I am done for!” for he saw in a
moment that Basset had waited until all the country-people were employed
at a distance, to come over and take him. However, he was no ways
discouraged, but brushing his way through the dragoons, he rode up
beside Basset's gig, and taking a long pistol out of the holster, he
began to examine the priming as cool as may be.

“'How are you, Nick Basset?” said Bob; “and where are you going this
evening?”

'“How are you, Major?” said Basset, with his eye all the while upon the
pistol. “It is an unpleasant business, a mighty unpleasant business
to me, Major Bob,” says he; “but the truth is, there is an execution
against you, and my friend here, Mr. Hennessy--Mr. Hennessy, Major
Mahon--asked me to come over with him, because as I knew you----”

'“Well, well,” said Bob, interrupting him. “Have you a writ against me?
Is it me you want?”

'“Nothing of the kind, Major Mahon. God forbid we 'd touch a hair of
your head. It's just a kind of a capias, as I may say, nothing more.”

'“And why did you bring the dragoons with you?” said Bob, looking at him
mighty hard.

'Basset looked very sheepish, and didn't know what to say; but Mahon
soon relieved him---

'“Never mind, Nick, never mind; you can't help your trade. But how would
you look if I was to raise the country on ye?”

'“You wouldn't do the like, Major; but surely, if you did, the
troops----”

'“The troops!” said Bob; “God help you! we'd be twenty, ay, thirty to
one. See now, if I give a whistle, this minute----”

'“Don't distress yourself, Major,” said Basset, “for the decent people
are a good six miles off at the bog, and couldn't hear you if you
whistled ever so loud.”

'The moment he said this Bob saw that the old rogue was up to him, and
he began to wonder within himself what was best to be done.

'“See now, Nick,” said he, “it isn't like a friend to bring up all these
red-coats here upon me, before my tenantry, disgracing me in the face
of my people. Send them back to the town, and go up yourself with Mr.
Hennessy there, and do whatever you have to do.”

'“No, no!” screamed Hennessy, “I'll never part with the soldiers!”

'“Very well,” said Bob, “take your own way, and see what will come of
it.”

'He put spurs to his pony as he said this, and was just striking into
the gallop when Nick called out--

'“Wait a bit, Major! wait a bit! If we leave the dragoons where we are
now, will you give us your word of honour not to hurt or molest us in
the discharge of our duty, nor let any one else do so?”

'“I will,” said Bob, “now that you talk reasonably; I'll treat you
well.”

'After a little parley it was settled that part of the dragoons were
to wait on the road, and the rest of them in the lawn before the house,
while Nick and his friend were to go through the ceremony of seizing
Bob's effects, and make an inventory of everything they could find.

'“A mere matter of form, Major Mahon,” said he. “We 'll make it as short
as possible, and leave a couple of men in possession; and as I know the
affair will be arranged in a few days----”

'“Of course,” says Bob, laughing; “nothing easier. So come along now and
let me show you the way.”

'When they reached the house, Bob ordered up dinner at once, and behaved
as politely as possible, telling them it was early, and they would have
plenty of time for everything in the evening. But whether it was that
they had no appetite just then, or that they were not over-easy in their
minds about Bob himself, they declined everything, and began to set
about their work. To it they went with pen and ink, putting down all the
chairs and tables, the cracked china, the fire-irons, and at last Bob
left them counting over about twenty pairs of old top-boots that stood
along the wall of his dressing-room.

'“Ned,” said Bob to his own man, “get two big padlocks and put them on
the door of the hayloft as fast as you can.”

'“Sure it is empty, sir,” said Ned. “Barrin' the rats, there's nothing
in it.”

'“Don't I know that as well as you?” said Bob; “but can't you do as you
are bid? And when you've done it, take the pony and gallop over to the
bog, and tell the people to throw the turf out of their carts and gallop
up here as fast as they can.”

'He'd scarcely said it when Nick called out, “Now, Major, for the
farmyard, if you please.” And so taking Hennessy's arm, Bob walked out,
followed by the two big bailiffs, that never left them for a moment.
To be sure it was a great sight when they got outside, and saw all
the ricks and stacks as thick as they could stand; and so they began
counting and putting them down on paper, and the devil a thing they
forgot, not even the boneens and the bantams; and at last Nick fixed
his eye upon the little door into the loft, upon which now two great big
padlocks were hanging.

'“I suppose it 's oats you have up there, Major?” said he.

'“No, indeed,” said Bob, looking a little confused.

'“Maybe seed-potatoes?” said Hennessy.

'“Nor it neither,” said he.

'“Barley, it's likely?” cried Nick; “it is a fine dry loft.”

'“No,” said Bob, “it is empty.”

'And with that he endeavoured to turn them away and get them back into
the house; but old Basset turned back, and fixing his eye upon the door,
shook his head for a couple of minutes.

'“Well,” said he, “for an empty loft it has the finest pair of padlocks
I ever looked at. Would there be any objection, Major, to our taking a
peep into it?”

'“None,” said Bob; “but I haven't a ladder that long in the place.”

'“I think this might reach,” said Hennessy, as he touched one with his
foot that lay close along the wall, partly covered with straw.

'“Just the thing,” said Nick; while poor Bob hung down his head and
said nothing. With that they raised the ladder and placed it against the
door.

'“Might I trouble you for the key, Major Mahon?” said Hennessy.

'“I believe it is mislaid,” said Bob, in a kind of sulky way, at which
they both grinned at each other, as much as to say, “We have him now.”

'“You 'll not take it amiss then, Major, if we break the door?” said
Nick.

'“You may break it and be hanged!” said Bob, as he stuck his hands into
his pockets and walked away.

'“This will do,” cried one of the bailiffs, taking up a big stone as he
mounted the ladder, followed by Nick, Hennessy, and the other.

[Illustration: 413]

'It took some time to smash the locks, for they were both strong ones,
and all the while Nick and his friend were talking together in great
glee; but poor Bob stood by himself against a hayrick, looking as
melancholy as might be. At last the locks gave way, and down went the
door with a bang. The bailiffs stepped in, and then Nick and the other
followed. It took them a couple of minutes to satisfy themselves that
the loft was quite empty; but when they came back again to the door,
what was their surprise to discover that Bob was carrying away the
ladder upon his shoulders to a distant part of the yard.

'“Holloa, Major!” cried Basset, “don't forget us up here!”

'“Devil a fear of that,” said Bob; “few that know you ever forget you.”

'“We are quite satisfied, sir,” said Hennessy; “what you said was
perfectly correct.”

'“And why didn't you believe it before, Mr. Hennessy? You see what you
have brought upon yourself.”

'“You are not going to leave us up here, sir,” cried Hennessy; “will you
venture upon false imprisonment?”

“'I'd venture on more than that, if it were needful; but see now, when
you get back, don't be pretending that I didn't offer to treat you well,
little as you deserved it, I asked you to dinner, and would have given
you your skinful of wine afterwards; but you preferred your own dirty
calling, and so take the consequences.”

'While he was speaking a great cheer was heard, and all the
country-people came galloping into the yard with their turf cars.

'“Be alive now, my boys!” cried Bob. “How many cars have you?”

'“Seventy, sir, here; but there is more coming.”

'“That'll do,” said he; “so now set to work and carry away all the oats
and the wheat, the hay, barley, and potatoes. Let some of you take the
calves and the pigs, and drive the bullocks over the mountain to Mr.
Bodkin's. Don't leave a turkey behind you, boys, and make haste; for
these gentlemen have so many engagements I can scarcely prevail on them
to pass more than a day or two amongst us.”

'Bob pointed as he spoke to the four figures that stood trembling at the
hayloft door. A loud cheer, and a roar of laughter to the full as loud,
answered his speech; and at the same moment to it they went, loading
their cars with the harvest or the live-stock as fast as they could.
To be sure, such a scene was never witnessed--the sheep bleating, pigs
grunting, fowls cackling, men and women all running here and there
laughing like mad, and Nick Basset himself swearing like a trooper the
whole time that he'd have them all hanged at the next assizes. Would
you believe, the harvest it took nearly three weeks to bring home was
carried away that night and scattered all over the country at different
farms, where it never could be traced; all the cattle too were taken
away, and before sunrise there wasn't as much as a sheep or a lamb left
to bleat on the lawn.

'The next day Bob set out on a visit to a friend at some distance,
leaving directions with his people to liberate the gentlemen in the
hayloft in the course of the afternoon. The story made a great noise in
the country; but before people were tired laughing at it an action was
entered against Bob for false imprisonment, and heavy damages awarded
against him. So that you may see there was a kind of poetic justice in
the manner of his capture, for after all it was only trick for trick.'

The worthy priest now paused to mix another tumbler, which, when he had
stirred and tasted and stirred again, he pushed gently before him on the
table, and seemed lost in reverie.

'Yes,' said he half aloud, 'it is a droll country we live in; and
there's not one of us doesn't waste more ingenuity and display more
cunning in getting rid of his fortune than the cleverest fellows
elsewhere evince in accumulating theirs. But you are looking a little
pale, I think; these late hours won't suit you, so I 'll just send you
to bed.'

I felt the whole force of my kind friend's advice, and yielding
obedience at once, I shook him by the hand and wished him good-night.

CHAPTER XXXVI. MURRANAKILTY

If my kind reader is not already tired of the mountain-road and the wild
west, may I ask him--dare I say her?--to accompany me a little farther,
while I present another picture of its life?

You see that bold mountain, jagged and rugged in outline, like the spine
of some gigantic beast, that runs far out into the Atlantic, and ends in
a bold, abrupt headland, against which the waves, from the very coast of
Labrador, are beating without one intervening rock to break their force?
Carry your eye along its base, to where you can mark a little clump of
alder and beech, with here and there a taper poplar interspersed, and
see if you cannot detect the gable of a long, low, thatched house, that
lies almost buried in the foliage. Before the door a little patch of
green stretches down to the shore, where a sandy beach, glowing in all
the richness of a morning sun, glitters with many a shell and brilliant
pebble. That, then, is Murranakilty.

But approach, I beg you, a little nearer. Let me suppose that you have
traced the winding of that little bay, crossing the wooden bridge over
the bright trout stream, as it hastens on to mingle its waters with the
ocean; you have climbed over the rude stile, and stopped for an instant
to look into the holy well, in whose glassy surface the little wooden
crucifix above is dimly shadowed, and at length you stand upon the lawn
before the cottage. What a glorious scene is now before you! On the
opposite side of the bay, the mountain, whose summit is lost among the
clouds, seems as it were cleft by some earthquake force; and through its
narrow gorge you can trace the blue water of the sea passing in, while
each side of the valley is clothed with wood. The oak of a hundred
years, here sheltered from the rude wind of the Atlantic, spreads its
luxuriant arms, while the frothy waves are breaking at its feet. High,
however, above their tops you may mark the irregular outline of a large
building, with battlements and towers and massive walls, and one tall
and loopholed turret, that rises high into the air, and around whose
summit the noisy rooks are circling in their flight. That is Kilmorran
Castle, the residence of Sir Simon Bellew. There, for centuries past,
his ancestors were born and died; there, in the midst of that wild and
desolate grandeur, the haughty descendants of an ancient house lived on
from youth to age, surrounded by all the observances of feudal state,
and lording it far and near, for many a mile, with a sway and power that
would seem to have long since passed away.

You carry your eye seaward, and I perceive your attention is fixed upon
the small schooner that lies anchored in the offing; her topsail is in
the clews, and flaps lazily against the mast, as she rolls and pitches
in the breaking surge. The rake of her low masts and the long boom that
stretches out far beyond her taffrail have, you deem it, a somewhat
suspicious look; and you are right. She is _La Belle Louise_, a
smuggling craft from Dieppe, whose crew, half French, half Irish, would
fight her to the gunwale, and sink with but never surrender her. You
hear the plash of oars, and there now you can mark the eight-oared gig
springing to the stroke, as it shoots from the shore and heads out to
sea. Sir Simon loves claret, and like a true old Irish gentleman he
drinks it from the wood; there may, therefore, be some reason why those
wild-looking red-caps have pulled in shore.

