“Between seventy and eighty pounds,” replied Nanny; “the masther isn't
sure to a pound or so; but he knows it was near eighty, any way.”

“That's just like him,” said Cavanagh; “his careless way of managin'.
Many a time I wondher at him;--he slobbers everything about that you'd
think he'd beggar himself, an' yet the luck and prosperity flows to him.
I declare to my goodness I think the very dirt under his feet turns to
money. Well, girsha, an' have they any suspicion of the robbers?”

“Why,” said the girl, “they talk about”--she paused, and it was
quite evident from her manner that she felt not only embarrassed, but
distressed by the question. Indeed this was no matter of surprise; for
ever since the subject was alluded to, Kate Hogan's black piercing eyes
had not once been removed from hers, nor did the girl utter a single
word in reply to the questions asked of her without first, as it were,
consulting Kate's looks.

A moment's reflection made Cavanagh feel that the question must be a
painful one to the girl, not only on her own account, but on that of
Kate herself; for even then it was pretty well known that Burke's family
entertained the strongest suspicion that the burglary had been committed
by these notorious vagabonds.

“Well, ahagur,” said Cavanagh, “no matter now--it's all over unless they
catch the robbers. Come now,” he added, addressing M'Mahon and his son,
“if you're for the road I'm ready.”

“Is it true, Mrs. Burke,” asked Bryan, “that you're goin' to have a Kemp
in your barn some o' these days?”

“True enough, indeed,” replied the good woman, “an' that's true, too,
tell the girls, Bryan, and that they must come.”

“Not I,” said the other, laughing; “if the girls here--wishes them to
come, let them go up and ask them.”

“So we will, then,” replied Hanna, “an' little thanks to you for your
civility.”

“I wish I knew the evenin',” said Bryan, “that I might be at
Carriglass.”

“When will we go, Kathleen,” asked her sister, turning slyly to her.

“Why, you're sich a light-brained cracked creature,” replied Kathleen,
“that I can't tell whether you're joking or not.”

“The sorra joke I'm jokin',” she replied, striving suddenly to form
her features into a serious expression. “Well, then, I have it,” she
proceeded. “Some Thursday, Bryan, in the middle o' next week--now you
know I'm not jokin', Kathleen.”

“Will you come, Kathleen?” inquired Bryan.

“Why, if Hanna goes, I suppose I must,” she replied, but without looking
up.

“Well then I'll have a sharp look-out on Thursday.”

“Come now,” said Gerald, “let us move. Give the girsha something to ate
among you, for the credit of the house, before she goes back,” he added.
“Paddy Toole, girth that horse tighter, I tell you; I never can get you
to girth him as he ought to be girthed.”

On bidding the women good-bye, Bryan looked towards Kathleen for a
moment, and her eye in return glanced on him as he was about to go. But
that simple glance, how significant was its import, and how clearly did
it convey the whole history of as pure a heart as ever beat within a
female bosom!

CHAPTEE VI.--Nanny Peety looks mysterious

--Hycy proves himself a good Judge of Horse-Flesh.

The day was all light, and life, and animation. The crops were going
down fast in every direction, and the fields were alive and cheerful
with the voice of mirth and labor. As they got into the vicinity of
Wallace's house they overtook or were over-taken by several of their
neighbors, among whom was seen our old friend, Jemmy, or as I his
acquaintances generally called him, honest Jemmy Burke, mounted upon a
brood mare with a foal at her heels, all his other horses having been
engaged in the labor of the season.

After having sympathized with him upon the loss he had sustained,
they soon allowed the subject to drop; for it was quite clear from the
expression of care, if not of sorrow, that was legible in his face, that
the very mention of it only caused him to feel additional anxiety.

At length they reached Wallace's house, where they found a tolerably
large crowd of people waiting for the auction, which was not to commence
until the hour of one o'clock.

Sam Wallace was a respectable Protestant farmer, who finding, as he
said, that there was no proper encouragement given to men who were
anxious and disposed to improve their property, had deemed it a wiser
step to dispose of his stock and furniture than to remain as he was--not
merely with no certain prospect of being able to maintain even his
present position, but with the chances against him of becoming every day
a poorer and more embarrassed man. His brother, who like himself, after
having been on the decline for a considerable period, had emigrated to
America, where he was prospering, now urged him to follow his example
and leave a country in which he said, in language that has become a
proverb, “everything was going to the bad.” Feeling that his brother's
words were unfortunately too true, Wallace, at all events, came to the
determination of following his example.

The scene at which our friends arrived was indeed a striking and
impressive one. The majority of the crowd consisted of those who
belonged either to the Protestant or Presbyterian forms of worship; and
it might be with truth asserted, that nothing could surpass the clear
unquestionable character of independent intelligence which prevailed
among them. Along with this, however, there was an obvious spirit
of dissatisfaction, partial, it is true, as to numbers, but yet
sufficiently marked as to satisfy an observer that such a people, if
united upon any particular subject or occasion, were not for a moment to
be trifled with or cajoled. Their feelings upon the day in question were
stirred into more than usual warmth. A friend, a neighbor, a man of
an old and respectable family, frugal, industrious, and loyal, as
they said, both to king and country, was now forced from want of due
encouragement from his landlord, to disturb all his old associations
of friendship and kindred, and at rather an advanced state of life
to encounter the perils of a long voyage, and subject himself and his
family to the changes and chances which he must encounter in a new
world, and in a different state of society. Indeed, the feeling which
prompted the expression of these sentiments might be easily gathered
from the character that pervaded the crowd. Not to such an extent,
however, with respect to Wallace himself or any portion of his family,
There might be observed upon him and them a quiet but resolute spirit,
firm, collected, and cheerful; but still, while there were visible no
traces of dejection or grief, it was easy to perceive that under this
decent composure there existed a calm consciousness of strong stern
feeling, whose dignity, if not so touching, was quite as impressive as
the exhibition of louder and more clamorous grief.

“Bryan,” said M'Mahon to his son, as the auction was proceeding, “I'll
slip up to the agent's, and do you see if them sheep goes for a fair
value--if they do, give a bid or two any how. I'm speakin' of that lot
we wor lookin' at, next the wall there.”

“I'll pay attention to it,” said Bryan; “I know you'll find the agent at
home now, for I seen him goin' in a while ago; so hurry up, an' ax him
if he can say how soon we may expect the leases.”

“Never fear, I will.”

On entering Fethertonge's Hall, M'Mahon was treated with very marked
respect by the servant, who told him to walk into the parlor, and he
would let his master know.

“He entertains a high opinion of you, Mister M'Mahon,” said he; “and I
heard him speak strongly about you the other day to some gentlemen that
dined with us--friends of the landlord's. Walk into the parlor.”

In a few minutes M'Mahon was shown into Fethertonge's office, the walls
of which were, to a considerable height, lined with tin boxes, labelled
with the names of those whose title-deeds and other valuable papers they
contained.

Fethertonge was a tall, pale, placid looking man, with rather a
benevolent cast of countenance, and eyes that were mild, but very
small in proportion to the other features of his face. His voice was
exceedingly low, and still more musical and sweet than low; in fact
it was such a voice as, one would imagine, ought to have seldom been
otherwise employed than in breathing hope and, consolation to despairing
sinners on their bed of death. Yet he had nothing of either the parson
or the preacher in his appearance. So far from that he was seldom known
to wear a black coat, unless when dressed for dinner, and not very
frequently even then, for he mostly wore blue.

“M'Mahon,” said he, “take a seat. I am glad to see you. How are your
family?”

“Both I an' they is well, I'm thankful to you, sir,” replied the farmer.

“I hope you got safe home from the metropolis. How did you travel?”

“Troth, I walked it, sir, every inch of the way, an' a long stretch it
is. I got safe, sir, an' many thanks to you.”

“That was a sudden call poor Mr. Chevydale got, but not more so than
might, at his time of life, have been expected; at all events I hope he
was prepared for it, and indeed I have reason to think he was.”

“I trust in God he was, sir,” replied M'Mahon; “so far as I and mine
is consarned, we have raison to wish it; he didn't forget us, Mr.
Fethertonge.”

“No,” said the other, after some pause, “he did not indeed forget you,
M'Mahon.”

“I tuck the liberty of callin' down, sir,” proceeded M'Mahon, “about
the leases he spoke of, an' to know how soon we may expect to have them
filled.”

“That is for your son Bryan and yourself. How is Bryan proceeding with
Ahadarra, by the way? I spoke to him some time ago about his system of
cropping that farm, and some other matters of the kind; I must ride up
one of these days to see how he is doing. As to the leases, there is no
difficulty in the way, M'Mahon, except to get our young landlord to sign
them. That we will easily do, of course; in the meantime, do you go
on, improve your land, and strive to do something for your children,
M'Mahon; for, in this world, he that won't assist himself will find
very few that will. The leases are in Dublin; if you wish, I'll send for
them, and have them ready for the landlord's signature whenever he comes
down here; or I'll leave them in town, where I shall be more likely to
see him.”

“Very well, sir,” replied M'Mahon, “I lave it all in your own hands, for
I know that if you won't be my friend, you won't be my enemy.”

“Well--certainly--I hope not. Will you take anything? Here, James, bring
in some brandy.”

M'Mahon's protest against the brandy was anything but invincible.
Fethertonge's manner was so kind, so familiar, and his interest in the
success of himself and his family so unaffectedly warm and sincere,
that, after drinking his health, he took his leave with a light and.
happy heart.

Their journey home was a little more lively than the depression of Jemmy
Burke's mind had allowed it to be on their way to the auction. Yet
each had his own peculiar feelings, independently of those which were
elicited by the conversation. Jemmy Burke, who had tasted some of
Wallace's liquor, as indeed, with the exception of Bryan, they all did,
was consequently in a better and more loquacious humor than he had been
during the day. On this occasion his usual good fortune attended him for
it was the opinion of every one there, that he had got the best bargain
disposed of during the day--a lot of twenty-five wethers in prime
condition. Gerald Cavanagh, who had also tasted the poteen, stuck as
closely as possible to his skirts, moved thereto by a principle of
adhesion, with which our readers are already acquainted; and Bryan,
who saw and understood his motives, felt by no means comfortable at
witnessing such strong symptoms of excessive attachment. Old M'Mahon
did not speak much, for, in truth, he could not overcome the depressing
effects of the scene he had witnessed, nor of the words uttered by
Wallace, as they bade each other farewell.

Burke, however, and his companion, Cavanagh, looked like men between
whom a warm friendship was about to grow up. Whenever they came to a
public-house or a shebeen, they either dismounted and had a cordial drop
together, or took it in the saddle after touching each other's glasses
in token of love and amity. It is true some slight interruption
occurred, that disturbed the growing confidence and familiarity of their
dialogue, which interruption consisted in the endless whinnying of the
mare whenever her foal delayed a moment behind her, or in the sudden and
abrupt manner in which she wheeled about with a strong disposition to
return and look for it.

On the discovery of Burke's robbery an investigation was set on foot,
but with no prospect of success, and without in any way involving the
Hogans, who were strongly suspected. It was clearly proved that Philip
and one of his brothers slept in their usual residence--Cavanagh's
corn-kiln--on that night, but it was admitted that Batt Hogan and his
wife Kate were both abroad the greater portion of it. On them suspicion
might, indeed, very naturally have rested, were it not for the evidence
of Hycy himself, who at once admitted that he could exonerate them from
any suspicion, as he knew both how and where they had passed the night
in question. So far, therefore, the Hogans, dishonest as they were
unquestionably reputed to be, now stood perfectly exonerated from all
suspicion.

The lapse of a very few days generally cools down the ferment occasioned
by matters of this kind, especially when public curiosity is found to be
at fault in developing the whole train of circumstances connected with
them. All the in-door servants, it is true, were rigorously examined,
yet it somehow happened that Hycy could not divest himself of a
suspicion that Nanny Peety was in some way privy to the disappearance
of the money. In about three or four days he happened to see her thrust
something into her father's bag, which he carried as a mendicant, and he
could not avoid remarking that there was in her whole manner, which was
furtive and hurried, an obvious consciousness of something that was not
right. He resolved, however, to follow up the impression which he
felt, and accordingly in a few minutes after her father had taken his
departure, he brought her aside, and without giving her a moment to
concoct a reply, he asked what it was that he saw her thrusting in such
a hurried manner into his bag. She reddened like scarlet, and, after
pausing a moment, replied, “Nothing, sir, but an ould pair of shoes.”

“Was that all?” he asked.

“That was all, sir,” she replied.

The blush and hesitation, however, with which she answered him were
far from satisfactory; and without more ado he walked briskly down the
avenue, and overtook her father near the gate at its entrance.

“Peety,” said he, “what was that your daughter Nanny put into your bag a
while ago? I wish to know?”

“Deed an its scarcely worth your while, Master Hycy,” replied the
mendicant; “but since you'd like to know, it was a pair of ould brogues,
and here they are,” he added, “if you wish to see them.”

He laid down the bag as he spoke, and was proceeding to pull them out,
when Hycy, who felt angry with himself as well as ashamed at being
detected in such a beggarly and unbecoming act of espionage, turned
instantly back, after having vented several hearty curses upon the
unfortunate mendicant and his bags.

As he approached the hall-door, however, he met Nanny crossing into the
kitchen-yard, and from the timid and hesitating glance she cast at
him, some vague suspicion again occurred, and he resolved to enter into
further conversation with her. It struck him that she had been watching
his interview with her father, and could not avoid yielding to the
impression which had returned so strongly upon him.

“I saw your father, Nanny,” he said, in as significant and dry a tone as
possible.

“Did you, sir?” said she; and he remarked that while uttering the words,
she again colored deeply and did not raise her eyes to his face.

“Yes,” he replied; “but he did not bear out what you said--he had no
pair of shoes in his bag.”

“Did you see what he had in it, Master Hycy?”

