A brisk little gentleman, with a sharp profile and a slight stoop, was
walking along a road in the south of Kerry. He had a somewhat lost,
undecided air as he halted now and then, and vaguely stared about him.
He was, in fact, a total stranger to the locality, being a certain Mr.
Bence Usher, head of a well-known firm of London solicitors, who was
spending his vacation for the first time in Ireland, and Ireland’s
beauty had decoyed him far astray; the active, enterprising tourist
was a good five miles from his hotel and his dinner--he was exploring
alone, for Emily Usher, his housekeeper and sister, preferred to sit
in the shady garden at the “Glenveigh Arms,” in company with the hotel
tortoise and a new novel. As he moved onwards, sheer above him rose the
purple Reeks; low on the right hand glittered a silver lake, of which
each bend in the way, or break among the trees, revealed an enchanting
vista of wooded islands, bays, or promontories. By degrees the prospect
became lost to sight, and at length a high, dilapidated wall screened
it completely--a wall bulging out dangerously here and there, but held
together with ropes of ancient ivy. An equally dilapidated entrance
presently came into view, and perched on one of the tumbledown gate
piers sat an old man in his Sunday clothes, smoking a short black
dhudeen. This he removed from his mouth in order to say, “A fine
evening, yer honour”--for the southern-born peasant is always gracious,
and never meets a stranger without some civil salute.
“Can you tell me whereabouts I am?” inquired the Englishman, in his
thin, polite voice.
“And to be sure I can! An’ why wouldn’t I?” he returned, with
unexpected emphasis. “This place,” indicating a grass-grown avenue
which wound away vaguely among the trees, “is called Lota, but sure,
’tis in ruins. An empty house hereabouts falls to pieces in ten years’
time. ’Tis the soft climate as does it.”
“How far am I from the ‘Glenveigh Hotel’?”
“Faix, it depends on the road ye go--by wan way it’s in or about six
miles, and the other it’s three--though it’s all the same distance. Ye
understand me?”
“I cannot say that I exactly apprehend you, but if you would put me on
the shortest route, I shall be greatly obliged----”
“Then the shortest root, as ye call it, is through here, and I’ll put
ye on it in a brace of shakes an’ kindly welcome.”
“Thank you, I should be glad of your guidance,” replied the stranger,
as he proceeded to clamber over the broken stile.
Meanwhile, Mike Mahon, having knocked the ashes out of his pipe,
deliberately descended from his roost, and led the way between an
overgrowth of trees and shrubs, down a back avenue into a yard,
entirely surrounded by large roofless outhouses.
“Now, did ye ever see the like of that?” he demanded, with a dramatic
wave of his horny hand.
No. His companion never had, and he shook his head in solemn
commiseration. Rank grass a foot high covered the stones, the pump was
a wreck, the stables lairs of nettles and old iron.
“This place has not been occupied for a long time, I take it.”
“There hasn’t been a fire in the chimney, a soul inside its doors, for
twenty-one years. Ah, when the ould master, General Macarthy, lived
here, there wasn’t as much as a straw astray, no, nor a leaf itself.
He was a great soldier, who had lived mostly in the Indies, and was a
wonderful man for flowers.”
Then they passed through a gap in a wall, and came on traces of the
front avenue winding out of a forest of trees. There were trees on
all sides, and on a sort of wide plateau stood the house. At the
first glance its appearance administered a shock. The house was
but a cottage. From the dimensions of the yard, the entrance, the
imposing stretch of lawns and timber, one had naturally expected to
see a mansion, or at least the ruins of a mansion. The grounds sloped
gradually to the water’s edge, which was almost entirely hidden by
a dense growth of shrubberies, and scattered over the wilderness to
the left were marvellously luxuriant flowering plants, pampas grass,
arbutus, rhododendrons, giant fuchsias, and at a little distance, a
high and hoary garden wall, through its gates a vista of a wild jungle
of high bushes and aged fruit-trees gone mad.