But now I'll ask you to turn to an humbler scene, and look within that
room where the window, opened to the ground, is bordered by blossoming
honeysuckle. It is the priest's parlour. At a little breakfast-table,
whose spotless cloth and neat but simple equipage has a look of
propriety and comfort, is seated one whose gorgeous dressing-gown and
lounging attitude seem strangely at variance with the humble objects
around him. He seems endeavouring to read a newspaper, which ever and
anon he lays down beside him, and turns his eyes in the direction of the
fire; for although it is July, yet a keen freshness of the morning air
makes the blazing turf by no means objectionable. He looks towards the
fire, perhaps you would say, lost in his own thoughts and musings; but
no, truth must out, and his attention is occupied in a very different
way. Kneeling before the fire is a young and lovely country-girl,
engaged in toasting a muffin for the priest's breakfast. Her features
are flushed, partly with shame, partly with heat; and as now and then
she throws back her long hair from her face with an impatient toss of
her head, she steals a glance at the stranger from a pair of eyes so
deeply blue that at first you were unjust enough to think them black.

Her dress is a low bodice, and a short skirt of that brilliant dye the
Irish peasant of the west seems to possess the secret for. The jupe is
short, I say; and so much the better for you, as it displays a pair of
legs which, bare of shoe or stocking, are perfect in their symmetry--the
rounded instep and the swelling ankle chiselled as cleanly as a statue
of Canova.

And now, my good reader, having shown you all this, let me proceed with
my narrative.

'And sure now, sir, wouldn't it be better for you, and you sickly, to
be eating your breakfast, and not be waiting for Father Tom? Maybe he
wouldn't come in this hour yet.'

'No, thank you, Mary; I had rather wait. I hope you are not so tired of
my company that you want an excuse to get away?'

'Ah, be aisy now, if you plaze, sir! It's myself that's proud to be
talking to you.' And as she spoke she turned a pair of blue eyes upon me
with such a look that I could not help thinking if the gentlemen of
the west be exposed to such, their blood is not as hot as is reputed.
I suppose I looked as much; for she blushed deeply, and calling out,
'Here's Father Tom!' sprang to her legs and hurried from the room.

'Where are you scampering that way?' cried the good priest, as he passed
her in the hall. 'Ah, Captain, Captain! behave yourself!'

'I protest, father----' cried I.

'To be sure you do! Why wouldn't you protest? But see now, it was your
business brought me out this morning. Hand me over the eggs; I am
as hungry as a hawk. The devil is in that girl--they are as hard as
bullets! I see how it was, plain enough. It's little she was thinking of
the same eggs. Well, well! this is an ungrateful world; and only think
of me, all I was doing for you.'

'My dear father, you are quite wrong----'

'No matter. Another slice of bacon. And, after all, who knows if I
have the worst of it? Do you know, now, that Miss Bellew has about the
softest cheek----'

'What the devil do you mean?' said I, reddening. 'Why, just that I was
saluting her _à la Française_ this morning; and I never saw her look
handsomer in my life. It was scarce seven o'clock when I was over at
Kilmorran, but, early as it was, I caught her making breakfast for me;
and, father and priest that I am, I couldn't help feeling in love with
her. It was a beautiful sight just to watch her light step and graceful
figure moving about the parlour--now opening the window to let in the
fresh air of the morning; now arranging a bouquet of moss-roses; now
busying herself among the breakfast things, and all the while stealing a
glance at Sir Simon, to see if he were pleased with what she was doing.
He'll be over here by-and-by, to call on you; and, indeed, it is an
attention he seldom pays any one, for latterly, poor fellow, he is not
over satisfied with the world--and if the truth were told, he has not
had too much cause to be so.'

'You mentioned to him, then, that I was here?' 'To be sure I did; and
the doing so cost me a scalded finger; for Miss Louisa, who was pouring
out my tea at the moment, gave a jerk with her hand, and spilled the
boiling water all over me.--Bad cess to you, Mary, but you've spoiled
the toast this morning! half of it never saw the fire, and the other
half is as black as my boot.--But, as I was saying, Sir Simon knows all
about you, and is coming over to ask us to dine there--though I offered
to give the invitation myself, and accept it first; but he is very
punctilious about these things, and wouldn't hear of anything but doing
it in the regular way.'

'Did he allude to Mr. Ulick Burke's affair?'

'Not a word. And even when I wished to touch on it for the sake of
a little explanation, he adroitly turned the subject, and spoke of
something else. But it is drawing late, and I have some people to see
this morning; so come along now into my little library here, and I'll
leave you for a while to amuse yourself.'

The priest led me, as he spoke, into a small room, whose walls were
covered with books from the floor to the ceiling; even the very door
by which we entered had its shelves, like the rest, so that when once
inside you could see no trace of it. A single window looked seaward,
towards the wide Atlantic, and presented a view of many miles of coast,
indented with headland and promontory. Beneath, upon the placid sea, was
a whole fleet of fishing-boats, the crews of which were busily engaged
in collecting the sea-weed to manure the land. The sight was both
curious and picturesque. The light boats, tossing on the heavy swell,
were crowded with figures whose attitude evinced all the eagerness of a
chase. Sometimes an amicable contest would arise between two parties, as
their boat-hooks were fixed in the same mass of tangled weed. Sometimes
two rival crews would be seen stretching upon their oars, as they headed
out to sea in search of a new prize. The merry voices and the loud
laughter, however, that rose above all other sounds, told that
good-humour and goodwill never deserted them in all the ardour of the
contest.

Long after the priest left me, I continued to watch them. At last I set
myself to explore the good father's shelves, which I found, for the most
part, were filled with portly tomes of divinity and polemics--huge folio
copies of Saint Augustine, Origen, Eusebius, and others; innumerable
volumes of learned tractates on disputed points in theology--none of
which possessed any interest for me. In one corner, however, beside the
fire, whose convenience to the habitual seat of Father Tom argued that
they were not least in favour with his reverence, was an admirable
collection of the French dramatists--Molière, Beaumarchais, Racine, and
several more. These were a real treat; and seating myself beside the
window, I prepared, for about the twentieth time in my life, to read _La
Folle Journée_.

I had scarcely got to the end of the second act, when the door was
gently opened, and Mary made her appearance--not in the deshabille of
the morning, however, but with a trim cotton gown, and smart shoes and
stockings; her hair, too, was neatly dressed, in the country fashion.
Yet still I was more than half disposed to think she looked even better
in her morning costume.

The critical scrutiny of my glance had evidently disconcerted her, and
made her, for the moment, forget the object of her coming. She looked
down and blushed; she fiddled with the corner of her apron, and at last,
recollecting herself, she dropped a little curtsy, and, opening the door
wide, announced Sir Simon Bellew.

'Mr. Hinton, I believe,' said Sir Simon, with a slight smile, as he
bowed himself into the apartment; 'will you allow me to introduce
myself--Sir Simon Bellew.'

The baronet was a tall, thin, meagre-looking old man, somewhat stooped
by age, but preserving, both in look and gesture, not only the remains
of good looks, but the evident traces of one habituated to the world.
His dress was very plain; but the scrupulous exactitude of his powdered
cue, and the massive gold-headed cane he carried, showed he had not
abandoned those marks of his position so distinctive of rank in those
days. He wore, also, large and handsome buckles in his shoes; but in
every other particular his costume was simplicity itself. Conversing
with an ease which evinced his acquaintance with all the forms of
society, he touched shortly upon my former acquaintance with his
daughter, and acknowledged in terms slight, but suitable, how she had
spoken of me. His manner was, however, less marked by everything I had
deemed to be Irish than that of any other person I had met with in the
country; for while he expressed his pleasure at my visit to the west,
and invited me to pass some days at his house, his manner of doing so
had nothing whatever of the warmth and _empressement_ I had so often
seen. In fact, save a slight difference in accent, it was as English as
need be.

Whether I felt disappointed at this, or whether I had myself adopted the
habite and prejudices of the land, I am unable to say, but certainly
I felt chilled and repulsed; and although our interview scarce lasted
twenty minutes, I was delighted when he rose to take his leave, and say,
good-morning.

'You are good enough, then, to promise you 'll dine with us to-morrow,
Mr. Hinton. I need scarcely remark that I can have no party to meet you,
for this wild neighbourhood has denied us that; but as I am aware that
your visit to the west is less for society than scenery, perhaps I may
assure you you will not be disappointed. So now, _au revoir_.' Sir Simon
bowed deeply as he spoke, and, with a wave of his hat that would have
done honour to the court of Louis xv., he took his leave and departed.

I followed him with my eye, as mounted on his old gray pony, he ambled
quietly down the little path that led to the shore. Albeit an old man,
his seat was firm, and not without a certain air of self-possession and
ease; and as he returned the salutations of the passing country-people,
he did so with the quiet dignity of one who felt he conveyed an honour
even in the recognition. There was something singular in the contrast
of that venerable figure with the wild grandeur of the scene; and as I
gazed after him, it set me thinking on the strange vicissitudes of life
that must have made such as he pass his days in the dreary solitude of
these mountains.

CHAPTER XXXVII. SIR SIMON

My journey had so far fatigued me that I wasn't sorry to have a day of
rest; and as Father Tom spent the greater part of it from home, I was
left to myself and my own reflections. The situation in which I found
myself was singular enough--the guest of a man whose acquaintance I had
made by chance, and who, knowing as little of me as I did of him,
yet showed by many an act of kindness, not less than by many a chance
observation, a deep interest in myself and my fortunes. Here, then,
I was--far from the sphere of my duties, neglecting the career I had
adopted, and suffering days, weeks, to pass over without bestowing a
thought upon my soldier life.

Following on this train of thought, I could not help acknowledging to
myself that my attachment to Miss Bellew was the cause of my journey,
and the real reason of my wandering. However sanguine may be the heart
when touched by the first passion, the doubts that will now and then
shoot across it are painful and poignant; and now, in the calmness of my
judgment, I could not but see the innumerable obstacles my family
would raise to all my hopes. I well knew my father's predilection for a
campaigning life, and that nothing would compensate him for the
defeat of this expectation. I had but too many proofs of my mother's
aristocratic prejudices to suppose that she ever could acknowledge as
her daughter-in-law one whose pretensions to rank, although higher
than her own, were yet neither trumpeted by the world nor blazoned
by fashion. And lastly, changed as I was myself since my arrival in
Ireland, there was yet enough of the Englishman left in me to see how
unsuited was Louisa Bellew, in many respects, to be launched forth in
the torrent of London life, while yet her experience of the world was so
narrow and limited. Still, I loved her. The very artless simplicity of
her manner, the untutored freshness of her mind, had taught me to know
that even great personal attractions may be the second excellence of
a woman. And besides, I was just at that time of life when ambition is
least natural. One deems it more heroic to renounce all that is daring
in enterprise, all that is great in promise, merely to be loved. My mind
was therefore made up. The present opportunity was a good one to see her
frequently and learn thoroughly to know her tastes and her dispositions.
Should I succeed in gaining her affections, however opposed my family
might prove at first, I calculated on their fondness for me as an only
son, and knew that in regard to fortune I should be independent enough
to marry whom I pleased.

In speculations such as these the time passed over; and although I
waited with impatience for the hour of our visit to Kilmorran Castle,
still, as the time drew near, many a passing doubt would flit across
me--how far I had mistaken the promptings of my own affection for any
return of my love. True it was, that more than once Louisa's look and
manner testified I was not indifferent to her; still, when I remembered
that I had ever seen her surrounded by persons she was anxious to avoid,
a suspicion crossed me that perhaps I owed the little preference
she showed me less to any qualities I possessed than to my own
unobtrusiveness. These were galling and unpleasant reflections; and
whither they might have led me I know not, when the priest tapped with
his knuckles at my window, and called out--

'Captain, we shall be late if you don't hurry a bit; and I had rather be
behind time with his gracious Majesty himself than with old Sir Simon.'