“Why,” said he, “a--hem--a--a--I didn't look--but I'll tell you what,
Nanny, I think you look as if you were in possession of some secret. I
say so, and don't imagine you can for a moment impose upon me. I know
what your father had in his bag.”

“Well then, if you do, sir,” she replied, “you know the saycrit.”

“So there is a secret, then?”

“So you say, Masther Hycy.”

“Nanny,” he proceeded, “it occurs to me now that you never underwent a
formal examination about this robbery that took place in our house.”

“That wasn't my fault,” she replied; “I mostly happened to be out.”

“Well, but do you know anything about it?”

“Not a thing--no more than yourself, Mr. Hycy.”

Her interrogator turned upon her a hard scrutinizing glance, in which
it was easy to see that she read a spirit of strong and dissatisfied
suspicion. She was evidently conscious of this; for as Hycy stood gazing
upon her, she reddened, and betrayed unequivocal symptons of confusion.

“Because, Nanny,” he proceeded, “if you knew anything about it, and
didn't mention it at once to the family, you would be considered as one
of the robbers.”

“An' wouldn't I be nearly as bad if I didn't?” she replied; “surely the
first thing I'd do would be to tell.”

“It's very strange,” observed Hycy, “that such a robbery could be
committed in a house where there are so many servants, without any clue
whatsoever to a discovery.”

“Well, I don't agree with you there, Mr. Hycy--if what your father and
mother an' all o' them say is true--that it wasn't often the hall-door
was bolted at night; and that they can't say whether it was fastened on
that night or not. Sure if it wasn't, there was nothing to prevent any
one from comin' in.”

“Very true, Nanny,” he replied, “very true; and we have paid severely
for our negligence.”

This closed the conversation, but Hycy felt that, proceed from whatever
source it might, it was impossible to dismiss certain vague suspicions
as connected with the mendicant's daughter. He determined, however,
to watch her narrowly; and somehow he could not divest himself of the
impression that she saw through his design. This incident occurred a few
days after the robbery.

Jemmy Burke, though in many respects a man of easy and indolent
character, was nevertheless a person who, as is familiarly! said,
“always keep an eye to the main chance.” He was by no means over-tidy
either in his dress or farming; but it mattered little in what light you
contemplated him, you were always certain to find him a man not affected
by trifles, nor rigidly systematic in anything; but at the same time you
could not help observing that he was a man of strong points, whose life
was marked by a course of high prosperity, that seemed to flow in
upon him, as it were, by some peculiar run of good fortune. This luck,
however, was little less than the natural result of shrewd mother-wit,
happily applied to the: ordinary transactions of life, and assuming the
appearance of good fortune rather than of sound judgment, in consequence
of the simplicity of character under which it acted. Ever since the
night of the robbery, he had devoted himself more to the pipe than he
had ever been known to do before; he spoke little, too; but what he did
say was: ironical, though not by any means without a tinge of quiet but
caustic humor.

Hycy, on entering the parlor, found him! seated in an arm-chair, smoking
as usual, whilst his mother, who soon came down stairs, appeared dressed
in more than her usual finery.

“What keeps Patsy Dolan wid the car?” she inquired. “Hycy, do you see
any appearance of him?”

“No, ma'am,” replied the son; “I didn't know you wanted him.”

Jemmy looked at her with a good deal of surprise, and, after whiffing
away the smoke, asked--“And well, Rosha--begs pardon--Mrs. Burke--is it
a fair question to ax where you are bound for?”

“Fair enough, Mr. Burke,” she replied; “but I'm not goin' to answer it.”

“You're bound for a journey, ma'am, I think?”

“I'm bound for a journey, sir.”

“Is it a long journey, Mrs. Burke?”

“No, indeed; it's a short journey, Mister Burke.”

“Ah!” replied her husband, uttering a very significant groan; “I'm
afraid it is.”

“Why do you groan, Mr. Burke?”

“Oh it doesn't signify,” he replied, dryly; “it's no novelty, I believe,
to hear a man--a married man--groan in this world; only if you wor for
a long journey, I'd be glad to give you every assistance in my power.”

“You hear that, Hycy; there's affection?” she exclaimed--“wishin' me to
go my long journey!”

“Would you marry again, Mr. Burke?” asked the worthy son.

“I think not,” replied Jemmy. “There's gintlemen enough o' the name--I'm
afraid one too many.”

“Well,” exclaimed his wife, assuming something as near to her conception
of the look of a martyr as possible, “I'm sufferin' at all events; but
I know my crown's before me.”

“Sich as it is,” replied her husband, “I dare say it is.”

“I'll not be back for a few hours, Hycy; an'--but here's the car. Come
fardher up, Patsy.”

Hycy politely handed his mother out, and assisted her on the car. “Of
course, he'll discover it all,” said he, laughing.

“I know he will,” she replied; “but when it's over, it's over, and
that's all.”

Jemmy now met his son at the hall-door, and asked him if he knew where
his mother had gone.

“I really cannot undertake to say,” replied the other. “Mrs. Burke,
father, is a competent judge of her own notions; but I presume to think
that she may take a drive upon her own car, without being so severely,
if not ungenerously catechised about it. I presume to think so, sir; but
I daresay I am wrong, and that even that is a crime on my part.”

His father made no reply, but proceeded at an easy and thoughtful pace
to join his men in the field where they were at labor.

Hycy, after his mother's return that evening, seemed rather in low
spirits, if one could form any correct estimate of his character by
appearances. He was very silent, and somewhat less given to those broken
snatches of melody than was his wont; and yet a close observer might
have read in his deportment, and especially in the peculiar expression
of his eye, that which seemed to indicate anything rather than
depression or gloom. His silence, to such an observer, might have
appeared rather the silence of satisfaction and triumph, than of
disappointment or vexation.

His father, indeed, saw little of him that night, in consequence of the
honest man having preferred the hob of his wealthy and spacious kitchen
to the society of his wife and son in the parlor. The next morning,
however, they met at breakfast, as usual, when Hycy, after some ironical
compliments to his father's good taste, asked him, “if he would do him
the favor to step towards the stable and see his purchase.”

“You don't mane Crazy Jane?” said the other, coolly.

“I do,” replied Hycy; “and as I set a high value on your opinion,
perhaps you would be kind enough to say what you think of her.”

Now, Hycy never for a moment dreamt that his father would have taken him
at his word, and we need hardly say that he was a good deal disconcerted
at the cool manner in which the other expressed his readiness to do so.

“Well, Mr. Burke,” he proceeded, when they had reached the stable,
“there she is. Pray what do you think of her?”

The old man looked at her from various points, passed his hand down
her limbs, clapped her on the back, felt her in different places, then
looked at her again. “She's a beauty,” said he, “a born beauty like
Billy Neelin's foal; what's this you say you paid for her?”

“Thirty-five pounds.”

“Tare-an-ounty, Hycy, she's dog chape--thirty-five!--why she's value for
double the sum.”

“Nearly,” replied Hycy, quite elevated and; getting into good humor; “is
she not really now, father, a precious bit of flesh?”

“Ah! you may swear that, Hycy; I tell you you won't act the honest man,
if you don't give him fifteen or twenty pounds over an' above what you
paid him. Tom Burton I see's too simple for you. Go and do what I bid
you; don't defraud the poor man; you have got a treasure, I tell you--a
beauty bright--an extraordinary baste--a wonderful animal--oh, dear me!
what a great purchase! Good-bye, Hycy. Bless my sowl! what a judge of
horseflesh you are!”

Having uttered these words in a tone of grave and caustic irony, he left
his worthy son in a state of chagrin almost bordering on resentment, at
the strong contempt for Crazy-Jane, implied by the excessive eulogium
he had passed upon her. This feeling, however, was on reflection
considerably checked by his satisfaction on finding that the matter was
taken by his father so coolly. He had calculated on receiving a very
stormy lecture from him the moment he should become aware of his having
the animal in his possession; and he now felt rather relieved that
he should have escaped so easily. Be this as it may, Hycy was now in
excellent spirits. Not only had Crazy Jane been secured, but there were
strong symptoms of his being in cash. In a few days after the incident
of the stable, he contrived to see Philip Hogan, with whom he appointed
a final meeting in Cavanagh's kiln on the night of the Kemp; at which
meeting, Teddy Phats and the other two Hogans were also to be present,
in order to determine upon the steps which he ultimately proposed to
take, with a view to work out his purposes, whatever those purposes may
have been.

CHAPTER VII.--The Spinster's Kemp.

A kemp, or camp, is a contest of industrial skill, or a competition
for priority in a display of rustic labor. Among men it is principally
resorted to in planting potatoes or reaping of corn, and generally only
on the day which closes the labor at each for the season; but in the
sense in which it is most usually practised and contested, it means a
trial of female skill at the spinning of linen yarn. It is, indeed,
a very cheerful assemblage of the fair sex; and, although strong and
desperate rivalry is the order of the day, yet it is conducted in
a spirit so light-hearted and amicable that we scarcely know a more
laudable or delightful recreation in country life. Its object is always
good, and its associations praiseworthy, inasmuch as they promote
industry, a spirit of becoming emulation, and principles of good will
and kindness to our neighbor.

When a kemp is about to be held, the matter soon becomes generally known
in the neighborhood. Sometimes the young women are asked, but in
most instances, so eager are they to attend it that invitations are
unnecessary. In the whiter months, and in mountain districts, it is
often as picturesque as it is pleasant. The young women usually begin
to assemble about four o'clock in the morning; and, as they always go in
groups, accompanied besides by their sweethearts or some male relatives,
each of the latter bearing a large torch of well-dried bogfir, their
voices, and songs, and loud laughter break upon the stillness of
night with a holiday feeling, made ten times more delightful by the
surrounding darkness and the hour. When they have not the torches the
spinning-wheels are carried by the males, amidst an agreeable din of
fun, banter, repartee, and jest, such as scarcely any other rustic
amusement with which we are acquainted ever occasions. On arriving at
the house where the kemp is to be held, they are placed in the barn or
some clean outhouse; but indeed the numbers are usually such as to crowd
every available place that can be procured for their accommodation. From
the moment they arrive the lively din is incessant. Nothing is heard but
laughter, conversation, songs, and anecdotes, all rising in a loud key,
among the louder humming of the spinning-wheels and the stridulous noise
of the reeds, as they incessantly crack the cuts in the hands of the
reelers, who are perpetually turning them from morning to night, in
order to ascertain the quantity which every competitor has spun; and
she, of course, who has spun most wins the kemp, and is the queen for
the night.

A kemp invariably closes with a dance--and a dance too upon an unusually
extensive scale. Indeed, during the whole day the fair competitors are
regaled from time to time with the enlivening strains of the fiddle or
bagpipes, and very often with the united melody of both together.

On that morning the dwelling-house and mostly all the out-offices of
Gerald Cavanagh bore, in stir and bustle, a stronger resemblance to the
activity of so many bee-hives about to swarm than to anything else
to which we can think of comparing them. Mirth in all its shapes, of
laughter, glee, and song, rang out in every direction. The booming
of wheels and the creaking of reels, the loud banter, the peals of
laughter, the sweet Irish songs that filled up the pauses of the louder
mirth, and the strains of the fiddle that ever and anon added to the
enlivening spirit of the scene, all constituted such a full and general
chorus of hilarity as could seldom be witnessed.

There were many girls present who took no part in the competition, but
who, as friends and acquaintances of Kathleen and Hanna, came to enjoy
the festive spirit of the day. Hanna herself, however, who had earned
some celebrity as a spinster, started for the honor of winning, as did
Dora M'Mahon, whose small and beautiful fingers seemed admirably adapted
for this graceful and peculiarly feminine process of Minerva. Towards
evening the neighbors assembled in considerable numbers, each interested
in the success of some peculiar favorite, whose former feats had induced
her friends to entertain on her behalf strong, if not certain, hopes of
victory. Kathleen, from a principle of generosity, patronized her young
friend, Dora M'Mahon; and Shibby M'Mahon, on the other hand, took
Hanna Cavanagh under her protection. As the evening advanced, and the
spectators and friends of the parties began to call, in order to be
present at the moment of victory, it would be difficult to witness any
assemblage of young women placed under circumstances of such striking
interest. The mirth and song and general murmur diminished by degrees,
until they altogether ceased, and. nothing was to be heard but the
perpetual cracking of the reels, the hum of the rapid wheels, and the
voices of the reelers, as they proclaimed the state of this enlivening
pool of industry. As for the fair competitors themselves, it might have
been observed that even those among them who had no, or at least but
slight pretensions to beauty, became actually interesting from the
excitement which prevailed. Their eyes lit by the active spirit of
rivalry within them, sparkled with peculiar brilliancy, their cheeks
became flushed or got pale as they felt themselves elevated or depressed
by the prospect or loss of victory. Nor were there wanting on this
occasion some vivid glances that were burthened, as they passed aslant,
their fair faces, with pithier feelings than those that originated from
a simple desire of victory. If truth must be told, baleful flashes,
unmeasured both in number and expression, were exchanged in a spirit
of true defiance between the interested and contending parties, as the
close of the contest approached. At length, by the proclamation of the
reelers, the great body of the competitors were thrown out, and they
consequently gave up the contest. It was now six o'clock, and the
first sound of seven o'clock by Captain Millar's bell was to close the
proceedings, and enable the reelers to proclaim the victor. Only four
names now remained to battle it out to the last; to wit, a country
farmer's daughter, named Betty Aikins, Dora M'Mahon, Hanna Cavanagh, and
a servant-girl belonging to another neighbor, named Peggy Bailly. This
ruck, as they say on the turf, was pretty well up together, but all
the rest nowhere. And now, to continue the metaphor, as is the case
at Goodwood or the Curragh, the whole interest was centered upon these
four. At the commencement of the last hour the state of the case was
proclaimed as follows: Betty Aikins, three dozen and eight cuts; Dora
M'Mahon, three dozen and seven cuts; Hanna Cavanagh, three dozen and
five cuts; and Peggy Bailly, three dozen and four cuts. Every individual
had now her own party anxious for her success, and amidst this hour of
interest how many hearts beat with all hopes and fears that are incident
even to the most circumscribed contest of human life. Opposite Dora
stood the youth whom we have already noticed, James Cavanagh, whose
salvation seemed but a very trifling thing when compared or put into
opposition with her success. Be this as it may, the moment was a most
exciting one even to those who felt no other interest than that which
naturally arises from human competition. And it was unquestionably
a beautiful thing to witness this particular contest between, four
youthful and industrious young women. Dora's otherwise pale and placid
features were now mantling, and her beautiful dark eyes flashing,
under the proud and ardent spirit of ambition, for such in fact was the
principle which now urged and animated the contest. When nearly half an
hour had passed, Kathleen came behind her, and stooping down, whispered,
“Dora, don't turn your wheel so quickly: you move the, foot-board too
fast--don't twist the thread too much, and you'll let down more.”