The little spare lawyer absorbed each item of the scene with his quick,
professional eye, and then turned to his guide with an air of mute
interrogation.
“Yes, ’tis a mortial pity,” he exclaimed, “for ’twas once the loveliest
spot in the wide world.”
The stranger made no reply, but gazed at the lake and the woods, and
mentally admitted that the situation and view were not to be surpassed.
“And so you say it has been empty this twenty-one years,” he remarked
at last.
“Yes, sir, ’tis twenty-one years last September since they left it. I
worked here, man and boy, for the General, and the garden over there
was just a wonder. When he died, it was let for a short term, and after
that it went to rack and ruin as ye see.”
“And does no one ever come near it?”
“Only the caretaker, once a week,” he replied. “It is rented to
graziers for dry heifers, and that’s all. Oh, ’tis a mortial pity.”
Mr. Usher turned about as he concluded, and looked into the empty
shell of a dwelling. It had originally been a glorified cottage with
four spacious rooms and a wide hall; kitchen and servants’ quarters
were at the back. The roof was intact; remnants of rich carving, and
scraps of expensive wall-paper, still streaked the walls--and bore the
signatures of half the country! In the drawing-room was a boat, whilst
the dining-room served as a byre for the dry heifers.
“Of course when a house is left empty for years ’tis a sore
temptation,” resumed the Irishman, in an apologetic key. “The
poor people around has made away with the grates and doors and
window-sashes. Faix, the old General spared no money on it, and if he
was to see it now, he’d haunt the place.”
“It looks as if it had a history, or a law-suit,” remarked Mr. Usher,
as he settled himself on a low window-sill, and produced his pipe.
“Well, then, no, yer honour, God be praised, it has not either wan or
the other; but I could tell you--if yer in no hurry--a mighty queer
tale of a child that was born there.”
“Oh, I’m in no hurry. It is not more than four o’clock,” said Mr.
Usher, “and I’d like to hear the story,” offering his tobacco-pouch as
he spoke.
“Well, then, hear it you shall, and so here goes!” rejoined the other,
stuffing, as he spoke, a generous supply of tobacco into the bowl of
his pipe, and thrusting it down with a horny thumb.
“’Tis more nor twenty years ago, when there were no gentlemen’s lodges
round the lake, nor no railroad or telegraphs, nor tourists, but
terrible long journeys and great hardships on cars, and the _best_ of
shooting and fishing; now we have a power of quality coming to and
fro, and admiring all this”--waving his hand,--“and bringing good
money into the country. God knows it’s badly wanted; but when I was a
young gossoon, a stranger hereabouts was as much of a curiosity as an
elephant; so it made a notorious stir when this very place was took by
the Earl of Mulgrave and his Countess.”
Mr. Usher started, and hastily pulled his pipe out of his mouth.
“Mulgrave,” he repeated, “_Mulgrave_, did you say?”
“Yes, Mulgrave, sir. I learnt off the name by thinking of graves. They
was not too long married, and come on a spree like, and without hardly
any servants.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” assented Mr. Usher, “but how did they discover it?”
“I don’t rightly know,” he replied, “but they were highly delighted,
I can tell ye--his lordship with the sport; for in those days ye
couldn’t put down yer foot on the mountain without standing on a bird.
The woodcock was just dying of old age; and as for the fish, they were
waiting on ye.”
“More than they do now!” grunted Mr. Usher.
“Himself liked the sport, and her ladyship the place. It was soon after
the old master dying, and was just pure fairyland. The fuchsia hedges
were a sight, the palms a wonder, the magnolia-trees the size of a
cabin; and as for passion-flowers, the house was smothered between them
and roses, and the carnations scented half the lake!” He paused to draw
breath after this burst of eloquence, struck a match, and then resumed:
“Ye may see the terrace here. I keep it still weeded. ’Twas here the
old master took his stroll; ’twas here _she_ used to walk.” He heaved a
profound sigh, then proceeded in a brisker key.