I opened the window at once, and jumped out into the lawn.

'My dear father, I've been ready this half-hour, but fell into a dreamy
fit and forgot everything. Are we to walk it?'

'No, no; the distance is much greater than you think. Small as the bay
looks, it is a good three miles from this to Kilmorran; but here comes
your old friend the curriculus.'

I once more mounted to my old seat, and the priest, guiding the horse
down to the beach, selected the strand, from which the waves had just
receded, as the hardest road, and pressed on at a pace that showed his
desire to be punctual.

'Get along there. Nabocklish! How lazy the devil is! 'Faith, we'll be
late, do our best. Captain, darling, put your watch back a quarter of an
hour, and I'll stand to it that we are both by Dublin time.'

'Is he, then, so very particular/ said I, 'as all that comes to?'

'Particular, is it? 'Faith he is. Why, man, there is as much ringing
of bells before dinner in that house as if every room in it was crammed
with company. And the old butler will be there, all in black, and his
hair powdered, and beautiful silk stockings on his legs, every day in
the week, although, maybe, it is a brace of snipe will be all that is on
the table. Take the whip for a while, and lay into that baste--my heart
is broke flogging him.'

Had Sir Simon only watched the good priest's exertions for the preceding
quarter of an hour, he certainly would have had a hard heart if he
had criticised his punctuality. Shouting one moment, cursing the next,
thrashing away with his whip, and betimes striding over the splash-board
to give a kick with his foot, he undoubtedly spared nothing in either
voice or gesture.

'There, glory be to God!' cried he at last, as he turned sharp from the
shady road into a narrow avenue of tall lime-trees; 'take the reins,
Captain, till I wipe my face. Blessed hour, look at the state I am in!
Lift him to it, and don't spare him. May I never, if that isn't the last
bell, and he only gives five minutes after that!'

Although I certainly should have preferred that Father Tom had continued
his functions as charioteer now that we were approaching the house,
common humanity, however, compelled me to spare him, and I flogged and
chucked the old beast with all my might up the rising ground towards
the house. I had but just time to see that the building before us was
a large embattled structure, which, although irregular and occasionally
incongruous in detail, was yet a fine specimen of the castellated Gothic
of the seventeenth century. Massive square towers flanked the angles,
themselves surmounted by smaller turrets, that shot up into the air high
above the dark woods around them. The whole was surrounded by a fosse,
now dry, and overgrown with weeds; but the terrace, which lay between
this and the castle, was laid out as a flower-garden, with a degree of
taste and beauty that to my mind at least bespoke the fostering hand of
Louisa Bellew. Upon this the windows of a large drawing-room opened, at
one of which I could mark the tall and stately figure of Sir Simon, as
he stood, watch in hand, awaiting our arrival. I confess, it was not
without a sense of shame that I continued my flagellations at
the moment. Under any circumstances, our turn-out was not quite
unexceptionable; but when I thought of my own position, and of the
good priest who sat beside me mopping his head and face with a huge red
cotton handkerchief, I cursed my stars for the absurd exposure. Just at
this instant the skirt of a white robe passed one of the windows, and I
thought--I hope it was but a thought--I heard a sound of laughter.

'There, that will do. Phoebus himself couldn't do it better. I wouldn't
wish my worst enemy to be in a pair of shafts before you.'

Muttering a curse on the confounded beast, I pulled short up and sprang
out.

'Not late, Nicholas, I hope?' said the priest to a tall, thin old
butler, who bore a most absurd resemblance to his master.

'Your reverence has a minute and a half yet; but the soup's on
the table.' As he spoke, he drew from his pocket a small bit of
looking-glass, in a wooden frame, and with a pocket-comb arranged his
hair in a most orderly and decorous manner; which being done, he turned
gravely round and said, 'Are ye ready, now, gentlemen?'

The priest nodded, and forward we went. Passing through a suite of rooms
whose furniture, however handsome once, was now worm-eaten and injured
by time, we at length reached the door of the drawing-room, when the
butler, after throwing one more glance at us to assure himself that we
were in presentable array, flung the door wide open, and announced, with
the voice of a king-at-arms--

'The Reverend Father Loftus, and Mr. Hinton.'

'Serve!' said Sir Simon, with a wave of his hand. While, advancing
towards us, he received us with most polished courtesy. 'You are most
welcome to Kilmorran, Mr. Hinton. I need not present my daughter.'

He turned towards the priest, and the same moment I held Miss Bellow's
hand in mine. Dressed in white, and with her hair plainly braided on her
cheek, I thought she looked handsomer than I had ever seen her. There
was an air of assured calmness in her manner that sat well upon her
lovely features, as, with a tone of winning sweetness, she seconded the
words of her father, and welcomed me to Kilmorran.

The first step in the knowledge of the female heart is to know how to
interpret any constraint or reserve of manner on the part of the woman
you are in love with. Your mere novice is never more tempted to despair
than at the precise moment his hopes should grow stronger; nor is he
ever so sanguine as when the prospect is gloomy before him. The quick
perceptions of even a very young girl enable her to perceive when she
is loved; and however disposed she may feel towards the individual, a
certain mixture of womanly pride and coquetry will teach her a kind of
reserve towards him. Now, there was a slight dash of this constrained
tone through Miss Bellow's manner to me; and little experience as I had
had in such matters, I knew enough to augur favourably from it. While
doing the honours of her house, a passing timidity would seem every now
and then to check her advances, and I could remark how carefully she
avoided any allusion, however slight, to our past acquaintance.

The austerity of Sir Simon's manner at his first visit, as well as
the remarks of my friend the priest, had led me to suspect that our
dinner-party would prove cold, formal, and uncomfortable; indeed, the
baronet's constrained and measured courtesy in the drawing-room gave
me but little encouragement to expect anything better. Most agreeable,
therefore, was my disappointment to find that before the soup was
removed he had thawed considerably. The stern wrinkles of his haughty
face relaxed, and a bland and good-humoured smile had usurped the place
of his former fixed and determined look. Doing the honours of his table
with the most perfect tact, he contrived, while almost monopolising
the conversation, to appear the least obtrusive amongst us; his remarks
being ever accompanied by some appeal to his daughter, the priest, or
myself, seemed to link us in the interest of all he said, and make
his very listeners deem themselves entertaining and agreeable.
Unfortunately, I can present but a very meagre picture of this happy
gift; but I remember well how insensibly my prejudices gave way, one
by one, as I listened to his anecdotes, and heard him recount, with
admirable humour, many a story of his early career. To be sure, it
may be said that my criticism was not likely to be severe while seated
beside his beautiful daughter, whose cheek glowed with pleasure,
and whose bright eye glistened with added lustre as she remarked the
impression her father's agree-ability was making on his guests. Such
may, I doubt not, have increased the delight I felt; but Sir Simon's own
claims were still indisputable.

I know not how far I shall meet my reader's concurrence in the remark,
but it appears to me that conversational talent, like wine, requires
age to make it mellow. The racy flavour that smacks of long knowledge
of life, the reflective tone that deepens without darkening the picture,
the freedom from exaggeration either in praise or censure, are not
the gifts of young men, usually; and certainly they do season the
intercourse of older ones, greatly to its advantage. There is, moreover,
a pleasant flattery in listening to the narratives of those who
were mixing with the busy world--its intrigues, its battles, and its
byplay--while we were but boys. How we like to hear of the social
everyday life of those great men of a bygone day, whose names have
become already historical; what a charm does it lend to reminiscence,
when the names of Burke, Sheridan, Grattan, and Curran start up amid
memories of youthful pleasure; and how we treasure every passing word
that is transmitted to us, and how much, in spite of all the glorious
successes of their after days, do we picture them to ourselves, from
some slight or shadowy trait of their school or college life!

Sir Simon Bellow's conversation abounded in features of this kind. His
career had begun and continued for a long time in the brightest period
of Ireland's history--when wealth and genius were rife in the land, and
when the joyous traits of Irish character were elicited in all their
force by prosperity and happiness. It was then shone forth in all their
brilliancy the great spirits whose flashing wit and glittering fancy
have cast a sunlight over their native country that even now, in the
twilight of the past, continues to illumine it. Alas! they have had no
heritors to their fame; they have left no successors behind them.

I have said that Miss Bellew listened with delight to all her father's
stores of amusement--happy to see him once more aroused to the exertion
of his abilities, and pleased to watch how successfully his manner
had won over us. With what added loveliness she looked up to him as
he narrated some circumstances of his political career, where his
importance with his party was briefly alluded to; and how proudly her
features glowed, as some passing sentiment of high and simple patriotism
would break from him! At such moments, the resemblance between them both
became remarkably striking, and I deemed her even more beautiful than
when her face wore its habitual calm and peaceful expression.

Father Loftus himself seemed also to have undergone a change--no
longer indulging in his accustomed free-and-easy manner, seasoning
his conversation with droll allusions and sly jokes. He now appeared a
shrewd, intelligent reasoner, a well-informed man of the world, and at
times evidenced traits of reading and scholarship I was nowise prepared
for. But how vain is it for one of any other country to fathom one half
the depth of Irish character, or say what part is inapplicable to an
Irishman! My own conviction is that we are all mistaken in our estimate
of them; that the gay and reckless spirit, the wild fun, and frantic,
impetuous devilment are their least remarkable features, and in
fact only the outside emblem of the stirring nature within. Like the
lightning that flashes over the thunder-cloud, but neither influences
the breaking of the storm nor points to its course, so have I seen the
jest break from lips pale with hunger, and heard the laugh come free
and mellow when the heart was breaking in misery. But what a mockery of
mirth!

When we retired to the drawing-room, Sir Simon, who had something to
communicate to Father Tom, took him apart into one of the deep window
recesses, and I was left for the first time alone beside Miss Bellew.
There was something of awkwardness in the situation; for as neither
of us could allude to the past without evoking recollections we both
shunned to touch on, we knew not well of what to speak. The window lay
open to the ground, displaying before us a garden in all the richness of
fruit and blossom; the clustering honeysuckle and the dog-rose hung in
masses of flower across the casement, and the graceful hyacinth and the
deep carnation were bending to the night-air, scented with the odour of
many a flower. I looked wistfully without. Miss Bellew caught my glance;
a slight hesitation followed, and then, as if assuming more courage, she
said--

'Are you fond of a garden? Would you like a walk?'

The haste with which I caught at the proposal half disconcerted her;
but, with a slight smile, she stepped out into the walk.

How I do like a large, old-fashioned garden with its venerable
fruit-trees, its shady alleys, its overgrown and tangled beds, in which
the very luxuriance sets all effort of art at defiance, and where rank
growth speaks of wild-ness rather than culture! I like those grassy
walks, where the footstep falls unheard; those shady thickets of
nut-trees, which the blackbird haunts in security, and where the thrush
sings undisturbed. What a sense of quiet home-happiness there breathes
in the leafy darkness of the spot, and how meet for reverie and
reflection does it seem!

As I sauntered along beside my companion, these thoughts crowded on me.
Neither spoke; but her arm was in mine, our footsteps moved in unison,
our eyes followed the same objects, and I felt as though our hearts beat
responsively. On turning from one of the darker walks we suddenly came
upon an elevated spot, from which, through an opening in the wood, the
coast came into view, broken into many a rocky promontory, and dotted
with small islands. The sea was calm and waveless, and stretched away
towards the horizon in one mass of unbroken blue, where it blended with
the sky. An exclamation of 'How beautiful!' broke from me at once; and
as I turned towards Louisa, I perceived that her eyes sparkled with
pleasure, and a half blush was mantling her cheek.

