In a certain district of Ireland, at the foot of a tall mountain, and
well sheltered from the wind, stood the comfortable farm-house of
Patrick Daly, who, though not much raised above that class, so numerous
in Ireland, called small farmers, had by thrift and industry, aided no
doubt by good fortune, attained to a position of some consideration,
and was accounted a wealthy man in the neighbourhood. His farm was well
stocked and his barns well filled.
The dwelling was a long low building, substantial and roomy, planted
in front with some fine trees, among which the scarlet berries of the
mountain-ash peeped forth, giving to the place a picturesque as well as
comfortable air.
One source of Daly's wealth above others might perhaps be found in the
fact that, beyond a daughter, he had no family. His wife had been dead
many years; and this only daughter, now aged nineteen, ruled all within
the house, not excepting her father. As the farm would be her undivided
property, and it was known besides that Daly paid occasional visits
to a certain bank in the nearest town, she was looked upon as a great
heiress. Be that as it might, she was reckoned the loveliest girl in
that part of the country.
On a mellow October afternoon, Eliza stood in the garden before her
father's house engaged in lopping off branches from the mountain-ash
trees. The finest and richest with berries were those she selected,
as if they were destined for some festive occasion. The garden still
presented a very pleasant appearance, though November was almost at
hand; but the season had been a particularly mild one, and few signs of
winter were yet apparent.
As Eliza stood thus, her head thrown back, the light straw-hat she wore
fallen over her shoulders, and displaying the glossy coils of her raven
hair, she made a charming picture. She had placed some of the crimson
berries in her bosom and hair, and they became admirably her rich,
sparkling brunette beauty. Had she arranged them so bewitchingly with
any reference to some one who might chance to pass that way?
'Good-evening, Miss Daly,' said a voice at the gate; but it was the
cracked tone of an old woman.
Eliza advanced, her arms laden with branches. An old woman, apparently
about ninety years of age, stood there. Her form was bowed almost
double, her face yellow and one mass of wrinkles; but the dark eyes
were still keen and clear. She held a basket in her hand filled with
small-wares, which she hawked about among the farm-houses in the
neighbourhood, and thus earned her livelihood.
'Oh, it's you, Catty; and how are you?' she returned carelessly, while
her bright black eyes darted a quick glance up the road.
'Very well, thank you kindly, Miss Daly. I see you're busy preparin'
for to-morrow evenin'. If I'm not mistaken, it's the last Hallow-eve
you'll spend as Miss Daly. If we may b'lieve all we hear, it's a happy
bride you'll be long afore a year's over.'
She paused, as if expecting some confirmation or denial of this
statement. Eliza, however, was engaged plucking off some withered
leaves from the branches she held, and made no answer.
'He's a good, steady gorsoon, an' a handsome too, well worthy your
choice; an' I'm sure'----
'_Who's_ good and worthy my choice? Who is it you're talking about?'
interrupted the girl, lifting her head quickly and speaking sharply,
while the colour deepened on her cheek.
'Why, Mr Hogan, iv coorse. Sure, doesn't everybody know all about it;
an' it's only waitin' they all are every Sunday to hear you an' him
called in chapel.'
'Maybe then, they'll have to wait long enough. I might take it into my
head to disappoint them and him, after all. Suppose I shouldn't marry
at all; or suppose--suppose'---- She stopped.
'Suppose there is some one else you like better. But sure, didn't
you give the go-by to all the boys in the place? an' aren't you an'
Mr Hogan always constant together? at laste used to be till the last
month or so, when young Mr Crofton cum home from foreign parts. But you
wouldn't be so foolish as to be afther thinkin' of a gintleman like
him. An' you know, besides, don't you, that he's been plighted since
both were childer to his father's ward, Miss Ellen Courtney, that's
come to live at the Hall?'
'I neither know nor care whether he is or whether he isn't,' returned
Eliza, with a haughty little toss of her head and a touch of defiance
in her tone. 'He's not married to her yet, at all events, no more than
am I to Will Hogan. But tell me, Catty, have you seen Miss Courtney
yet? I hear she's very beautiful.'
'Yis, I have; an' a sweeter, lovelier-lookin' craythur never lighted on
this earth--so gentle an' kind to all in her manner too, an' ready to
help them that's in trouble. The folks are all jist delighted to think
Crofton Hall will have sich a misthress.'
'Maybe she'd never be that, after all.'