“Yes; his lordship and her ladyship was well content, though maybe it
was a bit lonesome for her. Many an evening I’ve seen her pacing up and
down this same terrace, watching for the boat. Oh, she was a picture, I
declare! like an angel on the chapel window.”
“Then you remember her?”
“Ah, who wouldn’t? Bedad I do! If I was to shut me eyes, I could see
her standing there still; her hair (and she had crowds of it, enough to
stuff a pillow) was dark red, like a copper beech; a small lily face,
set on a long, white throat, a pair of wonderful dark eyes, and wee
hands, like a child’s; just a blaze of stones; her voice was as sweet
as a song, and when she smiled, ochone! ochone! it gave yer heart a
squeeze. I never saw anything like it before.”
“Or since,” suggested Mr. Usher.
“Oh, then, bedad, sir, I won’t give in to that! I’ve seen the very
comrade of it, an’ I’ll tell ye no lie! Well, her ladyship was mad on
flowers, and she used to come and talk to me when I was weeding and
working, asking questions about the country folk, and their matches
and queer ways, and the old master--God rest him; and she said how sad
it was to see his beautiful place let to strangers. ‘It’s a paradise,’
says she--‘the loveliest spot I’ve ever seen. You ought to be proud of
your country, Mike Mahon!’ I told her I was so--and prouder again that
it was plaisin’ to _her_.”
“Now that was a fine piece of blarney,” exclaimed his companion.
“’Twas not, sorr. ’Twas her due!” he retorted with vehemence. “Well,
one night there was a terrible whirra loo--her ladyship had a baby
unexpected! No doctor, nor nurse, nor clothes ready. Old ‘Betty the
brag’ was called in, for the French maid was no good at all, only for
screeching. Well, the baby was a girl, and a cruel disappointment, as a
boy was wanted; however, av coorse she had to be reared all the same,
and there was no means of feeding the crature, till Betty bethought her
of Katty Foley. She had a young infant. Katty was about forty, a big,
strong major of a woman. She’d been terribly unlucky, and had lost four
children--some was born dead, some had just breath in them. People gave
out it was a fairy blast. Howsomever, she had a living child at long
last, four weeks old, and she took on the other poor little crawneen,
and it throve elegantly. Well, when everything was going fair and
aisy, her ladyship all of a sudden took and died. Just went out like a
candle, and wid no more warning nor a snow-flake. And oh, but she made
the beautiful corpse!”
“Why, you did not see her, surely?” said Mr. Usher, in a key of
startled protest.
“No; but I heard tell the like was never beheld. Just the same as a
dead angel! And I tell ye more: his lordship was all as wan as a mad
man, and out of himself wid grief. The windows used to be open--it was
summer--and I weeding and working hard by, and I heard him calling on
her, and crying to her to come back--to come back. I declare to ye,
sir, it was enough to melt the rock of Cashel; but sure, she was gone.”
Here he gave a profound sigh. “They took her to England along with a
great train of black mourners, and left the place just as it stood,
and the child wid Katty. She had a bit of a farm and cows, and a nice
decent slated house of her own; and his lordship would not so much as
_look_ at the baby, and was terribly bitter against it. Bedad, there
seemed a sort of blight on the family, for in about two months’ time
the child pined off and died, and was packed in a grand little white
coffin, and sent away to the family burying-ground, and laid alongside
the mother.”
“And so that was an end of the whole affair?”
“It was, sor. His lordship sent Katty fifty pounds to bank for her
little Mary, and a long while after news came as he had married
again--a widow lady. Little Mary throve well. Begorra, she was a rale
beauty, and just the core of John Foley’s heart, and the apple of his
eye. She was that clever and quick, wid such taking ways, but awful
dainty about her food, and wid a terribly high sperrit. Learning was
no trouble to _her_, and she has grown up a lovely girl, and it isn’t
alone the golden sovereigns she has to her fortune, that makes all the
boys crazy to marry her, ’tis her pretty face, and quare manners--not
bold at all, but imperious and commanding. She could marry any wan she
pleased; there is a strong farmer from this side of Kenmare, crazy
about her, and I know a police-sergeant that is _clean_ out of his
mind.”