'You are not, then, disappointed with the west?' said she, with
animation.

'No, no! I did not look for anything like this; nor,' added I, in a
lower tone, while the words trembled on my lips, 'did I hope to enjoy it
thus.'

She seemed slightly confused, but with woman's readiness to turn the
meaning of my speech, added--

'Your recovery from illness doubtless gives a heightened pleasure to
everything like this. The dark hour of sickness is often needed to teach
us to feel strongly as we ought the beauty of the fair world we live
in.'

'It may be so; but still I find that every sorrow leaves a scar upon the
heart, and he who has mourned much loses the zest for happiness.'

'Or, rather, his views of it are different. I speak, happily for me, in
ignorance; yet it seems as though every trial in life was a preparation
for some higher scale of blissful enjoyment; and that as our
understandings mature in power, so do our hearts in goodness--chastening
at each ordeal of life, till at last the final sorrow, death, bids us
prepare for the eternity where there is no longer grief, and where the
weary are at rest.'

'Is not your view of life rather derived from the happy experience of
this quiet spot than suited for the collisions of the world, where, as
men grow older, their consciences grow more seared, their hearts less
open?'

'Perhaps; but is not my philosophy a good one that fits me for my
station? My life has been cast here; I have no wish to leave it. I hope
I never shall.'

'Never! Surely, you would like to see other countries,--to travel?'

'No, no! All the brilliant pleasures you can picture for me would never
requite the fears I must suffer lest these objects should grow less dear
to me when I came back to them. The Tyrol is doubtless grander in its
wild magnificence; but can it ever come home to my heart with so many
affections and memories as these bold cliffs I have gazed on in my
infancy; or should I benefit in happiness if it did? Can your Swiss
peasant, be his costume ever so picturesque, interest me one half as
much as yonder poor fisherman, who is carrying up his little child in
his arms from the beach? I know him, his home, his hearth; I have
seen his grateful smile for some small benefit, and heard his words of
thankfulness. And think you not that such recollections as these are all
mingled in every glance I throw around me, and that every sunlit spot
of landscape shines not more brightly in my heart for its human
associations? These may be narrow prejudices--I see you smile at me.'

'No, no! Trust me, I do not undervalue your reasons.'

'Well, here comes Father Loftus, and he shall be judge between us.
We were discussing the advantages of contrasting our home with other
countries----'

'Ahem! A very difficult point,' said the priest, interrupting her, and
drawing himself up with a great air of judicial importance. '_Ubi bene,
ibi patria_--which may be rendered, “There's potatoes everywhere.” Not
that I incline to the doctrine myself. Ireland is the only enjoyable
country I know of. _Utamur creatura, dum possumus_--that means “a
moderate use of creature comforts,” Miss Louisa. But, troth, I'm
so heated with an argument I had with Sir Simon, that I'm no ways
competent---- Did I tell you he was waiting for his tea?'

'No, indeed you did not,' said Miss Bellew, giving vent to a laugh she
had been struggling against for the last few minutes; and which I did
not at the moment know was caused by her perceiving the priest's air of
chagrin and discontent, the evident proofs of his being worsted by the
old baronet, whose chief pleasure in life was to worry the father into a
discussion, and either confuse or confute him. 'My father seems in such
good spirits to-night! Don't you think so?' said she roguishly, looking
over at the priest.

'Never saw him better; quite lively and animated, and'--dropping his
voice to a whisper---'as obstinate as ever.'

As we entered the house we found Sir Simon walking leisurely up and down
the drawing-room, with his hands behind his back, his face radiant with
smiles, and his eye gleaming with conscious triumph towards the corner
where the priest stood tumbling over some books to conceal his sense of
defeat. In a few minutes after we were seated round the tea-table; the
little cloud was dispelled, and a happier party it was difficult to
imagine.

CHAPTER XXXVIII. ST. SENAN'S WELL

How shall I trace this, the happiest period of my life, when days and
weeks rolled on and left no trace behind, save in that delicious calm
that stole over my senses gradually and imperceptibly! Each morning saw
me on my way to Castle Bellew. The mountain path that led up from the
little strand was well worn by my footsteps; I knew its every turn and
winding; scarcely a dog-rose bloomed along the way with which I had not
grown familiar. And how each object spoke to my heart! For I was happy.
The clouds that moved above, the rippling tide that flowed beneath, the
sunny shore, the shady thicket, were all to me as though I had known
them from boyhood. For so it is, in our glad moments we cling to
all things that surround us; and giving to external Nature the high
colouring of our own hearts, we feel how beautiful is this world.

Yet was my mind not all tranquil; for often, as I hastened on, some
passing thought would shoot across me. Where is this to end? Can I hope
ever to overcome the deep-rooted prejudices of my family, and induce
them to receive amongst them as my wife the beautiful and artless
daughter of the wild west? Or could I dare to expose her, on whom all
my affections were centred, to the callous criticism of my fine
lady-mother, and her fashionable friends in London? What right had I
to stake Louisa's happiness on such a chance--to take her from all
the objects endeared to her by taste, by time, by long-hallowed
associations, and place her amid those among whom the very charm of her
untarnished nature would have made her their inferior? Is it that trait
of rebellious spirit that would seem to leaven every portion of our
nature which makes our love strongest when some powerful barrier has
been opposed to our hopes and wishes; or is it, rather, that in the
difficulties and trials of life we discover those deeper resources of
our hearts, that under happier auspices had lain dormant and unknown?
I scarcely know; but true it is, after such reflections as these I ever
hurried on the faster to meet Louisa, more resolutely bent than ever, in
weal or woe, to link my fortune with her own.

Though I returned each night to the priest's cottage, my days were
entirely spent at Castle Bellew. How well do I remember every little
incident that marked their tranquil course! The small breakfast-parlour,
with its old Tudor window looking out upon the flower-garden--how often
have I paced it, impatient for her coming; turning ever and anon to the
opening door, where the old butler, with the invariable habitude of his
kind, continually appeared with some portion of the breakfast equipage!
How I started, as some distant door would shut or open, some far-off
footstep sound upon the stair, and wonder within myself why she felt not
some of this impatient longing! And when at last, tortured with anxiety
and disappointment, I had turned away towards the window, the gentle
step, the rustling dress, and, more than all, the indescribable
something that tells us we are near those we love, bespoke her
coming--oh, the transport of that moment! With what a fervid glow of
pleasure I sprang to meet her, to touch her hand, to look upon her! How
rapidly, too, I endeavoured to speak my few words of greeting, lest her
father's coming might interfere with even this short-lived period
of happiness; and, after all, how little meaning were in the words
themselves, save in the tone I spoke them!

Then followed our rambles through the large but neglected garden, where
the rich blossoming fruit-tree scented the air, loaded with all the
fragrance of many a wild flower. Now strolling onwards, silent, but full
of thought, we trod some dark and shaded alley; now we entered upon some
open glade, where a view of the far-off mountains would break upon us,
or where some chance vista showed the deep-blue sunny sea swelling with
sullen roar against the rocky coast. How often, at such times as these,
have I asked myself if I could look for greater happiness than thus to
ramble on, turning from the stupendous majesty of Nature to look into
her eyes whose glance met mine so full of tender meaning, while words
would pass between us, few and low-voiced, but all so thrilling; their
very accents spoke of love!

Yet, amid all this, some agonising doubt would shoot across me that my
affection was not returned. The very frankness of her nature made me
fear; and when we parted at night, and I held my homeward way towards
the priest's cottage, I would stop from time to time, conning over every
word she spoke, calling to mind each trivial circumstance; and if by
accident some passing word of jest» some look of raillery, recurred to
my memory, how have the warm tears rushed to my eyes, as with my heart
full to bursting I muttered to myself, 'She loves me not!' These fears
would then give way to hope, as in my mind's eye she stood before me,
all beaming in smiles. And amid these alternate emotions, I trod my
lonely path, longing for the morrow when we should meet again, when I
vowed within my heart to end my life of doubt by asking if she loved me.
But with that morrow came the same spell of happiness that lulled me;
and like the gambler who had set his life upon the die, and durst not
throw, so did I turn with trembling fear from tempting the chance that
might in a moment dispel the bright dream of my existence, and leave
life bleak and barren to me for ever.

The month of August was drawing to a close, as we sauntered one fine
evening towards the sea-shore. There was a little path which wound round
the side of a bold crag, partly by steps, partly by a kind of sloping
way, defended at the sides by a rude wooden railing, which led down upon
the beach exactly at the spot where a well of clear spring-water sprang
up, and tracked its tiny stream into the blue ocean. This little spring,
which was always covered by the sea at high-water, was restored, on the
tide ebbing, to its former purity, and bubbled away as before; and from
this cause it had obtained from the simple peasantry the reputation of
being miraculous, and was believed to possess innumerable properties of
healing and consoling.

I had often heard of it but never visited it before; and thither we now
bent our steps, more intent upon catching the glorious sunset that was
glowing on the Atlantic than of testing the virtues of St. Senan's Well,
for so was it called. The evening, an autumnal one, was calm and still;
not a leaf stirred; the very birds were hushed; and there was all that
solemn silence that sometimes threatens the outbreak of a storm. As we
descended the crag, however, the deep booming of the sea broke upon us,
and between the foliage of the oak-trees we could mark the heavy rolling
of the mighty tide, as wave after wave swelled on, and then was dashed
in foam and spray upon the shore. There was something peculiarly grand
and almost supernatural in the heavy swell of the great sea, rearing
its white crest afar and thundering along the weather-beaten rocks, when
everything else was calm and unmoved around; the deep and solemn roar,
echoing from many a rocky cavern, rose amid the crashing spray that sent
up a thin veil of mist, through which the setting sun was reflected in
many a bright rainbow. It was indeed a glorious sight, and we stopped
for several minutes gazing on it; when suddenly Louisa, letting go my
arm, exclaimed, as she pointed downwards--

'See, see the swell beneath that large black rock yonder! The tide is
making fast; we must get quickly down if you wish to test St. Senan's
power.'

I had no time left me to ask what peculiar virtues the saint dispensed
through the mediation of his well, when she broke from my side and
hurried down the steep descent. In a moment we had reached the shore,
upon which already the tide was fast encroaching, and had marked with
its dark stain the yellow sand within a few feet of the well. As we drew
nearer, I perceived the figure of an old woman hent with age, who seemed
busily occupied sprinkling the water of the spring over something that,
as I came closer, seemed like a sailor's jacket. She was repeating
some words rapidly to herself; but on hearing our approach, she quickly
collected her bundle together under her remnant of a cloak, and sat
waiting our approach in silence.

'It's Molly Ban!' said Louisa suddenly, and growing pale as she spoke.
'Give her something, if you have any money, I beseech you.'

There was no opportunity for inquiring further about her now, for the
old woman slowly rose from the stone by the aid of a stick, and stood
confronting us. Her figure was singularly short, scarce four feet in
height; but her head was enormously large, and her features, which were
almost terrific in ugliness, were swarthy as a gypsy's. A man's hat was
fastened upon her head by a red kerchief which was knotted beneath her
chin; a short cloak of faded scarlet, like what the peasantry of the
west usually wear, covered her shoulders, beneath which a patched and
many-coloured petticoat appeared, that reached to the middle of her
legs, which, as well as her feet, were completely naked, giving the old
woman a look of wildness and poverty which I cannot attempt to convey.
The most singular part of her costume, however, was a rude collar she
wore round her neck of sea-shells, among which, here and there, I could
detect some bits of painted and gilded carving, like fragments of a
wreck. This strange apparition now stood opposite me, her dark eyes
fixed steadily on my companion, to whom, unlike the people of the
country, she never made the slightest reverence, or showed any semblance
of respect.