Dora smiled and looked up to her with a grateful and flashing eye.
“Thank you, Kathleen,” she replied, nodding, “I'll take your advice.”
 The state of the contest was then proclaimed:--Betty Aikins--three dozen
and ten cuts; Dora M'Mahon--three dozen and ten cuts; Hanna Cavanagh
--three dozen, six cuts and a half; Peggy Bailly--three dozen, five and
a half.

On hearing this, Betty Aikin's cheek became scarlet, and as it is
useless to disguise the fact, several flashing glances that partook
more of a Penthesilean fire than the fearful spirit which usually
characterizes the industrious pursuits of Minerva, were shot at generous
Dora, who sustained her portion of the contest with singular spirit and
temper.

“You may as well give it up, Dora M'Mahon,” exclaimed Betty; “there
never was one of your blood could open against an Aikins--the stuff is
not in you to beat me.”

“A very little time will soon tell that,” replied Dora; “but indeed,
Betty, if I am doin' my best to win the kemp, I hope it's not in a bad
or unfriendly spirit, but in one of fair play and good humor.”

The contest now went on for about fifteen minutes, with surpassing
interest and animation, at the expiration of which period, the seven
o'clock bell already alluded to, rang the hour for closing their labors
and determining the victory. Thus stood their relative position--Dora
M'Mahon, four hanks and three cuts; Betty Aikins, four hanks; Hanna
Cavanagh, three hanks and nine cuts; Peggy Bailly, three hanks and eight
cuts.

When this result was made known, Betty Aikins burst into a loud fit
of grief, in which she sobbed as if her very heart would break, and
Kathleen stooping down, congratulated the beautiful girl upon her
victory, kissing her at the same time as she spoke--an act of love and
kindness in which she would have joyfully been followed by several of
her male friends, if they had dared to take that delicious liberty.

The moment of victory, we believe, is that which may be relied upon as
the test of true greatness. Dora M'Mahon felt the pride of that moment
in its fullest extent, but she felt it only to influence her better and
nobler principles. After casting her eyes around to gather in, as it
were, that honest approbation which is so natural, and exchanging some
rapid glances with the youth we have alluded to, she went over to her
defeated competitor, and taking her hand said, “Don't cry, Betty, you
have no right to be ashamed; sure, as you say, it's the first time you
wor ever beaten; we couldn't all win; an' indeed if I feel proud
now, everyone knows an' says I have a right to be so; for where was
there--ay, or where is there--such a spinner as you are?

“Shake hands now an' there's a kiss for you. If I won this kemp, it was
won more by chance than by anything else.”

These generous expressions were not lost on Betty; on the contrary, they
soothed her so much that she gave her hand cordially to her young and
interesting conqueress, after which they all repaired to a supper of new
milk and flummery, than which there is nothing more delicious within the
wide range of luxury. This agreeable meal being over, they repaired to
the large barn where Mickey M'Grory the fiddler, was installed in his
own peculiar orchestra, consisting of an arm-chair of old Irish oak,
brought out from Gerald Cavanagh's parlor.

It would indeed be difficult to find together such a group of happy
faces. Gerald Cavanagh and his wife, Tom M'Mahon and his better
half, and several of the neighbors, of every age and creed, were all
assembled; and, in this instance, neither gray hairs nor length of years
were looked upon as privileged from a participation in the festivities
of the evening. Among the rest, gaunt and grim, were the three Hogans,
looking through the light-hearted assemblage with the dark and sinister
visages of thorough ruffians, who were altogether incapable of joining
in the cheerful and inoffensive amusements that went forward around
them. Kate Hogan sat in an obscure corner behind the fiddler, where
she was scarcely visible, but from which she enjoyed a full view of
everything that occurred in the house.

A shebeen-man, named Parra Bradagh, father to Barney, whom the reader
has already met in the still-house, brought a cask of poteen to the
stable, where he disposed of it _sub silentio_, by which we mean without
the knowledge of Gerald Cavanagh, who would not have suffered any such
person about his place, had the circumstance been made known to him.
Among the rest, in the course of the evening, our friend O'Finigan the
Philomath made his appearance, and as was his wont very considerably
advanced in liquor. The worthy pedagogue, on inquiring for the queen
of the kemp, as he styled her, was told that he might know her by the
flowers in her hair. “There she is, masther,” said one of them, “wid the
roses on her head.”

“Well,” said O'Finigan, looking about him with surprise, “I have, before
now, indulged in the Cerelian juice until my eyes have become possessed
of that equivocal quality called the double vision, but I must confess
that this is the first occasion on which the quality aforesaid has been
quadrupled. Instead of one queen, wid Flora's fragrant favors in her
lock, I think I see four.”

Finigan indeed was right. Dora, on being presented with a simple chaplet
of flowers, as the heroine of the night, in a spirit of true magnanimity
generously divided the chaplet among her three rivals, thus, like every
brave heart, resting satisfied with the consciousness of victory, and
anxious that those who had approached her so nearly should also share in
its honors.

It is not our intention to enter into a detailed account of the dancing,
nor of the good humor which prevailed among them. It is enough to say
that the old people performed minuets and cotillions, and the young
folks, jigs, reels, and country dances; hornpipes were performed upon
doors, by rural dancers, and all the usual variations of mirth and
amusement were indulged in on the occasion.

We have said that Tom M'Mahon and his family were there, but we should
have added, with one exception. Bryan did not arrive until the evening
was far advanced, having been prevented by pressing business connected
with his farm. On making his appearance, he was greeted by a murmur of
welcomes, and many an honest hand was extended to him. Up until then
there were two individuals who observed Kathleen Cavanagh closely, and
we must ourselves admit that both came to the same conclusion. Its was
clear that during the whole evening she had been unusually pensive,
if not actually depressed, although a general observer would have seen
nothing in her beyond the natural sedateness of her manner. The two in
question were Kate Hogan and Dora M'Mahon. On Bryan's arrival, however,
the color of her cheek deeped into a richer beauty, the eye became more
sparkling, and a much slighter jest than before moved her into mirth.
Such, however, we are, and such is the mystery of our nature. It might
have been remarked that the Hogans eyed Bryan, soon after making his
appearance, with glances expressive of anything but good feeling. It was
not, however, when he first arrived, or danced with Hanna Cavanagh, that
these boding glances were turned upon him, but on the occasion of his
performing a reel with Kathleen. It might have been noticed that they
looked at him, and afterwards at each other, in a manner that could
admit of but little misapprehension.

“Philip,” observed Finigan, addressing the elder Hogan,--“Philip,
the Macedonian--monarch of Macedon, I say, is not that performance
a beautiful specimen of the saltatory art? There is manly beauty, O
Philip! and modest carriage.

     “'With aquil beauty formed, and aquil grace,
     Hers the soft blushes of the opening morn,
     And his the radiance of the risen day.'”

“It's night now, misther, if you plaise,” returned Hogan, gruffly;
“but we don't want your opinion here--stick to your pothooks and
hangers--keep to your trade.”

“The _pot-hooks_ and _hangers_ are more _tui generis_, you misbegotten
satyr,” replied the schoolmaster; “that is, more appropriately
concatenated with your own trade than wid mine. I have no trade, sirra,
but a profession, and neither have you. You stand in the same degraded
ratio to a tradesman that a rascally quack does to a regular surgeon.”

“You had better keep a civil tongue in jour head,” replied Hogan,
nettled at the laughter which the schoolmaster raised at his expense.

“What! a civil tongue for you! Polite language for a rascally
sotherer of ould skillets and other anonymous utensils. Why, what
are you?--firstly, a general violation of the ten commandments; and,
secondly, a misshapen but faithful impersonation of the seven deadly
sins. Take my word for it, my worthy Macedonian, you will die any death
but a horizontal one--it's veracity I'm telling you. Yet there is some
comfort for you too--some comfort, I say again; for you who never lived
one upright hour will die an upright death. A certain official will
erect a perpendicular with you; but for that touck of Mathematics you
must go to the hangman, at whose hands you will have to receive the
rites of your church, you monstrous bog-trotting Gorgon. Mine a trade!
Shades of Academus, am I to bear this!”

Finigan was, like most of his class, a privileged man; but on this
occasion the loudness of the mirth prevented Hogan's reply from being
heard. As to violence, nobody that knew the poor pedagogue could ever
dream of using it towards him, and there is little doubt that the
consciousness of this caused him to give his tongue a license when
provoked, which he otherwise would not have dared to venture upon.
When he first made his appearance he was so far advanced in liquor as
scarcely to be able to stand, and it was quite evident that the heat of
the crowded house by no means improved him.

In about a quarter of an hour after Bryan and Kathleen had danced, the
good people of the kemp were honored by the appearance of Hycy Burke
among them--not in his jockey dress, but in a tight-fitting suit, that
set off his exceedingly well-made person to great advantage. In
fact, Hycy was a young fellow of a remarkably handsome face, full
of liveliness and apparent good humor, and a figure that was nearly
perfect. He addressed the persons present with an air of easy
condescension, and went over immediately and shook hands, in a very
cordial manner, with Gerald Cavanagh and his wife, after which he turned
round and bowed to the daughters. He then addressed Bryan, beside whom
Kathleen was sitting.

“Bryan,” said he, “there will be mistakes in the best of families. I
hate enmity. How, do you do?”

Bryan nodded, and replied, “Pretty well, Hycy--how are you?”

Cavanagh and his wife were evidently quite delighted to see him; the
good man rose and made him take his own seat, and Mrs. Cavanagh paid him
every conceivable mark of attention.

“Mrs. Cavanagh,” said he, after some chat, “may I be permitted to
indulge in the felicity of a dance with Miss Cavanagh?”

“Which of them?” asked the mother, and then added, without waiting for a
reply--“to be sure you may.”

“The felicity of a dance! that was well expressed, Mr. Hycy; but it
was not for nothing that you broke grammatical ground under Patricius
Finigan--ah, no; the early indoctrinations will tell;--that is clear.”

“I mean Miss Kathleen,” replied Hycy, without paying any attention to
Finigan's observations.

“Why not?” exclaimed both; “of course you will--go over and bring her
out.”

Hycy, approaching her, said, in his blandest and most persuasive manner,
“Miss Cavanagh, will you allow me the gratification of dancing a reel
with you?”

“I'm obliged to you, Mr. Burke,” she replied gravely; “I have just
danced a reel with Bryan M'Mahon here, and I don't intend to dance any
more to-night.”

“A simple reel?” said Hycy; “perhaps you will so far favor me? I shall
consider it as a favor, I assure you.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Burke, but I won't dance any more to-night.”

“That's hard,” he replied, “especially as I came all the way to have
that pleasure. Perhaps you will change your mind, Miss Cavanagh?”

“I'm not in the habit of changing my mind, Mr. Burke,” she replied, “and
I don't see any reason why I should do so now. I say once for all that I
won't dance any more to-night.”

“What is it,” asked the mother, on perceiving her hesitation; “won't she
dance wid you? Hut, tut, Kathleen, what nonsense is this? To be sure you
must dance wid Mr. Burke; don't take any refusal, Mr. Burke--is that all
you know about girls.--sure nineteen refusals is aquil to one consent.
Go over, Gerald, and make her dance wid him,” she added, turning to her
husband.

“What's the matter, Kathleen, that you won't dance wid Mr. Hycy?” asked
the good man.

“Because I have danced all I will dance to-night, father.”

“Tut, nonsense, you foolish girl--it's proud you ought to be that he'd
ax you. Get up and dance a reel wid him.”

Hanna, who knew her sister's resolution when once formed, immediately
came to her rescue. “Don't ask her, father,” she said; “the truth is,
that I believe she has a headache--however, I'll take her place--have
you any objection to me, Mr. Burke?”

None in the world--he would be very happy--only he regretted that he
could not have that pleasure also with his sister.

“Ah, Mr. Hycy--which is properly Hyacinthus,” said Finigan; “I am able
to perceive that Cupid declines to be propitious in that quarter, or
perhaps it's the _irae amantium_,---which is, on being rendered into
vernacularity, a falling out of lovers; and if so, do not despair; for
as certain as it is, it will be followed by that most delectable of
processes, the _redintegratio amoris_, or the renewing of love. In fact,
he is a little better than a tyro--an ignoramus, who doesn't quarrel at
least once a week, wid the fair object of his amorous inclinations, an'
that for the sake of the reconciliaitons.”

Hycy and Hanna were now about to dance, when Philip Hogan came forward,
and, with an oath, declared that Kathleen must dance--“He wouldn't see
Mr. Burke insulted that way by any such airs--and by--she must dance.
Come,” said he, “what stuff is this--we'll see whether you or I is
strongest;” and as he spoke he seized her rudely by the arm, and was
about to pull her out on the floor.

Bryan M'Mahon sprung to his feet. “Let her go, you ruffian,” he
exclaimed; “let her go this instant.”