“And which is she going to take?” inquired Mr. Usher, who had finished
his pipe, and stowed it carefully in its case, and began to think this
story was rather long-winded, and that he would now cut it short, in
favour of the short cut home.
“Neither wan or the other,” was the solemn response, “and she won’t
have no match drawn down for her; she’s all for pickin’ and choosin’,
the same as a lady. They do say she favours a car-driver at the
Glenveigh Hotel, Pat Maguire, my own cousin’s son, a good-looking
boy, as wild for fun and dancin’ as herself. He has sorra a penny
or a penny’s worth but his two bare hands, a beautiful voice, and a
concertina; but she is as hard to catch as a sunbeam, and all for play
and joking. She’ll spend half her time standing at the gate at Foley’s
corner, colloguing and laughing wid the neighbours, or running off
fishing, or picking flowers, and she’s at every dance and wake in the
barony. Oh, she’s a rare one to sing, aye, and to talk, and has always
a word with the men, and a pick and a bit out of them; and yet no one
could ever say that Mary Foley was bould, though they do give out she’s
a terror for spending.”
Mr. Usher had heard more than enough of this little peasant and her
attractions. He was beginning to feel a bit chilly, and he rose stiffly
from the window-ledge, stamped down his trousers, yawned and said--
“Well, thank you, my good fellow, I’ve enjoyed my smoke and chat here,
and your interesting story, but----”
“Story!” echoed Mike Mahon, hastily rising to his feet. “Sure, I
haven’t told it to you yit.”
Mr. Usher turned about, and contemplated the speaker with an air of
dignified surprise.
“Faix, it’s a true word, sor! All the talk I’m after pointing out was
only the fringe, or the outside. I’m coming to the kernel now, and if
your honour will just hold on a few minutes I’ll maybe surprise ye!”
“Oh, no doubt you will do that; but you see, I must be getting on now.
Another time, perhaps, my good man, another time.”
“No, sir, but _now_. Since you’ve been so kind as to give me your
company and the best of tobacco, I’d like just to finish off my bit of
history like. I cannot tell what’s got at me this blessed day, but it
drives me to speak, and to talk. Maybe it’s the place itself that edges
me on! I ax yer pardon for making so free as to bother ye wid an old
man’s chat.”
“As for that,” responded Mr. Usher, “I’m an idle man at present. At
home all my time means money, and I forget that here I have no occasion
to hurry myself. The day is long, and besides--this is rather a curious
coincidence, but I’ve heard part of your tale before. The name of
Mulgrave is familiar, and I am interested in seeing the spot where the
first Lady Mulgrave died. It is extraordinary that I should, in the
course of a casual afternoon ramble, come upon it just by accident.”
“Do ye think it was an accident, sir? I’d call it a queer chance.
Anyhow, ’tis many a Sunday afternoon I put in here, and you’re one of
the few visitors I’ve seen. If ye like, I’ll be setting ye on your
road home, for I can walk and talk, and I would not be wishful to be
a torment and a hindrance to yer honour; but when I’ve put the story
off me mind, ye, being English and a gentleman, well up in years and
experience, might give me your opinion and advice.”
“It is my rule to charge for both,” rejoined Mr. Usher, with a grim
smile. “That is how I make my living. I’m a lawyer.”
“God help us!” ejaculated Mike under his breath, and then, in a louder
key, “Meaning no offence, but ye don’t look like one. I’d take ye for a
blooded gentleman!”
“Thank you. And now perhaps you will take me out of this delightful
wilderness, and put me on the road to Glenveigh. If you will tell me
your story, you shall have my best advice gratis--that means, without a
fee.”