'And was it to spy after me, Miss Loo, ye brought down yer sweetheart
to the well this evening?' said the hag, in a harsh, grating voice, that
seemed the very last effort of some suppressed passion.

Louisa's arm grasped mine, and I could feel it tremble with agitation as
she whispered in my ear--

'Give her money quickly; I know her.'

'And is your father going to send me back to jail because the cattle's
got the rot amongst them? Ha, ha, ha!' said she, breaking into a wild,
discordant laugh. 'There will be more mourning than for that at Castle
Bellew before long.'

Louisa leaned against me, faint and almost falling, while drawing out my
purse hastily I held forth my hand full of silver. The old hag clutched
at it eagerly, and as her dark eyes flashed fire, she thrust the money
into a pocket at her side, and again broke out into a horrid laugh.

'So, you're beginnin' to know me, are ye? Ye won't mock Molly Ban now,
eh? No, 'faith, nor Mary Lafferty either, that turned me from the door
and shut it agin me. Where 'll her pride be to-morrow night, when they
bring in her husband a corpse to her? Look at that!'

With these words she threw her cloak on one side, and showed the blue
jacket of a fisherman which I had seen her sprinkling with the water as
we came up.

'The blue water will be his winding-sheet this night, calm as it is
now.'

'Oh, Molly dear, don't speak this way!'

'Molly dear!' echoed the beldame, in an accent of biting derision. 'Who
ever heerd one of your name call me that? Or are ye come for a charm
for that young man beside you? See, now! the sun's just gone; in a minit
more the sea 'll be in, and it'll be too late. Here, come near me! kneel
down there! kneel down, I say! or is it only my curse ye mind?'

'She's mad, poor thing,' said I, in my companion's ear. 'Let her have
her way; do as she bids you.'

Sinking with terror, pale as death, and trembling all over, Louisa bent
one knee upon the little rock beside the well, while the old hag took
her fair hand within her own skinny fingers and plunged it rudely in the
well.

'There, drink,' said the old woman, offering me the fair palm, through
which the clear water was running rapidly, while she chanted rather than
spoke the rude rhyme that follows--

               'By the setting sun,
               The flowing sea,
               The waters that run,
               I swear to thee
     That my faith shall be true, at this moment now,
     In weal or in woe, wherever or how:
     So help me, Saint Senan, to keep my vow!'

The last words had scarcely been uttered when Louisa, who apparently had
been too much overcome by terror to hear one word the hag had muttered,
sprang up from the stone, her face and neck covered with a deep blush,
her lip trembling with agitation, while her eyes were fixedly directed
towards the old woman with an expression of haughty anger.

'Ay, ye may look as proud as ye like. It's little I mind ye, in love
or in hate. Ye are well humbled enough now. And as for you,' said she,
turning towards me a look of scornful pity--'you, I wish ye joy of your
fair sweetheart; let her only keep her troth like her own mother, and
ye'll have a happy heart to sit at your fireside with.'

[Illustration: 442]

The blood fled from Louisa's cheek as these words were uttered; a deadly
paleness spread over her features; her lips were bloodless and parted;
and her hands firmly clenched together and pressed against her side,
bespoke the agony of the moment. It lasted not longer; for she fell back
fainting and insensible into my arms. I bathed her face and temples
from the well; I called upon her, rubbed her hands within my own, and
endeavoured by every means to arouse her; but in vain. I turned to beg
for aid from the woman, but she was gone. I again endeavoured to awake
Louisa from her stupor, but she lay cold, rigid, and motionless; her
features had stiffened like a corpse, and showed no touch of life.
I shouted aloud for aid; but, alas! we were far from all human
habitations, and the wild cries of the curlew were the only sounds
that met my ear, or the deep rushing of the sea, as it broke nearer and
nearer to where I stood. A sudden pang of horror shot across me as I
looked around and below, and saw no chance of aid from any quarter.
Already the sun was below the horizon, and the grey twilight gave but
gloomy indications all around. The sea, too, was coming fast; the foam
had reached us, and even now the salt tide had mingled its water with
the little spring. No more time was to be lost. A projecting point of
rock intervened between us and the little path by which we had descended
to the beach; over this the spray was now splashing, and its base was
only to be seen at intervals between the advancing or retiring wave.
A low, wailing sound, like distant wind, was creeping over the water,
which from time to time was curled along the round-backed wave with all
the threatening aspect of a coming storm; the sea-birds wheeled round in
circles, waking the echoes with their wild notes, and the heavy swell
of the breaking sea roared through many a rocky cavern with a sad and
mournful melody. I threw one last look above, where the tall beetling
cliff was lost in the gloom of coming night, another on the broad bleak
ocean, and then, catching up my companion in my arms, set forward.

For the first few moments I felt not my burden. My beating heart
throbbed proudly, and as I pressed her to my bosom, how I nerved myself
for any coming danger by the thought that all the world to me lay in
my arms! Every step, however, brought me farther out; the sea, which
at first washed only to my ankles, now reached my knees; my step became
unsteady, and when for an instant I turned one look on her who lay still
and insensible within my grasp, I felt my head reel and my sight wander
as I again looked out on the dark water that rolled around us. We were
now near the rocky point which, once passed, placed us in safely; and to
reach this I summoned up every effort. Around this the waves had worn
a deeper track, and against its side they heat and lashed themselves to
foam, which boiled in broad sheets around. A loud cheer from some one
on the cliff above us turned my glance upwards, and I could see lights
moving backwards and forwards through the darkness; before I could reply
to the voice, however, a large wave came mantling near, gathering force
as it approached, and swelling its gigantic mass so as to shut out
all besides. I fixed myself firmly to resist the shock, and slightly
bending, opposed my shoulder to the mighty roll of water that now
towered like a wall above us. On it came, till its dark crest frowned
above our heads; for a second or two it seemed to pause, as the white
curl tipped its breaking edge, and then, with a roll like thunder, broke
over us. For an instant I held my footing; at length, however, my step
tottered; I felt myself lifted up, and then hurled headlong beneath
the swollen volume of water that closed above my head. Stunned, but
not senseless, I grasped my burden closer to my heart, and struggled to
regain my footing. The wave passed inwards as I rose to my feet, and
a sea of boiling foam hissed around me. Beyond, all was dim and
indistinct; a brooding darkness stretched towards the sea, and landward
the tall cliffs were wrapped in deep shadow, except when the light that
I had seen flitted from place to place, like the dancing wildfire. A
loud cheer from on high made me suppose that we were perceived; but my
attention was turned away by a low, moaning sound that came floating
over the water; and as I looked, I could see that the black surface
swelled upwards, as if by some mighty force beneath, and rose towering
into the air. The wave that now approached us was much greater than the
former one, and came thundering on as if impatient for its prey. My fear
was of being carried out to sea, and I looked hastily around for some
rocky point to hold on by; but in vain. The very sands beneath me seemed
moving and shifting; the voice of thunder was in my ears; my senses
reeled, and the thought of death by drowning, with all its agony, came
over me.

'Oh, my father! my poor father!' said a low, plaintive voice beside
my cheek; and the next instant the blood rushed warm to my heart. My
courage rallied; my arm grew nerved and strong; my footsteps seemed to
grasp the very ground, and with a bold and daring spirit I waited for
the coming shock. On it came, a mighty flood, sweeping high above us
as we struggled in the midst. The blue water moved on, unbroken; for a
moment or two I felt we were borne along with a whirlwind speed; then
suddenly we touched the strand--but only for a second, for the returning
wave came thundering back, and carried us along with it. My senses now
began to wander; the dark and gloomy sea stretched around us; the stars
seemed to flit to and fro; the roar of water and the sounds of human
voices were mingled in my ears; my strength, too, was failing me, and
I buffeted the waves with scarcely consciousness. Just at that moment,
when, all dread of danger past, the gloomy indifference to life was
fast succeeding, I saw a bright gleam of light flying rapidly across the
water; the shouts of voices reached me also, but the words I heard not.
Now falling beneath, now rising above the foamy surface, I struggled on,
with only strength to press home closer to my bosom the form of her my
heart was filled by, when of a sudden I felt my arm rudely grasped on
either side. A rope, too, was thrown around my waist, and I was hurried
inwards towards the shore amid cries of 'All safe! all safe! not too
fast, there!' A dreary indistinctness of what followed even still haunts
my mind. A huge wood-fire upon the beach, the figures of the fishermen,
the country-people passing hither and thither, the tumult of voices, and
a rude chair in which lay a pale, half-fainting form. The rest I know
not.

It was dark--so dark I could not see the persons that moved beside me.
As we passed along the grassy turf in silence, I held a soft hand in
mine, and a fair cheek rested on my shoulder, while masses of long
and dripping hair fell on my neck and bosom. Carried by two stout
peasant-fishermen in a chair, Louisa Bellew, faint but conscious of the
danger past, was borne homeward. I walked beside her, my heart too full
for words. A loud, wild cheer burst suddenly forth, and a bright gleam
of light aroused me from my trance of happiness. The steps were crowded
with people, the large hall so full we scarce could force our way. The
door of the parlour was now thrown open, and there sat the pale, gaunt
figure of Sir Simon Bellew--his eyes staring wildly, and his lips
parted; his hands resting on each arm of his chair--motionless.

Bursting from those that carried her, Louisa sprang towards her father
with a cry; but ere she reached his arms he had fallen from his seat to
his knees, and with his hands clasped above his head, and upturned eyes,
poured forth a prayer to God. Sinking to his side, she twined her hands
with his; and as if moved by the magic of the scene, the crowd fell to
their knees, and joined in the thanksgiving. It was a moment of deep and
touching feeling to hear the slow, scarce articulate words of that old
man, who turned from the sight of her his heart treasured to thank the
great Father of Mercy, who had not left him childless in his age--to
mark the low sobs of those around, as they strove to stifle them, while
tears coursed down the hard and weather-beaten cheeks of humble
poverty, as they muttered to themselves their heartfelt thanks for her
preservation. There was a pause; the old man turned his eyes upon his
child, and, like a dammed-up torrent breaking forth, the warm tears
gushed out, and with a cry of 'My own--my only one!' he fell upon her
neck and wept.

I could hear no more. Springing to my feet, I dashed through the hall,
and resisting every effort to detain me, rushed down the steps and
gained the lawn. Once there alone, I sank down upon the sward, and
poured forth my heart in tears of happiness.

CHAPTER XXXIX. AN UNLOOKED-FOR MEETING

I made many ineffectual efforts to awake on the morning after my
adventure. Fatigue and exhaustion, which seem always heaviest when
incurred by danger, had completely worn me out, and scarcely had I
succeeded in opening my eyes and muttering some broken words, ere again
I dropped off to sleep, soundly, and without a dream. It was late in
the afternoon when at length I sat up in my bed and looked about me. A
gentle hand suddenly fell upon my shoulder, and a low voice, which I at
once recognised as Father Tom's, whispered--

'There now, my dear fellow, lie down again. You must not stir for a
couple of hours yet.'

I looked at him fixedly for a moment, and, as I clasped his hand in
mine, asked--

'How is she, father?'

Scarcely were these words spoken when I felt a burning blush upon my
cheek. It was the confidence of long months that found vent in one
second--the pent-up secret of my heart that burst from me unconsciously,
and I hid my face upon the pillow, and felt as though I had betrayed
her.

'Well--quite well,' said the old man, as he pressed my hand forcibly in
his own. 'But let us not speak now. You must take more rest, and then
have your arm looked to. I believe you have forgotten all about it.'

'My arm!' repeated I, in some surprise; while, turning down the clothes,
I perceived that my right arm was sorely bruised, and swollen to
an immense size. 'The rocks have done this,' muttered I. 'And she,
father--what of her, for heaven's sake?'

'Be calm, or I must leave you,' said the priest 'I said before that she
was well. Poor boy!'

There was something so touching in the tone of the last words that
without my knowing why, I felt a kind of creeping fear pass across me,
and a dread of some unknown evil steal over me.