“No, I won't,” replied the savage; “an' not for you, at any rate. Come,
Miss Kathleen, out you'll go:--for you indeed,” he added, in a ferocious
parenthesis, looking at Bryan; “it's you that's the cause of all this.
Come, miss, dance you must.”

The words were scarcely uttered when M'Mahon, by a single blow on the
neck, felled him like an ox, and in an instant the whole place was a
scene of wild commotion. The Hogans, however, at all times unpopular,
had no chance in an open affray on such an occasion as this. The feeling
that predominated was, that the ruffianly interference of Philip had
been justly punished; and ere many minutes the usual harmony, with the
exception of some threatening looks and ferocious under growls from the
Hogans, was restored. Hycy and Hanna then went on with their dance, and
when it was over, the schoolmaster rose to depart.

“Mr. Burke,” said he, “you are and have the reputation of being a
perfect gentleman _homo factus ad unguem_--as has been said by the
learned little Roman, who, between you and me, was not overburthened
with an excess of morality. I take the liberty, jinteels, of wishing you
a good-night--_precor vobia prosperam noctem!_ Ah, I can do it yet; but
it wasn't for nothing that I practised the peripatetics in larned Kerry,
where the great O'Finigan is not yet forgotten. I shall now seek a
contiguous place of repose, until the consequences of some slight
bacchanalin libations on my part shall have dispersed themselves into
thin air.”

He accordingly departed, but from the unsteadiness of his step it was
clear that, as he said, the place of his repose must be contiguous
indeed. Had he been conscious of his own motions it is not likely he
would have sought for repose in Cavanagh's kiln, then the habitation of
the Hogans. It was probably the fact of the door having been left open,
which was generally the case in summer, that induced him to enter--for
enter he did--ignorant, it is to be presumed, that the dwelling he
was about to enter was then inhabited by the Hogans, whom he very much
disrelished.

The place was nearly waste, and had a very desolate look. Scattered
around, and littered upon shake-down beds of straw, some half dozen
young besmutted savages, male and female, lay stretched in all
positions, some north, others south, without order or decency, but all
seeming in that barbarous luxury which denotes strong animal health and
an utter disregard of cleanliness and bodily comfort. Over in one of the
corners lay three or four budgets, old iron skillets, hammers, lumps of
melted lead, broken pots, a quantity of cows' horns for spoons, wooden
dishes that required clasping, old kettles that wanted repair, a couple
of cast off Poteen Stills, and a new one half made--all of which were
visible by the light of a large log of bog-fir which lay burning in the
fire-place. On looking around him, he descended a flight of stone steps
that led to the fireplace or the kiln or opening in which the fuel used
to dry the grain was always burned. This corner, which was eight or ten
feet below the other portion of the floor, being, in general, during the
summer months filled with straw, received the drowsy pedagogue, who, in
a few minutes, was as sound asleep as any of them about him.

Hycy, who was conscious of his good figure, danced two or three times
afterwards.

Dora M'Mahon had the honor of being his partner, as had one or two of
the best looking girls present. At the close of the last dance he looked
significantly at the Hogans, and nodded towards the door; after which it
might have been observed, that they slunk out one at a time, followed in
a few minutes by Kate Hycy, after some further chat with Gerald Cavanagh
and his wife, threw half a crown to Mickey M'Grory, and in his usual
courteous phraseology, through which there always ran, by the way, a vein
of strong irony, he politely wished them all a good night.

CHAPTER VIII.--Anonymous Letter with a Name to It

--Finigan's Dialogue with Hycy

The severest tax upon Hycy's powers of invention was, in consequence of
his habits of idleness, to find means of occupying his time. Sometimes,
it is true, he condescended to oversee the men while at work, but
there it was generally found that so far from keeping them to their
employment, he was a considerable drawback upon their industry. The
ordinary business of his life, however, was riding about the country,
and especially into the town of Ballymacan and home again. He was also a
regular attendant in all the neighboring fairs; and we may safely assert
that no race in the province ever came off without him.

On the second day after his interview with Teddy Phats and the Hogans,
he was riding past the post-office, when he heard the window tapped,
and, on approaching, a letter was handed out to him, which on opening he
found to contain the following communication:--

“Worthy Mr. Hyacinthus--

“A friend unknown to you, but not altogether so to fame, and one.
whom no display of the subtlest ingenuity on behalf of your acute and
sagacious intellect could ever decypher through the medium of this
epistle, begs to convey to you a valuable portion of anonymous
information. When he says that he is not unknown to fame, the assertion,
as far as it goes, is pregnant wid veracity. Mark that I say, as far
as it goes, by which is meant the assertion as well as the fame of your
friend, the inditer of this significant epistle. Forty-eight square
miles of good sound fame your not inerudite correspondent can
conscientiously lay claim to; and although there is, with regret I admit
it, a considerable portion of the square superficies alluded to, waste
and uncultivated moor, yet I can say, wid that racy touch of genial and
expressive pride which distinguishes men of letters in general, that the
other portions of this fine district are inhabited by a multitudinity
of population in the highest degree creditable to the prolific powers
of the climate. 'Tisn't all as one, then, as that thistle-browsing
quadruped. Barney Heffeman, who presumes, in imitation of his betters,
to write Philomath after his name, and whose whole extent of literary
reputation is not more than two or three beggarly townlands, whom, by
the way, he is inoculating successfully wid his own ripe and flourishing
ignorance. No, sir; nor like Gusty Gibberish, or (as he has been most
facetiously christened by his Reverence, Father O'Flaherty) Demosthenes
M'Gosther, inasmuch as he is distinguished for an aisy and prodigal
superfluity of mere words, unsustained by intelligibility or meaning,
but who cannot claim in his own person a mile and a half of dacent
reputation. However, _quid multis_ Mr. Hyacinthus; 'tis no indoctrinated
or obscure scribe who now addresses you, and who does so from causes
that may be salutary to your own health and very gentlemanly fame,
according as you resave the same, not pretermitting interests involving,
probably, on your part, an abundant portion of pecuniarity.

“In short, then, it has reached these ears, Mr. Hyacinthus, and between
you and me, they are not such a pair as, in consequence of their
longitudinity, can be copiously shaken, or which rise and fall according
to the will of the wearer; like those of the thistle-browser already
alluded to; it has reached them that you are about to substantiate a
a disreputable--excuse the phrase--co-partnership wid four of the most
ornamental villains on Hibernian earth, by which you must understand me
to mane that the villains aforesaid are not merely accomplished in all
the plain principles and practices of villainy, but finished off even
to its natest and most inganious decorations. Their whole life has been
most assiduously and successfully devoted to a general violation of the
ten commandments, as well as to the perpetual commission of the seven
deadly sins. Nay, the 'reserved cases' themselves can't escape them, and
it is well known that they wont rest satisfied wid the wide catalogue of
ordinary and general iniquity, but they must, by way of luxury, have a
lick at blasphemy, and some of the rarer vices, as often as they can,
for the villains are so fastidious that they won't put up wid
common wickedness like other people. I cannot, however, wid anything
approximating to a safe conscience, rest here. What I have said has
reference to the laws of God, but what I am about to enumerate relates
to the laws of man--to the laws of the land Wid respect, then, to them,
I do assure you, that although I myself look upon the violation of a
great number of the latter wid a very vanial squint, still, I say, I
do assure you that they have not left a single law made by Parliament
unfractured. They have gone over the whole statute-book several times,
and I believe are absolutely of opinion that the Parliament is doing
nothing. The most lynx-eyed investigator of old enactments could not
find one which has escaped them, for the villains are perfectly black
letter in that respect; and what is in proper keeping wid this, whenever
they hear of a new Act of Parliament they cannot rest either night or
day until they break it. And now for the inference: be on your
guard against this pandemonial squad. Whatever your object may be in
cultivating and keeping society wid them, theirs is to ruin you--fleece
was the word used--an I then to cut and run, leaving Mr. Hycy--the
acute, the penetrating, the accomplished--completely in the lurch. Be
influenced, then, by the amicitial admonitions of the inditer of this
correspondence. Become not a smuggler--forswear poteen. The Lord forgive
me, Mr. Hycy--no, I only wished to say forswear--not the poteen--but
any connection wid the illegal alembic from which it is distillated,
otherwise they will walk off wid the 'doublings,' or strong liquor,
leaving you nothing but the residuum or feints. Take a friend's advice,
therefore, and retrograde out of all society and connection wid the
villains I have described; or if you superciliously overlook this
warning, book it down as a fact that admits of no negation, that
you will be denuded of reputation, of honesty, and of any pecuniary
contingencies that you may happen to possess. This is a sincere advice
from

“Your Anonymous Friend,

“Patricius O'Finigan, Philomath.”

After perusing this characteristic production, Hycy paused for a little,
and felt it very probable that there might be some reasonable grounds
for its production, although he could scarcely understand upon what
motive these fellows should proceed to practice treachery towards him.
That they were without principle or honesty he was perfectly satisfied;
but he knew it was their interest to keep within bounds in all matters
connected with their employment, He laughed very heartily at Finigan's
blunder--for such it evidently was--in signing his name to a document
that he intended to be anonymous.

“At all events,” thought he, “I will ride over to his 'seminary,' as he
calls it, and see what he can mean, or what his object is in sending me
such a warning.”

He accordingly did so, and in some twenty minutes reached a small cabin
that stood about a couple of hundred yards from the high-road. A little
bridle way led to it, as did several minor pathways, each radiating
from a different direction. It was surrounded by four or five acres of
common, where the children played from twelve to one, at which hour
Mr. O'Finigan went to the house of some wealthy benefactor to dine. The
little village of Ballydruthy, at a short distance from which it stood,
was composed of a couple dozen dwelling-houses, a chapel, a small
grocer's and publican's, together with a Pound at the entrance, through
which ran a little stream necessary to enable the imprisoned cattle to
drink.

On riding up to the school, Hycy, as he approached the door, heard his
own name repeated by at least two dozen voices.

“Here's a gintleman, masther”--“It's Misther Hycy Burke, sir “--“It is,
bedad, sir, Hycy the sportheen--”

“Him that rides the race, masther”--“Ay, an' he has on top-boots and
buckskins, an's as gran' as a gintleman--”

“Silence!” said Finigan, “silence! I say; is this proper scholastic
decorum in the presence of a stranger? Industry and taciturnity, you
reptiles, or castigation shall result. Here, Paddy Sparable,” he
added, rising up--“here, you nailroad, assume my office, and rule
the establishment till I return; and, mark me, as the son of a nailer,
sirra, I expect that you will rule them with a rod of iron--ha! ha! ha!”

“Ay, but Paddy Pancake's here to-day, sir, an' he's able to welt me; so
that's it's only leathered I'd get, sir, i' you plase.”

“But have you no officers? Call in aid, I ordher you. Can't you make
Sam Scaddhan and Phiddher Mackleswig there two policeman get Pancake
down--flatten him--if he prove contumacious during my absence. Pancake,
mark me, obedience is your cue, or, if not, the castigator here is your
alternative; there it is, freshly cut--ripe and ready--and you are not
to be told, at this time o' day, what portion of your corpus will catch
it. Whish-h-h!--silence! I say. How do you do, Mr. Burke? I am proud of
a visit from you, sir; perhaps you would light down and examine a class.
My Greeks are all absent to-day; but I have a beautiful class o' Romans
in the Fourth Book of Virgil--immortal Maro. Do try them, Mr. Hycy; if
they don't do Dido's death in a truly congenial spirit I am no classic.
Of one thing I can assure you, that they ought; for I pledge my
reputation it is not the first time I've made them practice the Irish
cry over it. This, however, was but natural; for it is now well known to
the learned that, if Dido herself was not a fair Hibernian, she at least
spoke excellent Irish. Ah, Mr. Hycy,” he added, with a grin, “the birch
is the only pathetic switch growing! Will you come in, sir?”

“No, thank you, Mr. Finigan; but perhaps you would have the goodness
to come out for a little;” and, as he spoke, he nodded towards the
public-house. “I know the boys will be quiet until you return.”

“If they don't,” replied Finigan, “the alternative is in no shape
enigmatical. Mark what I've already said, gintlemen. Sparable, do you
keep a faithful journal of the delinquents; and observe that there are
offices of importance in this world besides flagellating erudition into
reptiles like you.”

He then looked about him with an air of vast importance, and joined Hycy
on his way to the public-house. Having ordered in the worthy pedagogue's
favorite beverage, not forgetting something of the same kind for
himself, he addressed Finigan as follows:--

“Finigan, I received a devilish queer letter from you to-day--take your
liquor in the mean time--what did you mean by it?”

“From me, Mr. Hycy--_nego_, I say--_pugnis et calc bu nego_.”

“Come, come, you know you wrote me an anonymous letter, referring to
some ridiculous copartnership or other that I can neither make head nor
tail of. Tell me candidly what you meant.”

“Very good, Mr. Burke; but sure I know of old that jocularity was always
your forte--even when laying in under my own instruction that sound
classical substratum on which the superstructure of your subsequent
knowledge was erected, you were always addicted to the facetious and the
fabulous--both of which you contrived to blend together with an ease and
volubility of language that could not be surpassed.”

“That is all very well; but you need not deny that you wrote me the
letter. Let me ask you seriously, what was it you warned me against?”

“_Propino tibi salulem_--here's to you. No, but let me ask you what you
are at, Mr. Hycy? You may have resaved an anonymous letter, but I am
ignorant why you should paternize it upon me.”

“Why, because it has all the marks and tokens of you.”

“Eh?--to what does that amount? Surely you know my handwriting?”

“Perfectly; but this is disguised evidently.”

“Faith,” said the other, laughing, “maybe the inditer of it was
disguised when he wrote it.”

“It might be,” replied Hycy; “however, take your liquor, and in the mean
time I shall feel exceedingly obliged to you, Mr. Finigan, if you will
tell me the truth at once--whether you wrote it or whether you did
not?”

“My response again is in the negative,” replied Finigan--“I disclaim it
altogether. I am not the scribe, you may rest assured of it, nor can I
say who is.”

“Well, then,” said Hycy, “I find I must convict you yourself of the
fabulous at least; read that,” said he, placing the letter in his own
hands. “Like a true Irishman you signed your name unconsciously; and now
what have you to say for yourself?”

“Simply,” replied the other, “that some knave, of most fictitious
imagination, has forged my name to it. No man can say that that is my
manuscription, Mr. Hycy.” These words he uttered with great coolness;
and Hycy, who was in many things a shrewd young fellow, deemed it better
to wait until the liquor, which was fast disappearing, should begin to
operate. At length, when about three-quarters of an hour had passed, he
resolved to attack his vanity.

“Well, well, Finigan, as regards this letter, I must say I feel a good
deal disappointed.”

“Why so, Mr. Hycy?”

“Why, because I did not think there was any other man in the country who
could have written it.”

“Eh? how is that now?”

“Faith, it's very simple; the letter is written with surprising
ability--the language is beautiful--and the style, like the land of
Canaan, flowing with milk and honey. It is certainly a most uncommon
production.”

“Now, seriously, do you think so? At all events, Mr. Hycy, it was
written by a friend of yours--that's a clear case.”

“I think so; but what strikes me is its surprising ability; no wonder
the writer should say that he is not unknown to fame--he could not
possibly remain in obscurity.”

“Mr. Hycy, your health--I remember when you were wid me you certainly
were _facile princeps_ for a ripe judgment, even in your rudiments;
so then, you are of opinion that the epistle in question has janius?
I think myself it is no everyday production; not I believe such as
the thistle-browser Heffernan, or Misther Demosthenes M'Gosther could
achieve--the one wid his mile and a half, and the other wid his three
townlands of reputation. No, sir, to the divil I pitch them both; they
could never indite such a document. Your health, Mr. Hycy--_propino
tibi_, I say; and you are right, _ille ego_--it's a a fact; I am the
man, sir--I acknowledge the charge.”

This admission having been made, we need scarcely add that an
explanation was at at once given by Finigan of the motive which had
induced him to write the letter.

“On laving the kemp,” said he, “and getting into the open air--_sub
diu_, Mr. Hycy--I felt a general liquidation of my whole bodily
strength, with a strong disposition to make short excursions to the
right or to the left rather than hold my way straight a-head, with, I
must confess, an equal tendency to deposit my body on my mother earth
and enact the soporiferous. On passing Gerald Cavanagh's kiln, where
the Hogans kennel, I entered, and was greeted wid such a chorus of
sternutation as you might expect from a pigsty in midsummer, and made me
envy the unlicked young savages who indulged in it. At the period spoken
of neither you nor they had come in from the kemp. Even this is but a
dim recollection, and I remember nothing more until I overheard your
voice and theirs in dialogue as you were about to depart. After you
went, I heard the dialogue which I hinted at in the letter, between
Teddy Phats and them; and knowing my position and the misbegotten satyrs
by whom I was surrounded, I patiently waited until they were asleep,
when I quietly took my departure.”

Burke could not help inferring from Finigan's manner, that he had
overheard a greater portion of their conversation on the occasion
alluded to than he seemed disposed to acknowledge.

“Now, Finigan,” he said, “I feel disposed to place every confidence in
you. Will you answer candidly the question I am about to propose to you?
Did you hear Bryan M'Mahon's name mentioned?”

“You say, Mr. Hycy,” replied Finigan, emptying his glass, “that you
would enthertain no apprehension in placing confidence in me?”

“Not the slightest,” replied Hycy; “I believe you to be the very soul of
honor; and, besides, are you not my old master? As you say yourself, did
I not break grammatical ground, under you?”

“The soul of honor,” replied the pedagogue, complacently--“that is
excellently said. Well, then, Mr. Burke, I shall not deal out my
confidence by beggarly instalments--I did hear Bryan M'Mahon's name
mentioned; and I heard a plan alluded to between you and them for
reducing him to--”

“That was all humbug, Finigan, so far as I am concerned; but for the
present I am obliged to let them suppose what you allude to, in order
to keep them honest to myself if I can. You know they have a kind of
hereditary hatred against the M'Mahons; and if I did not allow them to
take their own way in this, I don't think I could depend on them.”

“Well, there is raison in that too,” replied Finigan.

“I am sure, Finigan,” proceeded Hycy, “that you are too honorable a man
to breathe either to Bryan M'Mahon or any one else, a single syllable
of the conversation which you overheard merely by accident. I say I
am certain you will never let it transpire, either by word of mouth or
writing. In me you may always calculate on finding a sincere friend;
and of this let me assure you, that your drink, if everything goes right
with us, won't cost you much--much! not a penny; if you had two throats
instead of one--as many necks as Hydra, we should supply them all.”

“Give me your hand, Mr. Hycy--you are a gintleman, and I always said
would be one--I did, sir--I prognosticated as much years ago; and
sincerely felicitous am I that my prognostications have been verified
for so far. I said you would rise--that exaltation was before you--and
that your friends might not feel at all surprised at the elevated
position in which you will die. _Propino tibi_, again--and do not fear
that ever revelation of mine shall facilitate any catastrophe that may
await you.”

Hycy looked keenly into the schoolmaster's face as he uttered the last
observation; but in the maudlin and collapsed features then before him
he could read nothing that intimated the sagacity of a double meaning.
This satisfied him; and after once more exacting from Finigan a pledge
of what he termed honorable confidence, he took his departure.

CHAPTER IX.--A Little Polities, Much Friendship, and Some Mystery

This communication determined Hycy to forego his intention for the
present, and he consequently allowed the summer and autumn to pass
without keeping up much intercourse with either Teddy Phats or the
Hogans. The truth is, that Burke, although apparently frank and candid,
was constitutionally cautious, and inclined a good deal to suspicion.
He feared that no project, the knowledge of which was held in common
with Finigan, could be long kept a secret; and for that reason he make
up his mind to postpone the matter, and allow it to die away out of the
schoolmaster's mind ere he bestowed any further attention upon it. In
the meantime, the state of the country was gradually assuming a worse
and more depressing character. The season was unfavorable; and although
we do not assert that many died of immediate famine, yet we know that
hundreds--nay, thousands--died from the consequences of scarcity and
destitution--or, in plainer words, from fever and other diseases induced
by bad and insufficient food, and an absence of the necessary comforts
of life. Indeed, at the period of our narrative, the position of Ireland
was very gloomy; but when, we may ask, has it been otherwise, within
the memory of man, or the records of history? Placed as the country was,
emigration went forward on an extensive scale,--emigration, too, of
that peculiar description which every day enfeebles and impoverishes
the country, by depriving her of all that approaches to anything like
a comfortable and independent yeomanry. This, indeed, is a kind of
depletion which no country can bear long; and, as it is, at the moment
we are writing this, progressing at a rate beyond all precedent, it will
not, we trust, be altogether uninteresting to inquire into some of the
causes that have occasioned it. Let not our readers apprehend, however,
that we are about to turn our fictitious narrative into a dissertation
on political economy. Of course the principle cause of emigration is the
poverty and depressed state of the country; and it follows naturally,
that whatever occasions our poverty will necessarily occasion
emigration. The first cause of our poverty then, is Absenteeism, which,
by drawing six or seven millions out of the country, deprives our people
of employment and means of life to that amount. The next is the general
inattention of Irish landlords to the state and condition of their
own property, and an inexcusable want of sympathy with their tenantry,
which, indeed, is only a corollary from the former; for it can hardly
be expected that those who wilfully neglect themselves will feel a
warm interest in others. The next is the evil of subletting, by which
property becomes overloaded with human beings, who, for the most part,
are bound by no ties whatsoever to the owner of the soil. He is
not their landlord, nor are they his tenants; and so far from their
interests being in any way reciprocal, they are actually adversative.
It is his interest to have them removed, and, as circumstances
unfortunately stand, it is theirs to remain, inasmuch as their
alternative is ruin since they have no place of shelter to receive them.

Political corruption, in the shape of the forty-shilling franchise, was
another cause, and one of the very worst, which led to the prostration
of the country by poverty and moral degradation, and for this the
proprietors of the soil are solely responsible. Nor can the use of the
potato, as the staple food of the laboring classes, in connection with
the truck system, and the consequent absence of money payments, in
addition to the necessary ignorance of domestic and social comforts
that resulted from them, be left out of this wretched catalogue of our
grievances. Another cause of emigration is to be found in the high and
exorbitant rents at which land is held by all classes of farmers--with
some exceptions we admit, as in the case of old leases--but especially
by those who hold under middlemen, or on the principle of subletting
generally. By this system a vast deal of distress and petty but most
harrassing oppression is every day in active operation upon the property
of the head landlord, which he can never know, and for which he is in no
other way responsible unless by having ever permitted the existence of
it for any purpose whatsoever.

In a country distracted like Ireland, it would be impossible to omit the
existence of political and religious animosity as a strong and prominent
cause of our wretched poverty, and consequently of emigration. The
priest, instead of leaving temporal affairs to temporal men, most
improperly mingles himself in the angry turmoils of politics, to which,
by his interference, he communicates a peculiar and characteristic
bitterness. The landlord, on the other hand, having his own interests to
consult, does not wish to arm a political opponent with such powers as
he knows will most assuredly be turned against himself, and consequently
often refuses to grant a lease unless to those who will pledge
themselves to support him. This state of things, involving, as it does,
much that is wrong on both sides, is, has been, and will be, a present
and permanent curse to the country--a curse, too, which, until there
is more of humanity and justice on the one side, and of education
and liberal feeling on the other, is not likely to disappear from the
country.

Though last, not least, comes the unaccountable and guilty neglect of
our legislature (if we can call it ours) in everything that pertained to
Irish interests. This, together with its almost necessary consequence of
dishonest agitation on the one hand, and well founded dissatisfaction on
the other, nearly completes the series of the causes which have produced
the poverty of the country, and, as a direct result, the emigration of
all that is most comfortable, independent, and moral among us.

This poverty, arising, as it does, from so many causes, has propagated
itself with a rapidity which is startling; for every one knows that
poverty is proverbially prolific. And yet it is a grievous anomaly to
reflect that a country so far steeped in misery and destitution as
to have nearly one-half of its population in a state of most pitiable
pauperism, possesses a soil capable of employing and maintaining three
times the number of its inhabitants. When the causes, however, which we
have just enumerated are seriously looked at and considered, we think
its extraordinary result is, after all, so very natural, that the wonder
would indeed be were the state of Ireland otherwise than it is. As
matters stand at present, and as they are likely to continue, unless
parliament shall interfere by a comprehensive measure of legislation,
we must only rest contented with seeing the industrious, moral, and
respectable portion of our countrymen abandoning the land of their
birth and affections, and nothing but the very dregs--degraded alike
by idleness and immorality--remaining behind to multiply and perpetuate
their own wretchedness and degradation.

It has been often said, and with great truth, that no man is more
devotedly attached to his native soil than an Irishman; yet it may
reasonably be asked, how this principle of attachment can be reconciled
with the strong tendency to emigration which characterizes our people.
We reply, that the tendency in question is a proof of the love of honest
industry, enterprise, and independence, by which our countrymen, when
not degraded by neglect and poverty, are actuated. It is not of this
class, however so degraded, that we now speak. On the contrary we
take the decent and respectable farmer as the subject of our
illustration--the man who, loving his native fields as if they were of
his blood, would almost as soon part with the one as the other. This man
it is, who, with the most child-like tenderness of affection towards the
land on which he and his have lived for centuries, will, nevertheless,
the moment he finds himself on the decline, and with no cheering hope
of prosperity or encouragement before him or his family, resolutely
determine to forget everything but the noble duties which he owes
to himself and them. He sees clearly, from the unhappy state of
the country, and the utter want of sympathy and attention which he
experiences at the hands of those who ought to have his interests at
heart, that if he attempt to hold his position under circumstances so
depressing and unfavorable, he must gradually sink, until he and his
become mingled with the great mass of pauperism which lies lik a an
incubus upon the energies of the country. What, therefore, can possibly
prove more strongly than this that the Irishman who is not dragged into
the swamp of degradation, in which hope and energy are paralyzed, is
strongly and heroically characterized by I those virtues of industry and
enterprise that throw their lustre over social life?

There are other and still more indefensible causes, however, which too
frequently drive the independent farmer out of the country. In too
many cases it happens that the rapacity and dishonesty of the agent,
countenanced or stimulated by the necessities and reckless extravagance
of the landlord, fall, like some unwholesome blight, upon that
enterprise and industry which would ultimately, if properly encouraged,
make the country prosperous and her landed proprietors independent men.
We allude to the nefarious and monstrous custom of ejecting tenants who
have made improvements, or, when permitted to remain, making them pay
for the improvements which they have made. A vast proportion of this
crying and oppressive evil must be laid directly to the charge of those
who fill the responsible situation of agents to property in Ireland,
than whom in general there does not exist, a more unscrupulous,
oppressive, arrogant, and dishonest class of men. Exceptions of course
there are, and many, but speaking of them as a body, we unhappily assert
nothing but what the condition of property, and of those who live upon
it, do at this moment and have for many a year testified.