'Father,' said I, springing up, and grasping him with both my hands,
while the pain of my wounded arm shot through my very heart, 'you are
an honest man, and you are a man of God: you would not tell me a lie. Is
she well?' The big drop fell from my brow as I spoke.

He clasped his hands fervently together as he replied, in a voice
tremulous with agitation, 'I have not told you a lie!' He turned away
as he spoke, and I lay down in my bed with a mind relieved, but not at
rest.

Alas, how hard it is to be happy! The casualties of this world come on
like waves, one succeeding the other. We may escape the heavy roll of
the mighty ocean, and be wrecked in the still, smooth waters of the
landlocked bay. We dread the storm and the hurricane, and we forget how
many have perished within sight of shore. But yet a secret fear is
ever present with us when danger hovers near; and this sense of some
impending evil it was which now darkened me, and whispered me to be
prepared.

I lay for some time sunk in my reflections, and when I looked up, the
priest was gone. A letter had fallen on the floor, as if by accident»
and I rose to place it on my table, when, to my surprise, I found it
addressed to myself. It was marked 'On His Majesty's service,' and ran
thus:--

     'Dublin Castle.

     'Sir,--I have received his Excellency's
     orders to inform you that unless you, on receipt of the
     present letter, at once return to your duty as a member of
     the staff, your name will be erased from the list, and the
     vacancy immediately filled up.--I have the honour to be,
     etc.,

     'Henry Horton.'

What could have caused the great alteration in his Excellency's feelings
that this order evinced I could not conceive, and I felt hurt and
indignant at the tone of a letter which came on me so completely by
surprise. I knew, however, how much my father looked to my strict
obedience to every call of duty, and resolved that, come what would, I
should at once resume my position on the duke's staff.

These were but momentary reflections. My thoughts recurred at once to
where my heart was dwelling---with her whose very image lived within
me. Try how I would, I could think of no pleasure in which she took not
part, imagine no scheme of life in which she was not concerned. Ambition
had lost its charm; the path of glory I had longed to tread, I felt now
as nothing beside that heather walk which led me towards her; and if
I were to have chosen between the most brilliant career high station,
influence, and fortune could bestow, and the lowly condition of a
dweller in these wild mountain solitudes, I felt that not a moment of
hesitation or doubt would mark my decision. There was a kind of
heroism in the relinquishing all the blandishments of fortune, all the
seductions of the brilliant world, for one whose peaceful and humble
life strayed not beyond the limits of these rugged mountains; and this
had its charm. There were times when I loved to ask myself whether
Louisa Bellew would not, even amid all the splendour and display of
London life, be as much admired and courted as the most acknowledged
of beauty's daughters: now I turned rather to the thought of how far
happier and better it was to know that a nature so unhackneyed, a heart
so rich in its own emotions, was never to be exposed to the callous
collision of society and all the hardened hypocrisy of the world. My
own lot, too, how many more chances of happiness did it not present as
I looked at the few weeks of the past, and thought of whole years thus
gliding away, loving and beloved!

A kind of stir, and the sound of voices beneath my window, broke my
musings, and I rose and looked out. It proceeded from the young girl
and the country lad who formed the priest's household. They were talking
together before the door, and pointing in the direction of the highroad,
where a cloud of dust had marked the passage of some carriage--an event
rare enough to attract attention in these wild districts.

'And did his reverence say that the Captain was to be kept in bed till
he came back?'

'Ah, then, sure, he knew well enough,' said Mary, 'that the young man
would be up and off to the castle the moment he was able to walk--ay,
and maybe before it too. Troth, Patsey, it's what I'm thinking--there's
nobody knows how to coort like a raal gentleman.'

'Och, botheration!' said Patsey, with an offended toss of his head, and
a look of half malice.

'Faix, you may look how you like, but it's truth I'm telling ye. They
know how to do it. It isn't winking at a body, nor putting their great
rough arms round their neck; but it's a quiet, mannerly, dacent way they
have, and soothering voice, and a look under their eyes, as much as to
say, “Maybe ye wouldn't, now?”'

'Troth, Mary,' said Patsey sharply, 'it strikes me that you know more of
their ways than is just convenient--eh, do you understand me now?'

'Well, and if I do,' replied Mary, 'there's no one can be evenin' it to
you, for I'm sure it wasn't you taught me!'

'Ye want to provoke me,' said the young man, rising, and evidently
more annoyed than he felt disposed to confess; 'but, faix, I'll keep my
temper. It's not after spaking to his reverence, and buying a cow and a
dresser, that I 'm going to break it off.'

'Heigh-ho!' said Mary, as she adjusted a curl that was most coquettishly
half falling across her eyes; 'sure there's many a slip betune the cup
and the lip, as the poor dear young gentleman will find out when he
wakes.'

A cold fear ran through me as I heard these words, and the presentiment
of some mishap, that for a few moments I had been forgetting, now came
back in double force. I set about dressing myself in all haste, and,
notwithstanding that my wounded arm interfered with me at each instant,
succeeded at last in my undertaking. I looked at my watch; it was
already six o'clock in the afternoon, and the large mountains were
throwing their great shadows over the yellow strand. Collecting from
what I had heard from the priest's servants that it was their intention
to detain me in the house, I locked my door on leaving the room, and
stole noiselessly down the stairs, crossed the little garden, and
passing through the beech hedge, soon found myself upon the mountain
path. My pace quickened as I breasted the hillside, my eyes firmly fixed
upon the tall towers of the old castle, as they stood proudly topping
the dense foliage of the oak-trees. Like some mariner who gazes on the
long-wished-f or beacon that tells of home and friends, so I bent my
steadfast looks to that one object, and conjured up many a picture to
myself of the scene that might be at that moment enacting there. Now I
imagined the old man seated, silent and motionless, beside the bed where
his daughter, overcome with weakness and exhaustion, still slept, her
pale face scarce coloured by a pinkish flush that marked the last trace
of feverish excitement; now I thought of her as if still seated in
her own drawing-room, at the little window that faced seaward, looking
perhaps upon the very spot that marked our last night's adventure, and,
mayhap, blushing at the memory.

As I came near the park I turned from the regular approach to a small
path, which, opening by a wicket, led to a little flower-garden beside
the drawing-room. I had not walked many paces when the sound of some one
sobbing caught my ear. I stopped to listen, and could distinctly hear
the low broken voice of grief quite near me. My mind was in that excited
state when every breeze that rustled, every leaf that stirred, thrilled
through my heart; the same dread of something, I knew not what, that
agitated me as I awoke came fresh upon me, and a cold tremor crept over
me. The next moment I sprang forward, and as I turned the angle of the
walk beheld--with what relief of heart!--that the cries proceeded from
a little child, who, seated in the grass, was weeping bitterly. It was
a boy of scarce five years old that Louisa used to employ about the
garden--rather to amuse the little fellow, to whom she had taken a
liking, than for the sake of services which at the best were scarcely
harmless.

'Well, Billy,' said I, 'what has happened to you, my boy? Have you
fallen and hurt yourself?'

'Na,' was the only reply; and sinking his head between his knees, he
sobbed more bitterly than ever.

'Has Miss Loo been angry with you, then?'

'Na, na,' was the only answer, as he poured forth a flood of tears.

'Come, come, my little man, what is it? Tell me, and perhaps we can set
it all to rights.'

'Gone! gone away for ever!' cried the child, as a burst of pent-up agony
broke from him; and he cried as though his very heart would break.

Again the terrible foreboding crossed my mind, and without waiting to
ask another question I rushed forward, cleared the little fence of the
flower-garden at a spring and stood within a few yards of the window.
It lay open as usual; the large china vase of moss-roses that she
had plucked the evening before stood on the little table beside it.
I stopped for an instant to breathe; the beating of my heart was so
painful that I pressed my hand upon my side. At that instant I had given
my life to have heard Louisa's voice; but for one single word I had
bartered my heart's blood. But all was as hushed and still as midnight.
I thought I did hear something like a sigh; yes, and now I could
distinctly hear the rustling sound of some one as if turning in a chair.
Sir Simon Bellew, for some cause, or other, I knew never came into that
room. I listened again: yes, and now too I could see the shadow of
a figure on the floor. I sprang forward to the window and cried out,
'Louisa!' The next instant I was in the room, and my eyes fell upon the
figure of--Ulick Burke! Seated in a deep arm-chair, his leg resting on a
low stool, he was reclining at half-length, his face pale as death, and
his very lips blanched; but there rested on the mouth the same curl of
insolent mockery that marked it when first we met.

'Disappointed, I fear, sir,' said he, in a tone which, however weakened
by sickness, had lost nothing of its sneering bitterness.

'I confess, sir,' said I confusedly, 'that this is a pleasure I had not
anticipated.'

'Nor I either, sir,' replied he, with a dark frown. 'Had I been able to
ring the bell before, the letter that lies there should have been sent
to you, and might have spared both of us this “pleasure,” as you are
good enough to call it.'

'A letter for me?' said I eagerly; then half ashamed at my own emotion,
and not indifferent to the sickly and apparently dying form before me, I
hesitated, and added, 'I trust that you are recovering from the effects
of your wound.'

[Illustration: 3-008]

'Damn the wound, sir; don't speak to me about it! You never came
here for that, I suppose? Take your letter, sir!' A purple flush here
coloured his features, as though some pang of agonising pain had shot
through him, and his livid lip quivered with passion. 'Take your letter,
sir!' and he threw it towards me as he spoke.

I stood amazed and thunderstruck at this sudden outbreak of anger, and
for a second or two could not recover myself to speak. 'You mistake me,'
said I.

'Mistake you? No, confound me! I don't mistake you; I know you well and
thoroughly! But you mistake me, ay, and damnably too, if you suppose
that because I 'm crippled here this insolence shall pass unpunished!
Who but a coward, sir, would come thus to taunt a man like me? Yes, sir,
a coward! I spoke it--I said it! Would you like to hear it over again?
Or if you don't like it, the remedy is near you--nearer than you think.
There are two pistols in that case, both loaded with ball; take your
choice, and your own distance; and here, where we are, let us finish
this quarrel! For, mark me!' and here his brow darkened, till the veins,
swelled and knotted in his forehead, looked like indigo--'mark me, the
account shall be closed one day or other!'

I saw at once that he had lashed his fury up to an ungovernable pitch,
and that to speak to him was only to increase his passion; so I stooped
down without saying a word, and took up the letter that lay at my feet.

'I am waiting your reply, sir,' said he, with a low voice, subdued by an
inward effort into a seeming quietness of tone.

'You cannot imagine,' said I mildly, 'that I could accept of such a
challenge as this, nor fight with a man who cannot leave his chair?'

'And who has made me so, sir? Who has made me a paralytic thing for
life? But if that be all, give me your arm, and help me through that
window; place me against that yew-tree, yonder. I can stand well enough.
You won't?--you refuse me this? Oh, coward! coward! You grow pale and
red again! Let your white lip mutter, and your nails eat into your hands
with passion! Your heart is craven, and you know it!'

Shall I dare to own it? For an instant or two my resolution tottered,
and involuntarily my eyes turned to the pistol-case upon the table
beside me. He caught the look, and in a tone of triumphant exultation
cried out--

'Bravo, bravo! What! you hesitate again? Oh, that this should not be
before the world--in some open and public place--that men should not
look on and see us here!'

'I leave you, sir,' said I sternly--'thankful, for _your_ sake at least,
that this is not before the world.'

'Stop, sir! stop!' cried he, hoarse with rage. 'Ring that bell!' I
hesitated, and he called out again, 'Ring that bell, sir!'

I approached the chimney, and did as he desired. The butler immediately
made his appearance.

'Nicholas,' cried the sick man, 'bring in the servants--bring them in
here; you hear me well. I want to show them something they have never
seen. Go!'

The man disappeared at once, and as I met the scowling look of hate that
fixed its glare upon me, once more I felt myself to waver. The struggle
was but momentary. I sprang to the window, and leaped into the garden.
A loud curse broke from Burke as I did so; a cry of disappointed wrath,
like the yell of a famished wolf, followed. The next moment I was beyond
the reach of his insolence and his invective.

The passionate excitement of the moment over, my first determination was
to gain the approach, and return to the house by the hall door; my next,
to break the seal of the letter which I held in my hand, and see if its
contents might not throw some light upon the events which somehow I
felt were thickening around me, but of whose nature and import I knew
nothing.

The address was written in a stiff, old-fashioned hand; but the large
seal bore the arms of the Bellew family, and left no doubt upon my
mind that it had come from Sir Simon. I opened it with a trembling and
throbbing heart, and read as follows:--

'My dear Sir,--The event of last night has called back upon a failing
and broken memory the darkest hour of a long and blighted life, and made
the old man, whose steadfast gaze looked onward to the tomb, turn once
backward to behold the deepest affliction of his days--misfortune,
crime, remorse. I cannot even now, while already the very shadow of
death is on me, recount the sad story I allude to; enough for the object
I have in view if I say, that, where I once owed the life of one I held
dearest in the world, the hand that saved lived to steal, and the voice
that blessed me was perjured and forsworn. Since that hour I have never
received a service of a fellow-mortal, until the hour when you rescued
my child. And oh! loving her as I do, wrapped up as my soul is in her
image, I could have borne better to see her cold and dripping corpse
laid down beside me than to behold her, as I have done, in your arms.
You must never meet more. The dreadful anticipation of long-suffering
years is creeping stronger and stronger upon me; and I feel in my inmost
heart that I am reserved for another and a last bereavement ere I die.

'We shall have left before this letter reaches you. You may perhaps
hear the place of our refuge, for such it is; but I trust that to your
feelings as a gentleman and a man of honour I can appeal, in the certain
confidence that you will not abuse my faith--you will not follow us.

'I know not what I have written, nor dare I read it again. Already my
tears have dimmed my eyes, and are falling on the paper; so let me bid
you farewell--an eternal fare well. My nephew has arrived here. I have
not seen him, nor shall I; but he will forward this letter to you after
our departure.--Yours, S. Bellew.'

The first stunning feeling past, I looked round me to see if it were not
some horrid dream, and the whole events but the frightful deception of a
sleeping fancy. But bit by bit the entire truth broke upon me; the
full tide of sorrow rushed in upon my heart. The letter I could not
comprehend further than that some deep affliction had been recalled
by my late adventure. But then, the words of the hag--the brief,
half-uttered intimations of the priest--came to my memory. 'Her mother,'
said I--'what of her mother?' I remembered Louisa had never mentioned
or even alluded to her; and now a thousand suspicions crossed my mind,
which all gave way before my own sense of bereavement and the desolation
and desertion I felt, in my own heart. I threw myself upon the ground
where she walked so often beside me, and burst into tears. But a few
brief hours, and how surrounded by visions of happiness and lovet Now,
bereft of everything, what charm had life for me! How valueless, how
worthless did all seem! The evening sun I loved to gaze on, the bright
flowers, the waving grass, the low murmur of the breaking surf that
stole like music over the happy sense, were now but gloomy things or
discordant sounds. The very high and holy thoughts that used to stir
within me were changed to fierce and wrathful passions or the low
drooping of despair. It was night, still and starry night, when I arose
and wended my way towards the priest's cottage.

CHAPTER XL. THE PRIEST'S KITCHEN

The candles were burning brightly, and the cheerful bog-fire was blazing
on the hearth, as I drew near the window of the priest's cottage; but
yet there was no one in the room. The little tea-kettle was hissing on
the hob, and the room had all that careful look of watchful attention
bestowed upon it that showed, the zeal of his little household.

Uncertain how I should meet him, how far explain the affliction that
had fallen on me, I walked for some time up and down before the door;
at length I wandered to the back of the house, and passing the little
stable, I remarked that the pony was absent. The priest had not returned
perhaps since morning; perhaps he had gone some distance off--in all
likelihood accompanied the Bellews; again the few words he had spoken
that morning recurred to me, and I pondered in silence over their
meaning. As I thus mused, a strong flood of mellow light attracted me as
it fell in a broad stream across the little paved court, and I now saw
that it came from the kitchen. I drew near the window in silence, and
looked in. Before the large turf-fire were seated three persons; two
of them, who sat in the shining light, I at once recognised as the
servants; but the third was concealed in the shadow of the chimney, and
I could only trace the outline of his figure against the blaze. I was
not long, however, in doubt as to his identity.

'Seemingly, then, you're a great traveller,' said Patsey, the priest's
man, addressing the unknown.

A long whiff of smoke, patiently emitted, and a polite wave of the hand
in assent was the reply.

'And how far did you come to-day, av I might be so bould?' said Mary.

'From the cross of Kiltermon, beyond Gurtmore, my darlin'; and sure
it is a real pleasure and a delight to come so far to see as pretty a
crayture as yourself.' Here Patsey looked a little put out, and Mary
gave a half smile of encouragement. 'For,' continued the other, breaking
into a song--

     'Though I love a fox in a cover to find,
     When the clouds is low, with a sou'west wind,
     Faix, a pretty girl is more to my mind
     Than the tally-high-ho of a morning.'

I need scarcely say that the finale of this rude verse was given in a
way that only Tipperary Joe could accomplish, as he continued--

     'And just show me one with an instep high,
     A saucy look, and a roguish eye,
     Who 'd smile ten times for once she 'd sigh,
     And I'm her slave till morning.'

'And that's yoursel', devil a less--ye ho, ye ho, tally-ho! I hope the
family isn't in bed?'

'Troth, seemingly,' said Patsey, in a tone of evident pique, 'it would
distress you little av they were; you seem mighty well accustomed to
making yourself at home.'

'And why wouldn't the young man?' said Mary, apparently well pleased
to encourage a little jealousy on the part of her lover, 'and no harm
neither. And ye do be always with the hounds, sir?'

'Yes, miss, that's what I be doing. But I wonder what's keeping the
Captain; I've a letter here for him that I know ought to have no delay.
I run all the way for fourteen miles over Mey'nacurraghew mountain to be
here quick with him.'

I opened the door as I heard this, and entered the kitchen.

'Hurroo! by the mortial,' cried Joe, with one of his wild shouts, 'it 's
himself! Arrah, darlin', how is every bit in your skin?'

'Well, Joe, my poor fellow, I am delighted to see you safe and sound
once more. Many a day have I reproached myself for the way you suffered
for my sake, and for the manner I left you.'

'There's only one thing you have any rayson to grieve over,' said the
poor fellow, as the tears started to his eyes, and rolled in heavy drops
down his cheeks, 'and here it is.'

As he spoke, he drew from his bosom a little green-silk purse, half
filled with gold.

'Ah, Captain, jewel, why wouldn't you let a poor fellow taste happiness
his own way? Is it because I had no shoes on me that I hadn't any pride
in my heart? And is it because I wasn't rich that you wouldn't let me
be a friend to you, just to myself alone? Oh, little as we know of grand
people and their ways, troth, they don't see our hearts half as plain.
See, now I 'd rather you 'd have come up to the bed that morning and
left me your curse--ay, devil a less--than that purse of money; and it
wouldn't do me as much harm.'

He dropped his head as he spoke, and his arms fell listlessly to his
side, while he stood mute and sorrow-struck before me.

'Come, Joe,' said I, holding out my hand to him--'come, Joe, forgive me.
If I didn't know better, remember we were only new acquaintance at that
time: from this hour we are more.'

The words seemed to act like a spell upon him; he stood proudly up, and
his eyes flashed with their wildest glare, while, seizing my hand, he
pressed it to his lips, and called out--

'While there's a drop in my heart, darlin'----'

'You have a letter for me,' said I, glad to turn the channel of both our
thoughts. 'Where did you get it?'

'At the Curragh, sir, no less. I was standing beside the staff, among
all the grand generals and the quality, near the Lord Liftinint, and
I heard one of the officers say, “If I knew where to write to him, I'd
certainly do so; but he has never written to any of us since his duel.”
 “Ah,” said another, “Binton's an odd fellow that way.” The minit I heard
the name, I up and said to him, “Write the letter, and I'll bring it,
and bring you an answer besides, av ye want it.”

'“And who the devil are you?” said he.

'“Troth,” said I, “there's more on this race knows me nor yourself, fine
as ye are.” And they all began laughing at this, for the officer grew
mighty red in the face, and was angry; and what he was going to say it's
hard to tell, for just then Lord Clonmel called out--

'“Sure, it's Tipperary Joe himself; begad, every one knows him. Here,
Joe, I owe you half-a-crown since last meeting at the lough.”

'“Faix, you do,” says I, “and ten shillings to the back of it for Lanty
Cassan's mare that I hired to bring you home when you staked the horse;
you never paid it since.” And then there was another laugh; but the end
of all was, he writ a bit of a note where he was on horseback, with a
pencil, and here it is.'

So saying, he produced a small crumpled piece of paper, in which I could
with some difficulty trace the following lines:--

'Dear Jack,--If the fool who bears this ever arrives with it, come back
at once. Your friends in England have been worrying the duke to command
your return to duty; and there are stories afloat about your western
doings that your presence here can alone contradict.--Yours, J. Horton.'

It needed not a second for me to make up my mind as to my future course,
and I said--

'How can I reach Limerick the shortest way?' 'I know a short cut,' said
Joe, 'and if we could get a pony I'd bring you over the mountain before
to-morrow evening.'

'And you,' said I--'how are you to go?' 'On my feet, to be sure; how
else would I go?' Despatching Joe, in company with Patsey, in search of
a pony to carry me over the mountain, I walked into the little parlour
which I was now about to take my leave of for ever.

It was only then when I threw myself upon a seat, alone and in solitude,
that I felt the full force of all my sorrow--the blight that had fallen
on my dearest hopes, and the blank, bleak prospect of life before me.
Sir Simon Bellew's letter I read over once more; but now the mystery it
contained had lost all interest for me, and I had only thoughts for my
own affliction. Suddenly, a deep burning spot glowed on my cheek as I
remembered my interview with Ulick Burke, and I sprang to my legs, and
for a second or two felt undecided whether I would not give him the
opportunity he so longed for. It was but a second, and my better reason
came back, and I blushed even deeper with shame than I had done with
passion.

Calming myself with a mighty effort, I endeavoured to pen a few lines to
my worthy and kind friend, Father Loftus. I dared not tell him the real
cause of my departure, though indeed I guessed from his absence that he
had accompanied the Bellews, and but simply spoke of my return to duty
as imperative, and my regret that after such proofs of his friendship I
could not shake his hand at parting. The continued flurry of my feelings
doubtless made this a very confused and inexplicit document; but I could
do no better. In fact, the conviction I had long been labouring under,
but never could thoroughly appreciate, broke on me at the moment. It
was this: the sudden vicissitudes of everyday life in Ireland are sadly
unsuited to our English natures and habits of thought and action. These
changes from grave to gay, these outbreaks of high-souled enthusiasm
followed by dark, reflective traits of brooding thought, these noble
impulses of good, these events of more than tragic horror, demand a
changeful, even a forgetful temperament to bear them; and while the
Irishman rises or falls with every emergency of his fate, with us
impressions are eating deeper and deeper into our hearts, and we become
sad and thoughtful, and prematurely old. Thus at least did I feel, and
it seemed to me as though very many years had passed over me since I
left my father's house.

The tramp of feet and the sounds of speaking and laughter outside
interrupted my musings, and I heard my friend Joe carolling at the top
of his voice--

     'Sir Pat bestrode a high-bred steed,
     And the huntsman one that was broken-kneed,
     And Father Pitz had a wiry weed
     With his tally-high-ho in the morning.'