Several months had now elapsed, and although the M'Mahons had waited
upon the agent once or twice since the interview which we have already
described between him and Tom, yet there seemed no corresponding anxiety
on the part of Fethertonge to have the leases prepared or executed. This
neglect or reluctance did not occasion much uneasiness to the old man,
who was full of that generous and unsuspecting confidence that his
countrymen always repose in the promise of a landlord respecting a
lease, which they look upon, or did at least, as something absolutely
inviolable and sacred, as indeed it ought to be. Bryan, however, who,
although a young man, was not destitute of either observation or the
experience which it bestows, and who, moreover, had no disposition to
place unlimited confidence in Fethertonge, began to entertain some vague
suspicions with reference to the delay. Fethertonge, however, had not
the reputation of being a harsh man, or particularly unjust in his
dealings with the world; on the contrary, he was rather liked than
otherwise; for so soft was the melody of his voice, and so irresistible
the friendship and urbanity of his manner, that many persons felt as
much gratified by the refusal of a favor from him as they did at its
being granted by another. At length, towards the close of October, Bryan
himself told his father that he would, call upon the agent and urge him
to expedite the matter of the leases. “I don't know how it is,” said
he, “but some way or other I don't feel comfortable about this business:
Fethertonge is very civil and very dacent, and is well spoken of in
general; but for all that there's always a man here an' there that says
he's not to be depended on.”

“Troth an' he is to be depended on,” said his generous father; “his
words isn't like the words of a desaver, and it isn't till he shows the
cloven foot that I'll ever give in that he's, dishonest.”

“Well,” said Bryan, “I'm sure I for one hope you may be right; but, at
any rate, as he's at home now I'll start and see him.”

“Do then,” said his father, “bekaise I know you're a favorite of his;
for he tould me so wid his own lips.”

“Well,” replied the other, laughing, “I hope you're right there too;
I'm sure I have no objection;” and he accordingly set out to see
Fethertonge, but with something of an impression that the object of
his visit was not likely to be accomplished without difficulty, if
accomplished at all.

On reaching the agent's house he met a thin, tall man, named Clinton,
with a hooked nose and sinister aspect, riding down the avenue, after
having paid Fethertonge a visit. This person was the gauger of the
district, a bachelor and a man of considerable wealth, got together,
it is suspected, by practices that were not well capable of bearing the
light. His family consisted of a niece and a nephew, the latter of whom
had recently become a bosom friend of the accomplished Hycy Burke, who,
it was whispered, began to look upon Miss Clinton with a partial eye.
Hycy had got acquainted with him at the Herringstown races, where
he, Hycy, rode and won a considerable sweepstakes; and as both young
gentlemen were pretty much of the same habits of life, a very warm
intimacy had, for some time past, subsisted between them. Clinton, to
whom M'Mahon was known, addressed him in a friendly manner, and, after
some chat, he laid the point of his whip gently upon Bryan's shoulder,
so as to engage his attention.

“M'Mahon,” said he, “I am glad I have met you, and I trust our meeting
will be for your good. You have had a dispute with Hycy Burke?”

“Why, sir,” replied Bryan, smiling, “if I had it wasn't such as it was
worth his while to talk about.”

“Well, M'Mahon, that's generously said on your part--now, listen to me;
don't allow yourself to be drawn into any illegal or illicit proceedings
by any one, friend or foe--if so, you will only put yourself into the
power of your enemies; for enemies you have, I can assure you.”

“They say, sir, there is no one without them,” replied Bryan, smiling;
“but so far as I am consarned, I don't exactly understand what you mane.
I have no connection with anything, either illegal or--or--wrong in any
way, Mr. Clinton, and if any one tould you so, they spoke an untruth.”

“Ay, ay,” said Clinton, “that may be so, and I hope it is so; but you
know that it could not be expected you would admit it even if it be
true. Will you in the mean time, be guided by a friend? I respect your
father and his family; I respect yourself, M'Mahon; and, consequently,
my advice to you is--keep out of the meshes of the law--avoid violating
it--and remember you have enemies. Now think of these words, and so
good-bye, M'Mahon! Indeed, I am glad for your own sake I met
you--good-bye!”

As he uttered the last words he dashed on and left Bryan in a state
of perfect amazement at the strange and incomprehensible nature of the
communication he had just received. Indeed, so full was his mind of the
circumstance, that forgetting all his suspicions of Fethertonge, and
urged by the ingenuous impulse of an honest heart, he could not prevent
himself in the surprise and agitation of the moment from detailing the
conversation which he had just had with the gauger.

“That is singular enough,” said Fethertonge--“he named Hycy Burke,
then?”

“He did, sir.”

“It is singular,” proceeded the other, as if speaking to himself; “in
truth, my dear M'Mahon, we were talking about you, discussing, in fact,
the same subject not many minutes ago; and what you tell me now is only
an additional proof that Clinton, who is sometimes harshly spoken of by
the way, is a straightforward, honest man.”

“What could he mane, sir?” asked Bryan, “I never had anything to do
contrary to the law--I haven't now, nor do I ever intend to have--”

“Well, I'm sure I do not know,” replied the agent: “he made no illusion
of that kind to me, from a generous apprehension, I dare say, lest he
might injure you in my opinion. He only desired me not rashly to listen
to anything prejudicial to your character; for that you had enemies who
were laboring to injure you in some way--but how--he either would not
tell, or perhaps did not know. I am glad, however, he mentioned it; for
I shall be guarded should I hear anything to your prejudice.”

“I tell you beforehand, sir,” said Bryan, with the conscious warmth
of rectitude, “and I think I ought to know best, that if you ever hear
anything against my honesty or want of principle, or if any one should
say that I will be consarned in what's contrary to either law or
justice, you'll hear a falsehood--I don't care who it comes from--and
the man who tells you so is a liar.”

“I should be sorry to believe otherwise, my dear Bryan; it would grieve
me to be forced to believe otherwise. If you suffer yourself to be drawn
into anything wrong or improper, you will be the first individual
of your family that ever brought a stain upon it. It would grieve
me--deeply would it grieve me, to witness such a blot upon so
honest--but no, I will not, for I cannot suppose it.”

Bryan, whose disposition was full of good-nature and cheerfulness, could
not help bursting into a hearty laugh, on reverting to the conversation
which he had with Clinton, and comparing it with that in which they were
now engaged; both of which were founded upon some soap-bubble charge of
which he knew nothing.

“You take it lightly,” said Fethertonge, with something of a serious
expression; “but remember, my dear Bryan, that I now speak as one
interested in, and, in fact, representing the other members of your
family. Remember, at all events, you are forewarned, and, in the
meantime, I thank Clinton--although I certainly would not have mentioned
names. Bryan, you can have no objection that I should speak to your
father on this subject?”

“Not the slightest, sir,” replied Bryan; “spake to any one you like
about it; but, putting that aside, sir, for the present--about these
leases?”

“Why, what apprehension have you about them, Byran?”

“No apprehension, sir, sartinly; but you know yourself, Mr. Fethertonge,
that to a man like me, that's layin' out and expendin' money every day
upon Adaharra farm, and my father the same way upon Carriglass--I say,
to a man like me, to be layin' out his money, when you know yourself
that if the present landlord should refuse to carry his father's dying
words into effect--or, as you said this minute yourself, sir, if some
enemy should turn you against me, amn't I and my father and the whole
family liable to be put out, notwithstanding all the improvements we've
made, and the money we've spent in makin' them?”

“Bryan,” said Fethertonge, after a pause, “every word you say is
unfortunately too true--too true--and such things, are a disgrace to the
country; indeed, I believe, they seldom occur in any country but this.
Will it in the mean time satisfy you when I state that, if old Mr.
Chevydale's intentions are not carried into effect by his son, I shall
forthwith resign my agency?”

Bryan's conscience, generous as he was, notwithstanding his suspicions,
smote him deeply on hearing this determination so unequivocally
expressed. Indeed the whole tenor of their dialogue, taken in at one
view--especially Fethertonge's intention of speaking to Tom M'Mahon upon
the mysterious subject of Bryan's suspected delinquencies against
the law--so thoroughly satisfied him of the injustice he had rendered
Fethertonge, that he was for a time silent.

At length he replied--“That, sir, is more than we could expect; but
at any rate there's one thing I'm now sartin of--that, if we're
disappointed, you won't be the cause of it.”

“Yes; but of course you must put disappointment out of the question. The
landlord, will, without any doubt, grant the leases--I am satisfied of
that; indeed, there can be no doubt about it. By the way, I am anxious
to see Ahadarra and to ascertain the extent to which you have carried
your improvements. Clinton and I will probably take a ride up there some
day soon; and in the meantime do you keep improving, M'Mahon, for that's
the secret of all success--leave the rest to me. How is your father?”

“Never was better, sir, I'm thankful to you.”

“And your grandfather? how does he bear up?”

“Faith, sir, wonderfully, considering his age.”

“He must be very old now?”

“He's ninety-four, sir, and that's a long age sure enough; but I'm sorry
to say that my mother's health isn't so well.”

“Why, what is the matter with her? I'm sorry to hear this.”

“Indeed we can't say; she's very poorly--her appetite is gone--she has a
cough, an' she doesn't get her rest at night.”

“Why don't you get medical advice?”

“So we did, sir. Dr. Sexton's attendin' her; but I don't think somehow
that he has a good opinion of her.”

“Sexton's a skilful man, and I don't think she could be in better hands;
however, Bryan, I shall feel obliged if you will send down occasionally
to let me know how she gets on--once a week or so.”

“Indeed we will, sir, an' I needn't say how much we feel obliged to you
for your kindness and good wishes.”

“It must be more than good wishes, Bryan; but I trust that she will
get better. In the meantime leave the other matters to me, and you may
expect Clinton and I up at your farm to look some of these days.”

“God forgive me,” thought Bryan, as he left the hall-door, “for the
injustice I did him, by supposin' for one minute that he wasn't disposed
to act fairly towards us. My father was right; an' it was foolish of
me to put my wit against his age an' experience. Oh, no, that man's
honest--there can;t be any mistake about it.”

From this topic he could not help reverting, as he pursued his way
home, to the hints he had received with respect to Hycy Burke's enemity
towards him, the cause of which he could not clearly understand. Hycy
Burke had, in general, the character of being a generous, dashing
young fellow, with no fault unless a disposition to gallantry and a
thoughtless inclination for extravagance; for such were the gentle
terms in which habits of seduction and an unscrupulous profligacy in
the expenditure of money were clothed by those who at once fleeced and
despised him, but who were numerous enough to impress those opinions
upon a great number of the people. In turning over matters as they stood
between them, he could trace Burke's enemity to no adequate cause;
nor indeed could he believe it possible that he entertained any such
inveterate feeling of hostility against him. They had of late frequently
met, on which occasion Hycy spoke to him with nearly as much cordiality
as ever. Still, however, he could not altogether free himself from
the conviction, that both Clinton and Fethertonge must have had
unquestionable grounds for the hints which they had in such a friendly
way thrown out to him.

In this mood he was proceeding when he heard the noise of horses' feet
behind, and in a few minutes Hycy himself and young Clinton overtook him
at a rapid pace. Their conversation was friendly, as usual, when Bryan,
on seeing Hycy about to dash off at the same rapid rate, said, “If you
are not in a particular hurry, Hycy, I'd wish to have a word with you.”

The latter immediately pulled up, exclaiming, “a word, Bryan! ay, a
hundred--certainly. Clinton, ride on a bit, will you? till I have some
conversation with M'Mahon. Well, Bryan?”

“Hycy,” proceeded Bryan, “I always like to be aboveboard. Will you allow
me to ask if you have any bad feelings against me?”

“Will you answer me another question?” replied Hycy.

“If I can I will,” said Bryan.

“Well, then,” replied Hycy, “I will answer you most candidly, Bryan--not
the slightest; but I do assure you that I thought you had such a feeling
against me.”

“And you wor right, too,” returned Bryan “for I really had.”

“I remember,” proceeded Hycy, “that when I asked you to lend me
thirty-five pounds--and by the way that reminds me that I am still
pretty deep in your debt--you would neither lend it nor give any
satisfactory reason why you refused me; now, what occasioned that
feeling, Bryan?”

“It's by the merest chance that I happen to have the cause of it in my
pocket,” replied M'Mahon, who, as he spoke, handed him the letter which
Peety Dhu had delivered to him from Hycy himself. “Read that,” said he,
“and I think you'll have no great trouble in understanding why I felt
as I did;--an' indeed, Hycy, to tell you the truth, I never had the same
opinion of you since.” Hycy, to his utter amazement, read as follows:

“My Dear Miss Cavanagh:--

“Will you permit little Cupid, the god of Love, to enrol the name of
Hycy Burke on the long list of your adorers? And if you could corrupt
the little stone-blind divinity to blot out every name on it but my own,
I should think that a very handsome anticipation of the joys of Paradise
could be realized by that delightful fact. I say anticipation--for my
creed is, that the actual joys of Paradise exist no where, but within
the celestial circle of your ambrosial arms. That is the Paradise which
I propose to win; and you may rest assured that I shall bring the most
flaming zeal, the most fervent devotion, and all the genuine piety of
a true worshipper, to the task of attaining it. I shall carry, for
instance, a little Bible of Love in my pocket--for I am already a
divinity student or a young collegian under little Cupid aforesaid--and
I will have it all dogeared with refreshing texts for my edification.
I should state, however, that I am, as every good Christian is, awfully
exclusive in my creed; and will suffer no one, if I can prevent it, to
approach the Paradise I speak of but myself. In fact I am as jealous as
the very Deuce--whoever that personage may be--quite an Othello in my
way--a perfect raw-head-and-bloody-bones--with a sharp appetite and
teeth like a Walrus, ready to bolt my rivals in dozens. It is said,
my divine creature, or rather it is hinted, that a certain clodhopping
boor, from the congenial wilds of Ahadarra, is favored by some benignant
glances from those lights of yours that do mislead the moon. I hope this
is not so--bow wow!--ho! ho!--I smell the blood of a rival; and be he
great or small, red or black, or of any color in the rainbow, I
shall have him for my. breakfast--ho! ho! You see now, my most divine
Kathleen, what a terrible animal to all rivals and competitors for your
affections I shall be; and that if it were only for their own sakes, and
to prevent carnage and cannibalism, it will be well for you to banish
them once and forever, and be content only with myself.