''Faith, and you're a great beast entirely; and one might dance a jig on
your back, and leave room for the piper besides.'

I opened the window, and in the bright moonlight beheld the party
leading up a short, rugged-looking pony, whose breadth of beam and
square proportions fully justified all Joe's encomiums.

'Have you bought this pony for me, Joe?' cried I. 'No, sir, only
borrowed him. He'll take you up to Wheley's mills, where we'll get
Andy's mare to-morrow morning.'

'Borrowed him?' 'Yes.'

'Where 's his owner?'

'He 's in bed, where he ought to be. I tould him through the door who it
was for, and that he needn't get up, as I 'd find the ways of the place
myself; and ye see so I did.'

'Told him who it was for! Why, he never heard of me in his life.'

'Devil may care; sure you're the priest's friend, and who has a better
warrant for everything in the place? Don't you know the song--

     “And Father Fitz had no cows nor sheep,
     And the devil a hen or pig to keep;
     But a pleasanter house to dine or sleep
     You 'd never find till morning.”

     “For Molly, says he, if the fowls be few,
     I 've only one counsel to give to you:
     There's hens hard by--go kill for two,
     For I 've a friend till morning.”

By the Rock of Cashel, it 'ud be a hard case av the priest was to want.
Look how the ould saddle fits him! faix, ye 'd think he was made for
it!'

I am not quite sure that I felt all Joe's enthusiasm for the beast's
perfections; nor did the old yeomanry 'demi-pique,' with its brass
mountings and holsters, increase my admiration. Too happy, however, to
leave a spot where all my recollections were now turned to gloom and
despondence, I packed my few traps, and was soon ready for the road.

It was not without a gulping feeling in my throat, and a kind of
suffocating oppression at my heart, that I turned from the little room
where in happier times I had spent so many pleasant hours, and bidding a
last good-bye to the priest's household, told them to say to Father Tom
how sad I felt at leaving before he returned. This done, I mounted the
little pony, and escorted by Joe, who held the bridle, descended the
hill, and soon found myself by the little rivulet that murmured along
the steep glen through which our path was lying.

CHAPTER XLI. TIPPERARY JOE

I have already passingly alluded to Joe's conversational powers; and
certainly they were exercised on this occasion with a more than common
ability. Either taking my silence as a suggestion for him to speak, or
perhaps, and more probably, perceiving that some deep depression was
over me, the kind-hearted fellow poured forth his stores of song and
legend without ceasing. Now amusing me by his wild and fitful snatches
of old ballads, now narrating in his simple but touching eloquence some
bygone story of thrilling interest, the long hours of the night passed
over, and at daybreak we found ourselves descending the mountain towards
a large and cultivated valley, in which I could faintly distinguish in
the misty distance the little mill where our relay was to be found.

I stopped for a few minutes to gaze upon the scene before me. It was one
of those peaceful landscapes of rural beauty which beam more of soothing
influence upon the sorrow-struck heart than the softest voice of
consolation. Unlike the works of man, they speak directly to our souls
while they appeal to our reason; and the truth comes forced upon us,
that we alone must not repine. A broad and richly cultivated valley was
bounded by mountains whose sides were clothed with deep wood; a stream,
whose wayward course watered every portion of the plain, was seen now
flowing among the grassy meadows, now peeping from the alders that
lined the banks. The heavy mist of morning was rolling lazily up the
mountain-side; and beneath its grey mantle the rich green of pasture
and meadow land was breaking forth, dotted with cattle and sheep. As I
looked, Joe knelt down and placed his ear upon the ground, and seemed
for some minutes absorbed in listening. Then suddenly springing up, he
cried out--

'The mill isn't going to-day! I wonder what's the matter. I hope Andy
isn't sick.'

A shade of sorrow came over his wild features as he muttered between his
teeth the verse of some old song, of which I could but catch the last
two lines--

     'And when friends are crying around the dying,
     Who wouldn't wish he had lived alone!'

'Ay,' cried he aloud, as his eye glistened with an unnatural lustre,
'better be poor Tipperary Joe, without house or home, father or mother,
sister or friend, and when the time comes, run to earth, without a wet
eye after him.'

'Come, come, Joe, you have many a friend! and when you count them over,
don't forget me in the reckoning.'

'Whisht, whisht!' he whispered in a low voice, as if fearful of being
overheard, 'don't say that; them's dangerous words.'

I turned towards him with astonishment, and perceived that his whole
countenance had undergone a striking change. The gay and laughing look
was gone; the bright colour had left his cheek, and a cold, ghastly
paleness was spread over his features; and as he cast a hurried and
stealthy look around him, I could mark that some secret fear was working
within him.

'What is it, Joe?' said I; 'what's the matter? Are you ill?'

'No,' said he, in a tone scarce audible--'no, but you frightened me just
now when you called me your friend.'

'How could that frighten you, my poor fellow?'

'I 'll tell you. That's what they called my father; they said he was
friendly with the gentlemen, and sign's on it.' He paused, and his eye
became rooted to the ground as if on some object there from which he
could not turn his gaze. 'Yes, I mind it well; we were sitting by the
fire in the guard-room all alone by ourselves--the troops was away,
I don't know where--when we heard the tramp of men marching, but not
regular, but coming as if they didn't care how, and horses and carts
rattling and rumbling among them.

'“Thim's the boys,” says my father. “Give me that ould cockade there,
till I stick it in my cap; and reach me over the fiddle, till I rise a
tune for them.”

'I mind little more till we was marching at the head of them through the
town, down towards the new college that was building--it's Maynooth, I'm
speaking about--and then we turned to the left, my father scraping away
all the time every tune he thought they 'd like; and if now and then
by mistake he 'd play anything that did not plaze them, they'd damn and
blast him with the dreadfullest curses, and stick a pike into him, till
the blood would come running down his back; and then my father would cry
out--

'“I'll tell my friends on you for this--divil a lie in it, but I will”

'At last we came to the duke's wall, and then my father sat down on the
roadside, and cried out that he wouldn't go a step farther, for I was
crying away with sore feet at the pace we were going, and asking every
moment to be let sit down to rest myself.

'“Look at the child,” said he, “his feet's all bleeding.”

'“Ye have only a little farther to go,” says one of them that had
crossed belts on and a green sash about him.

'“The divil resave another step,” says my father.

'“Tell Billy to play us 'The Parmer's Daughter' before he goes,” says
one in the crowd.

'“I 'd rather hear 'The Little Bowld Fox,'” says another.

'“No, no, 'Baltiorum! Baltiorum!'” says many more behind.

'“Ye shall have them all,” says my father, “and that'll plaze ye.”

'And so he set to, and played the three tunes as beautiful as ever ye
heard; and when he was done, the man with the belts ups and says to
him--

'“Ye're a fine hand, Billy, and it's a pity to lose you, and your
friends will be sorry for you,” and he said this with a grin; “but take
the spade there and dig a hole, for we must be jogging, it's nigh day.”

'Well, my father, though he was tired enough, took the spade, and began
digging as they told him; for he thought to himself, “The boys is going
to hide the pikes and the carbines before they go home.” Well, when he
worked half an hour, he threw off his coat, and set to again; and at
last he grew tired and sat down on the side of the big hole, and called
out--

'“Isn't it big enough now, boys?”

'“No,” says the captain, “nor half.”

'So my father set to once more, and worked away with all his might; and
they all stood by, talking and laughing with one another.

'“Will it do now?” says my father; “for sure enough I'm clean beat.”

'“Maybe it might,” says one of them; “lie down, and see if it's the
length.”

'“Well, is it that it's for?” says my father; “faix, I never guessed it
was a grave.” And so he took off his cap and lay down his full length in
the hole.

'“That's all right,” says the others, and began with spades and shovels
to cover him up. At first he laughed away as hearty as the rest; but
when the mould grew heavy on him he began to screech out to let him up;
and then his voice grew weaker and fainter, and they waited a little;
then they worked harder, and then came a groan, and all was still; and
they patted the sods over him and heaped them up. And then they took me
and put me in the middle of them, and one called out, “March!” I thought
I saw the green sod moving on the top of the grave as we walked away,
and heard a voice half choking calling out, “There, boys, there!” and
then a laugh. But sure I often hear the same still, when there's nobody
near me, and I do be looking on the ground by myself.'

'Great God!' cried I, 'is this true?'

'True as you 're there,' replied he. 'I was ten years of age when it
happened, and I never knew how time went since, nor how long it is ago;
only it was in the year of the great troubles here, when the soldiers
and the country-people never could be cruel enough to one another; and
whatever one did to-day, the others would try to beat it out to-morrow.
But it's truth every word of it; and the place is called “Billy the
fool's grave” to this hour. I go there once a year to see it myself.'

This frightful story--told, too, with all the simple power of
truth--thrilled through me with horror long after the impression seemed
to have faded away from him who told it; and though he still continued
to speak on, I heard nothing; nor did I mark our progress, until I found
myself beside the little stream which conducted to the mill.

CHAPTER XLII. THE HIGHROAD

Joe was right; the mill was not at work, for 'Andy' had been summoned
to Ennis, where the assizes were then going forward. The mare which had
formed part of our calculations was also absent; and we sat down in
the little porch to hold a council of war as to our future proceedings.
After canvassing the question for some time, Joe left me for a few
minutes, and returned with the information that the highroad to Ennis
lay only a couple of miles distant, and that a stage-coach would pass
there in about two hours, by which I could reach the town that evening.
It was therefore decided that he should return with the pony to
Murranakilty; while I, having procured a gossoon to carry my baggage,
made the best of my way towards the Ennis road.

Joe soon found me an urchin to succeed him as my guide and companion;
and with an affectionate leave-taking, and a faithful promise to meet me
sometime and somewhere, we parted.

So long as I had journeyed along beside my poor, half-witted follower,
the strange and fickle features of his wandering intellect had somehow
interrupted the channels of my own feelings, and left me no room for
reflection on my changed fortunes. Now, however, my thoughts returned to
the past with all the force of some dammed-up current, and my blighted
hopes threw a dark and sombre shadow over all my features. What cared
I what became of me? Why did I hasten hither and thither? These were my
first reflections. If life had lost its charm, so had misfortune lost
its terror. There seemed something frivolous and contemptible in the
return to those duties which in all the buoyant exhilaration of my
former life had ever seemed unfitting and unmanly. No! rather let me
seek for some employment on active service. The soldier's career I once
longed for, to taste its glorious enthusiasm--that I wished for now, to
enjoy its ceaseless movement and exertion.

As I thought over all I had seen and gone through since my arrival in
Ireland--its varied scenes of mirth and woe; its reckless pleasures, its
wilder despair--I believed that I had acquired a far deeper insight into
my own heart in proportion as I looked more into those of others. A not
unfrequent error this. The outstretched page of human nature that I had
been gazing on had shown me the passions and feelings of other men laid
bare before me, while my own heart was dark, enshrined, and unvisited
within me. I believed that life had no longer anything to tie me to
it--and I was not then twenty! Had I counted double as many years, I had
had more reason for the belief, and more difficulty to think so.

Sometimes I endeavoured to console myself by thinking of all the
obstacles that under the happiest circumstances must have opposed
themselves to my union with Louisa Bellew. My mother's pride alone
seemed an insurmountable one. But then I thought of what a noble part
had lain before me, to prefer the object of my love--the prize of my
own winning--to all the caresses of fortune, all the seductions of the
world. Sir Simon Bellew, too--what could he mean? The secret he alluded
to, what was it? Alas! what mattered it? My doom was sealed, my fate
decided; I had no care how.

Such were my thoughts as I journeyed along the path that conducted
towards the highroad; while my little guide--barelegged and barefooted,
trotted on merrily before me--who, with none of this world's goods, had
no room in his heart for sorrow or repining.