“Seriously, my dear Kathleen, I believe I am half-crazed; and, if so,
you are the sole cause of it. I can think of no other object than your
beautiful self; and I need scarcely say, that I shall have neither peace
nor happiness unless I shall be fortunate enough to gain a place in your
tender bosom. As for the Ahadarra man, I am surprised you should think of
such an ignorant clodhopper--a fellow whose place Providence especially
allotted to between the stilts of a plough, and at the tail of a pair
of horses. Perhaps you would be kind enough to take a walk on Thursday
evening, somewhere near the river--where I hope I shall have an
opportunity of declaring my affection for you in person. At all events I
shall be there with the ardent expectation of meeting you.

“Ever your devoted worshipper,

“Hycy Burke.

“P.S.--Beware the clodhopper--bow wow!--ho! ho!”

On looking at the back of this singular production he was thunderstruck
to perceive that it was addressed to “Mr. Bryan M'Mahon, Ahadarra”--the
fact being that, in the hurry of the moment, he had misdirected the
letters--Bryan M'Mahon having received that which had been intended for
Kathleen, who, on the contrary, was pressingly solicited to lend him
thirty-fine pounds in order to secure “Crazy Jane.”

Having perused this precious production, Hycy, in spite of his chagrin,
was not able to control a most irresistible fit of laughter, in which he
indulged for some minutes. The mistake being now discovered in Bryan's
case was necessarily discovered in that of both, a circumstance which
to Hycy, who now fully understood the mature and consequences of his
blunder, was, as we have stated, the subject of extraordinary mirth, in
which, to tell the truth, Bryan could not prevent himself from joining
him.

“Well, but after all, Bryan,” said he, “what is there in this letter
to make you angry with me? Don't you see it's a piece of humbug from
beginning to end.”

“I do, and I did,” replied Bryan; “but at that time I had never spoken
upon the subject of love or marriage to Kathleen Cavanagh, and I had no
authority nor right to take any one to task on her account, but, at the
same time, I couldn't even then either like or respect, much less lend
money to, any man that could humbug her, or treat such a girl with
disrespect--and in that letther you can't deny that you did both.”

“I grant,” said Hycy, “that it was a piece of humbug certainly, but not
intended to offend her.”

“I'm afraid there was more in it, Hycy,” observed Bryan; “an' that if
she had been foolish or inexperienced enough to meet you or listen to
your discourse, it might a' been worse for herself. You were mistaken
there though.”

“She is not a girl to be humbugged, I grant, Bryan--very far from it,
indeed; and now that you and she understand each other I will go farther
for both your sakes, and say, that I regret having written such a letter
to such an admirable young woman as she is. To tell you the truth,
Bryan, I shall half envy you the possession of such a wife.”

“As to that,” replied the other, smiling, “we'll keep never minding--but
you have spoken fairly and honestly on the subject of the letther,
an' I'm thankful to you; still, Hycy, you haven't answered my first
question--have you any ill feeling against me, or any intention to
injure me?”

“Neither one nor the other. I pledge you my honor and word I have no ill
feeling against you, nor any design to injure you.”

“That's enough, Hycy,” replied his companion; “I think I'm bound to
believe your words.”

“You are, Bryan; but will you allow me to ask if any one ever told you
that I had--and if so, who was the person?”

“It's enough for you to know,” said Bryan, “that whoever told it to me I
don't believe it.”

“I certainly have a right to know,” returned Hycy; “but as the matter
is false, and every way unfounded, I'll not press you upon it--all I can
say to satisfy you is, what I have said already--that I entertain no ill
will or unfriendly feeling towards you, and, consequently, can have no
earthly intention of doing you an injury even if I could, although at
the present moment I don't see how, even if I was willing.”

“You have nothing particular that you'd wish to say to me?”

“No: devil a syllable.”

“Nor a proposal of any kind to make me?”

Hycy pulled up his horse.

“Bryan, my good friend, let me look at you,” he exclaimed. “Is it right
to have you at large? My word and honor I'm beginning to fear that
there's something wrong with your upper works.”

“Never mind,” replied Bryan, laughing, “I'm satisfied--the thing's a
mistake--so there's my hand to you, Hycy. I've no suspicion of the kind
against you and it's all right.”

“What proposal, in heaven's name, could I have to make to you?”
 exclaimed Hycy..

“There now,” continued Bryan, “that'll do; didn't I say I was satisfied?
Move on, now and overtake your friend--by the way he's a fine horseman,
they say?”

“Very few better,” said Hycy; “but some there are--and one I know--ha!
ha! ha! Good-bye, Bryan, and don't be made a fool of for nothing.”

Bryan nodded and laughed, and Hycy dashed on to overtake his friend
Clinton.

M'Mahon's way home lay by Gerald Cavanagh's house, near which as he
approached he saw Nanny Peety in close conversation with Kate Hogan. The
circumstance, knowing their relationship as he did, made no impression
whatsoever upon him, nor would he have bestowed a thought upon it, had
he been left to his own will in the matter. The women separated ere he
had come within three hundred yards of them; Kate, who had evidently
been convoying her niece a part of the way, having returned in the
direction of Cavanagh's, leaving Nanny to pursue her journey home, by
which she necessarily met M'Mahon.

“Well, Nanny,” said the latter, “how are you?”

“Faix, very well, I thank you, Bryan; how are all the family in
Carriglass?”

“Barring my mother, they're all well, Nanny. I was glad to hear you
got so good a place, an' I'm still betther plaised to see you look so
well--for it's a proof that you feel comfortable in it.”

“Why I can't complain,” she replied; “but you know there's no one widout
their throubles.”

“Troubles, Nanny,” said Bryan, with surprise; “why surely, Nanny,
barrin' it's love, I don't see what trouble you can have.”

“Well, and may be it is,” said the girl, smiling.

“Oh, in that case,” replied Bryan, “I grant you're to be pitied; poor
thing, you look so ill and pale upon it, too. An' what is it like,
Nanny--this same love that's on you?”

“Faix,” she replied, archly, “it's well for you that Miss Kathleen's not
to the fore or you daren't ax any one sich a question as that.”

“Well done, Nanny,” he returned; “do you think she knows what it's
like?”

“It's not me,” she replied again, “you ought to be axin' sich a question
from; if you don't know it I dunna who ought.”

“Begad, you're sharp an' ready, Nanny,” replied Bryan, laughing; “well,
and how are you all in honest Jemmy Burke's?”

“Some of us good, some of us bad, and some of us indifferent, but, thank
goodness, all in the best o' health.”

“Good, bad, and indifferent,” replied Bryan, pausing a little. “Well,
now, Nanny, if one was to ask you who is the good in your family, what
would you say?”

“Of coorse myself,” she returned; “an' stay--let me see--ay, the
masther, honest Jemmy, he and I have the goodness between us.”

“And who's the indifferent, Nanny?”

“Wait,” she replied; “yes--no doubt of it--if not worse--why the
mistress must come in for that, I think.”

“And now for the bad, Nanny?”

She shook her head before she spoke. “Ah,” she proceeded, “there would
be more in that house on the bad list than there is, if he, had his
way.”

“If who had his way?”

“Masther Hycy.”

“Why is he the bad among you?”

“Thank God I know him now,” she replied, “an' he knows I do; but he
doesn't know how well I know him.”

“Why, Nanny, are you in airnest?” asked Bryan, a good deal surprised,
and not a little interested at what he heard, “surely I thought Mr. Hycy
a good-hearted, generous young fellow that one could depend upon, at all
events?”

“Ah, it's little you know him,” she replied; “and I could”--she looked
at him and paused.

“You could what?” he asked.

“I could tell you something, but I daren't.”

“Daren't; why what ought you be afraid of?”

“It's no matther, I daren't an' thats enough; only aren't you an'
Kathleen Cavanagh goin' to be married?”

“We will be married, I hope.”

“Well, then, keep a sharp look-out, an take care her father an' mother
doesn't turn against you some o' these days. There a many a slip between
the cup and the lip; that's all I can say, an' more than I ought; an' if
you ever mention my name, its murdhered I'll be.”

“An' how is Hycy consarned in this? or is he consarned in it?”

“He is, an' he is not; I dursn't tell you more; but I'm not afraid of
him, so far from that, I could soon--but what am I sayin'? Good-bye, an'
as I said, keep a sharp lookout;” and having uttered these words, she
tripped on hastily and left him exceedingly surprised at what she had
said.

CHAPTER X.--More of the Hycy Correspondence

A Family Debate--Honest Speculations.

Kathleen's refusal to dance, at the kemp, with Hycy Burke, drew down
upon her the loud and vehement indignation of her parents, both of
whom looked upon a matrimonial alliance with the Burkes as an object
exceedingly desirable, and such as would reflect considerable credit on
themselves. Gerald Cavanagh and his wife were certainly persons of
the strictest integrity and virtue. Kind, charitable, overflowing with
hospitality, and remarkable for the domestic virtues and affections
in an extraordinary degree, they were, notwithstanding, extremely
weak-minded, and almost silly, in consequence of an over-weening
anxiety to procure “great matches” for their children. Indeed it may be
observed, that natural affection frequently assumes this shape in the
paternal heart, nor is the vain ambition confined to the Irish peasant
alone. On the contrary, it may be seen as frequently, if not more so, in
the middle and higher classes, where it has ampler scope to work, than
in humbler and more virtuous life. It is this proud and ridiculous
principle which consigns youth, and beauty, and innocence, to the arms
of some dissipated profligate of rank, merely because he happens to
inherit a title which he disgraces. There is, we would wager, scarcely
an individual who knows the world, but is acquainted with some family
laboring under this insane anxiety for connection. Sometimes it is to
be found on the paternal side, but, like most of those senseless
inconsistencies which entail little else than ridicule or ruin, and
sometimes both, upon those who are the object of them, it is, for the
most part, a female attribute.

Such as it is, however, our friend, Gerald Cavanagh, and his wife--who,
by the way, bore the domestic sceptre in all matters of importance--both
possessed it in all its amplitude and vigor. When the kemp had been
broken up that night, and the family assembled, Mrs. Cavanagh opened the
debate in an oration of great heat and bitterness, but sadly deficient
in moderation and logic.

“What on earth could you mane, Kathleen,” she proceeded, “to refuse
dancin' wid such a young man--a gintleman I ought to say--as Hycy Burke,
the son of the wealthiest man in the whole parish, barring the gentry?
Where is the girl that wouldn't bounce at him?--that wouldn't lave
a single card unturned to secure him? Won't he have all his father's
wealth?--won't he have all his land when the ould man dies? and indeed
it's he that will live in jinteel style when he gets everything into
his own hands, as he ought to do, an' not go dhramin' an' dhromin' about
like his ould father, without bein' sartin whether he's alive or not.
He would be something for you, girl, something to turn out wid, an'
that one could feel proud out of; but indeed, Kathleen, as for pride
and decency, you never had as much o' them as you ought, nor do you hold
your head as high as many another girl in your place would do. Deed
and throth I'm vexed at you, and ashamed of you, to go for to hurt his
feelins as you did, widout either rhyme or raison.”

“Troth,” said her father, taking up the argument where she left it, “I
dunno how I'll look the respectable young man in the face afther the way
you insulted him. Why on airth wouldn't you dance wid him?”

“Because, father, I don't like him.”

“An' why don't you like him?” asked her mother. “Where is there his
aquil for either face or figure in the parish, or the barony itself?
But I know the cause of it; you could dance with Bryan M'Mahon. But
take this with you--sorra ring ever Bryan M'Mahon will put on you wid
my consent or your father's, while there's any hope of Hycy Burke at any
rate.”

Kathleen, during this long harangue, sat smiling and sedate, turning her
beautiful and brilliant eyes sometimes upon one parent, sometimes upon
another, and occasionally glancing with imperturbable sweetness and
good nature at her sister Hanna. At length, on getting an opportunity of
speaking, she replied,--

“Don't ask me, mother, to give anything in the way of encouragement to
Hycy Burke; don't ask me, I entrate you, for God's sake--the thing's
impossible, and I couldn't do it. I have no wish for his father's money,
nor any wish for the poor grandeur that you, mother dear, and my father,
seem to set your heart upon. I don't like Hycy Burke--I could never
like him; and rather than marry him, I declare solemnly to God, I would
prefer going into my grave.”

As she uttered the last words, which she did with an earnestness that
startled them, her fine features became illuminated, as it were, with
a serene and brilliant solemnity of expression that was strikingly
impressive and beautiful.

“Why couldn't you like him, now?” asked her father; “sure, as your
mother says, there's not his aquil for face or figure within many a mile
of him?”

“But it's neither face nor figure that I look to most, father.”

“Well, but think of his wealth, and the style he'll live in, I'll go
bail, when he gets married.”

“That style maybe won't make his wife happy. No, father, it's neither
face, nor figure, nor style that I look to, but truth, pure affection,
and upright principle; now, I know that Hycy Burke has neither truth,
nor affection, nor principle; an' I wondher, besides, that you could
think of my ever marrying a man that has already destroyed the happiness
of two innocent girls, an' brought desolation, an' sorrow, an' shame
upon two happy families. Do you think that I will ever become the wife
of a profligate? An' is it you, father, an' still more you, mother,
that's a woman, that can urge me to think of joining my fate to that of
a man that has neither shame nor principle? I thought that if you didn't
respect decency an' truth, and a regard for what is right and proper,
that, at all events, you would respect the feelings of your child that
was taught their value.”

Both parents felt somewhat abashed by the force of the truth and the
evident superiority of her character; but in a minute or two her worthy
father, from whose dogged obstinacy she inherited the firmness and
resolution for which she had ever been remarkable, again returned to the
subject.

“If Hycy Burke was wild, Kathleen, so was many a good man before him;
an' that's no raison but he may turn out well yet, an' a credit to his
name, as I have no doubt he will. All that he did was only folly
an' indiscretion--we can't be too hard or uncharitable upon our
fellow-craytures.”

“No,” chimed in her mother, “we can't. Doesn't all the world know that
a reformed rake makes a good husband?--an' besides, didn't them two
huzzies bring it on themselves?--why didn't they keep from him as they
ought? The fault, in such cases, is never all on one side.”

Kathleen's brow and face and whole neck became crimson, as her mother,
in the worst spirit of a low and degrading ambition, uttered the
sentiments we have just written. Hanna had been all this time sitting
beside her, with one arm on her shoulder; but Kathleen, now turning
round, laid her face on her sister's bosom, and, with a pressure that
indicated shame and bitterness of heart, she wept. Hanna returned this
melancholy and distressing caress in the same mournful spirit, and both
wept together in silence.

Gerald Cavanagh was the first who felt something like shame at the
rebuke conveyed by this tearful embrace of his pure-hearted and
ingenuous daughters, and he said, addressing his wife:--

“We're wrong to defend him, or any one, for the evil he has done,
bekaise it can't be defended; but, in the mane time, every day will
bring him more sense an' experience, an' he won't repute this work;
besides, a wife would settle him down.”

“But, father,” said Hanna, now speaking for the first time, “there's
one thing that strikes me in the business you're talkin' about, an' it's
this--how do you know whether Hycy Burke has any notion, good, bad, or
indifferent, of marrying Kathleen?”

“Why,” replied her mother, “didn't he write to her upon the subject?”

“Why, indeed, mother, it's not an easy thing to answer that question,”
 replied Hanna. “She sartinly resaved a letther from him, an' indeed, I
think,” she added, her animated face brightening into a smile, “that as
the boys is gone to bed, we had as good read it.”

“No, Hanna, darling, don't,” said Kathleen--“I beg you won't read it.”

“Well, but I beg I will,” she replied; “it'll show them, at any rate,
what kind of a reformation is likely to come over him. I have it here in
my pocket--ay, this is it. Now, father,” she proceeded, looking at the
letter, “here is a letter, sent to my sister--'To Miss Cavanagh,' that's
what's on the back of it--and what do you think Hycy, the sportheen,
asks her to do for him?”

“Why, I suppose,” replied her mother, “to run away wid him?”

“Na”

“Then to give her consent to marry him?” said her father.

“Both out,” replied Hanna; “no, indeed, but to lend him five-and-thirty
pounds to buy a mare, called Crazy Jane, belonging to Tom Burton, of the
Race Road!”

“'My Dear Bryan--For heaven's sake, in addition to your other
generosities--for-which I acknowledge myself still in your debt--will
you lend me thirty-five pounds, to secure a beautiful mare belonging to
Tom Burton, of the Race Road? She is a perfect creature, and will, if I
am not quick, certainly slip through my fingers. Jemmy, the gentleman'--

“This is what he calls his father, you must know.

“'Jemmy, the gentleman, has promised to stand to me some of these
days, and pay off all my transgressions, like a good, kind-hearted,
soft-headed old Trojan as he is; and, for this reason, I don't wish to
press him now. The mare is sold under peculiar circumstances; otherwise
I could have no chance of her at such a price. By the way, when did you
see Katsey'--

“Ay, Katsey!--think of that, now--doesn't he respect your daughter
very much, father?

“'By the way, when did you see Katsey Cavanagh?--'”

“What is this you're readin' to me?” asked her father. “You don't mean
to say that this letter is to Kathleen?”

“Why, no; but so much the better--one has an opportunity now of seein'
what he is made of. The letter was intended for Bryan M'Mahon; but he
sent it, by mistake, to Kathleen. Listen---

“'When did you see Katsey Cavanagh? She certainly is not ill-looking,
and will originate you famous mountaineers. Do, like a good fellow,
stand by me at this pinch, and I will drink your health and Kat-sey's,
and that you may--' (what's this?) 'col--colonize Ahadarra with a race
of young Colossusses that the world will wonder at.

“'Ever thine,

“'H. Burke.'

“Here's more, though: listen, mother, to your favorite, that you want to
marry Kathleen to:--

“'P.S. I will clear scores with you for all in the course of a few
months, and remember that, at your marriage, I must, with my own hand,
give you away to Katsey, the fair Oolossa.'”

The perusal of this document, at least so far as they could understand
it, astonished them not a little. Until they heard it read, both had
been of the opinion that Hycy had actually proposed for Kathleen, or at
least felt exceedingly anxious for the match.

“An' does he talk about givin' her away to Bryan M'Mahon?” asked her
mother. Sorrow on his impidence!--Bryan M'Mahon indeed! Throth, it's not
upon his country side of wild mountain that Kathleen will go to live.
An' maybe, too, she has little loss in the same Hycy, for, afther all,
he's but a skite of a fellow, an' a profligate into the bargain.”

“Paix an' his father,” said Gerald--“honest Jemmy--tould me that he'd
have it a match whether or not.”

“His father did!” exclaimed Mrs. Cavanagh; “now, did he say so, Gerald?”

“Well, in troth he did--said that he had I set his heart upon it, an'
that if she hadn't a gown to her back he'd make him marry her.”

“The Lord direct us for the best!” exclaimed his wife, whose opinion of
the matter at this last piece of information had again changed in favor
of Hycy. “Sure, afther all, one oughtn't to be too sevare on so young
a man. However, as the sayin' is, 'time will tell,' an' Kathleen's own
good sense will show her what a match he'd be.”

The sisters then retired to bed; but before they went, Kathleen
approached her mother, and putting an open palm affectionately upon each
of the good woman's cheeks, said, in a voice in which there was deep
feeling and affection:--

“Good-night, mother dear! I'm sure you love me, an' I know it is because
you do that you spake in this way; but I know, too, that you wouldn't
make me unhappy and miserable for the wealth of the world, much less
for Hycy Burke's share of it. There's a kiss for you, and
good-night!--there's another for you, father; God bless you! and
good-night, too. Come, Hanna darling, come!”

In this state matters rested for some time. Bryan M'Mahon, however, soon
got an opportunity of disclosing his intentions to Kathleen, if that can
be called disclosing, which was tolerably well known for a considerable
time previous to the disclosure. Between them it was arranged that he
and his father should make a formal proposal of marriage to her parents,
as the best means of bringing the matter to a speedy issue. Before this
was done, however, Gerald, at the instigation of his wife, contrived
once more to introduce the subject as if by accident, in a conversation
with Jemmy Burke, who repeated his anxiety for the match as the best way
of settling down his son, and added, that he would lay the matter before
Hycy himself, with a wish that a union should take place between them.
This interview with old Burke proved a stumbling-block in the way of
M'Mahon. At length, after a formal proposal on the behalf of Bryan, and
many interviews with reference to it, something like a compromise was
effected. Kathleen consented to accept the latter in marriage, but
firmly and resolutely refused to hear Burke's name as a lover or suitor
mentioned. Her parents, however, hoping that their influence over her
might ultimately prevail, requested that she would not engage herself to
any one for two years, at the expiration of which period, if no change
in her sentiments should take place, she was to be at liberty to marry
M'Mahon. For the remainder of the summer and autumn, and up until
November, the period at which our narrative has now arrived, or, in
other words, when Bryan M'Mahon met Nanny Peety, matters had rested
precisely in the same position. This unexpected interview with the
mendicant's daughter, joined to the hints he had already received, once
more caused M'Mahon to feel considerably perplexed with regard to Hycy
Burke. The coincidence was very remarkable, and the identity of the
information, however limited, appeared to him to deserve all the
consideration which he could bestow upon it, but above all things he
resolved, if possible, to extract the secret out of Nanny Peety.

One cause of Hycy Burke's extravagance was a hospitable habit of dining
and giving dinners in the head inn of Ballymacan. To ask any of his
associates to his father's house was only to expose the ignorance of his
parents, and this his pride would not suffer him to do. As a matter
of course he gave all his dinners, unless upon rare occasions, in Jack
Shepherd's excellent inn; but as young Clinton and he were on terms of
the most confidential intimacy, he had asked him to dine on the day in
question at his father's.

“You know, my dear Harry,” he said to his friend, “there is no use in
striving to conceal the honest vulgarity of Jemmy the gentleman from you
who know it already. I may say ditto to madam, who is unquestionably the
most vulgar of the two--for, and I am sorry to say it, in addition to a
superabundant stock of vulgarity, she has still a larger assortment of
the prides; for instance, pride of wealth, of the purse, pride of--I
was going to add, birth--ha! ha! ha!--of person, ay, of beauty, if
you please--of her large possessions--but that comes under the purse
again--and lastly--but that is the only well-founded principle among
them--of her accomplished son, Hycy. This, now, being all within your
cognizance already, my dear Hal, you take a pig's cheek and a fowl with
me to-day. There will be nobody but ourselves, for when I see company at
home I neither admit the gentleman nor the lady to table. Damn it, you
know the thing would be impossible. If you wish it, however, we shall
probably call in the gentleman after dinner to have a quiz with him;
it may relieve us. I can promise you a glass of wine, too, and that's
another reason why we should keep him aloof until the punch comes. The
wine's always a _sub silencio_ affair, and, may heaven pity me, I get
growling enough from old Bruin on other subjects.”

“Anything you wish, Hycy, I am your man; but somehow I don't relish the
idea of the quiz you speak of. 'Children, obey your parents,' says
Holy Scripture; and I'd as soon not help a young fellow to laugh at his
father.”

“A devilish good subject he is, though--but you must know that I can
draw just distinctions, Hal. For instance, I respect his honesty--”

“And copy it, eh?”

“Certainly--I respect his integrity, too--in fact, I appreciate all his
good qualities, and only laugh at his vulgarity and foibles.”

“You intend to marry, Hycy?”

“Or, in other words, to call you brother some of these days.”

“And to have sons and daughters?”

“Please the fates.”

“That will do,” replied Clinton, dryly.

“Ho! ho!” said Hycy, “I see. Here's a mentor with a vengeance--a fellow
with a budget of morals cut and dry for immediate use--but hang all
morality, say I; like some of my friends that talk on the subject,
I have an idiosyncrasy of constitution against it, but an abundant
temperament for pleasure.”

“That's a good definition,” said Clinton; “a master-touch, a very
correct likeness, indeed. I would at once know you from it, and so would
most of your friends.”

“This day is Friday,” said Hycy, “more growling.”

“Why so?”

“Why, when I eat meat on a Friday, the pepper and sauce cost me nothing.
The 'gentlemen' lays on hard, but the lady extenuates, 'in regard to
it's bein' jinteel.'”

“Well, but you have certainly no scruple yourself on the subject?”

“Yes, I have, sir, a very strong one--in favor of the meat--ha! ha! ha!”

“D--n me, whoever christened you Hycy the accomplished, hit you off.”

“I did myself; because you must know, my worthy Hal, that, along with
all my other accomplishments, I am my own priest.'

“And that is the reason why you hate the clergy? eh--ha! ha! ha!”

“A hit, a hit, I do confess.”

“Harke, Mr. Priest, will you give absolution--to Tom Corbet?”

“Ah! Hal, no more an' thou lovest me--that sore is yet open. Curse the
villain. My word and honor, Hal, the gentleman' was right there. He
told me at the first glance what she was. Here comes a shower, let us
move on, and reach Ballymacan, if possible, before it falls. We shall be
home in fair time for dinner afterwards, and then for my proposal,
which, by the word and honor--”

“And morality?”

“Nonsense, Harry; is a man to speak nothing but truth or Scripture in
this world?--No--which I say by the honor of a gentleman, it will be
your interest to consider and accept.”

“Very well, most accomplished. We shall see, and we shall hear, and then
we shall determine.”

A ham and turkey were substituted for the pig's cheek and fowl, and we
need not say that Hycy and his friend accepted of the substitution with
great complacency. Dinner having been discussed, and a bottle of wine
finished, the punch came in, and each, after making himself a stiff
tumbler, acknowledged that he felt comfortable. Hycy, however, anxious
that he should make an impression, or in other words gain his point,
allowed Clinton to grow a little warm with liquor before he opened the
subject to which he had alluded. At length, when he had reached the
proper elevation, he began:--

“There's no man, my dear Harry, speaks apparently more nonsense than I
do in ordinary chat and conversation. For instance, to-day I was very
successful in it; but no matter, I hate seriousness, certainly, when
there is no necessity for it. However, as a set-off to that, I pledge
you my honor that no man can be more serious when it is necessary than
myself. For instance, you let out a matter to me the other night that
you probably forget now. You needn't stare--I am serious enough and
honorable enough to keep as an inviolable secret everything of the kind
that a man may happen to disclose in an unguarded moment.”

“Go on, Hycy, I don't forget it--I don't, upon my soul.”

“I allude to M'Mahon's farm in Ahadarra.”

“I don't forget it; but you know, Hycy, my boy, I didn't mention either
M'Mahon or Ahadarra.”

“You certainly did not mention them exactly; but, do you think I did
not know at once both the place and the party you allude to? My word and
honor, I saw them at a glance.”

“Very well, go on with your word and honor;--you are right, I did mean
M'Mahon and Ahadarra--proceed, most accomplished, and most moral--”

“Be quiet, Harry. Well, you have your eye upon that farm, and you say
you have a promise of it.”

“Something like it; but the d--d landlord, Chevydale, is
impracticable--so my uncle says--and doesn't wish to disturb the
M'Mahons, although he has been shown that it is his interest to do
so--but d--n the fellow, neither he nor one of his family ever look to
their interests--d--n the fellow, I say.”

“Don't curse or swear, most moral. Well, the lease of Ahadarra has
dropped, and of Carriglass too;--with Carriglass, however, we--that is
you--have nothing at all to do.”

“Proceed?'

“Now, I have already told you my affection for your sister, and I have
not been able to get either yes or no out of you.”

“No.”

“What do you mean?”

“That you have not been able to get yes or no out of me--proceed, most
accomplished. Where do you get your brandy? This is glorious. Well!”

“Now, as you have a scruple against taking the farm in any but a decent