'Well, maybe not. But tell me honey, is there anythin' rale at all
betune you an' Mr Crofton, or is it jist a little divarsion you're
havin', to thry Will Hogan's temper?'
Eliza broke into a ringing laugh. 'Settle it whichever way you please,'
she answered. 'Call a jury of twelve of your gossips, and do you state
the case to them.'
The old woman shook her head, and her strangely undimmed eyes shot
forth a flash of anger. She was ill accustomed to be spoken to thus
pertly; for old Catty was looked upon with reverence and some awe, and
considered as a kind of oracle in the neighbourhood, both on account of
her extreme age and the wisdom of her sayings, which it was declared
never failed to come true.
'Woe be to them that part plighted lovers! Woe be to them that break
their own plight, woe an' bitter wailin'!' she exclaimed; then drawing
her cloak round her, she moved on without a word of parting.
The smile instantly faded from Eliza's lips. 'That old creature sends
a chill through me,' she muttered in a tone of annoyance. 'Would it be
for my woe? Oh, if I could read the future!' Suddenly throwing down her
boughs, she opened the gate and ran up the road after the old woman.
'Forgive me,' she said, coming up with her. 'I didn't mean to be rude.
Now tell me, Catty--they say you know everything--what will be my fate?
Shall I be happier next Hallow-eve than I am now? Or--or--shall I do
anything to bring misfortune on me?'
'Sure, how can I tell?' returned the other.
'You are angry with me still. Come now, do tell me. You know you can,
if you like. You've told others, and weren't you always right?'
'If you want to know your fate, try the charm o' the Twelfth Rig.'
'And what is that? Tell me what I must do.'
They were standing beneath a wall. The old woman seated herself on a
stone, and leant her arms on her knees. As she sat thus, her red cloak
drawn closely about her, her spare gray locks hanging loose, her eyes
glancing restlessly about with a strange kind of motion, as if they
were set in work by mechanism, she looked like some weird sibyl of
ancient days. Eliza had to repeat her question before an answer came.
Then, in a mysterious undertone, but so distinct that not a word was
lost, the other said: 'You must go to a field wid furrows stretchin'
from north to south. Go in at the western side, an' walk slowly over
the ridges till you come to the twelfth, then stop in the middle, an'
listen. If you hear merry music an' dancin', there's a long an' happy
life afore you; but if mournful cries an' groans, you'll die afore a
year's over.'
'How frightful!' murmured Eliza, shuddering. 'And should one go alone?'
'Yis, entirely alone, an' unknownst to any livin' sowl.' As she uttered
these words, she rose and walked on with a rapidity astonishing in one
so old and feeble.
Eliza gazed after her. She wanted to ask more questions, but fearing to
do so, she too turned and walked away in the opposite direction.
The wall they had stood beside inclosed a spacious park. But behind
that wall there had been a listener to their words, of whose presence
they were not aware.
In the centre of the smoothly gravelled side-path a young lady stood
still. She seemed to have been taking an evening saunter when the
voices outside arrested her attention. As she now walked slowly on,
she appeared to be sunk in deep reflection, evidently of no cheerful
nature. The deep dark-blue eyes, whenever the snowy lids with their
fringe of long black lashes allowed them to become visible, were full
of mournful expression. It was a beautiful face, a perfect oval in
contour, with features more strictly regular than those of the rustic
beauty Eliza Daly; but wanting in the brilliancy and richness of
colouring which made the great charm of that sparkling little brunette.
The full white forehead was very thoughtful. One could see that
melancholy would be at any time the characteristic of her countenance,
as it indeed frequently is of thoughtful faces. But there was so much
sweetness and gentleness in it, and the charm of its pensiveness was
such, that you would not have wished to change it for a gayer look.
'How will it all end?' murmured the lady. 'How will things be with _me_
in a year? If I believed in presentiments I would say that this weight
that presses on me boded evil. Which of the two fates is to be mine?
To die, or to live and be _his_ wife. One or the other, I think; but
which?'
Suddenly she again stopped, and listened with her head bent down. No
sound seemed to break the silence of the evening; but after a few
minutes, footsteps on the road without became distinctly heard, a
light elastic tread, with a firmness in its fall that told it was
that of a man. She listened with suspended breath, standing perfectly
motionless, the colour suffusing her pale cheek, her hands clasped
tightly, as if in intensest agitation and suspense. The steps came
nearer and nearer, went by the park wall, reached the gate, and as they
receded, the colour faded slowly from the expectant face, the hands
unlocked themselves, and drooped by her side, while her breath returned
with a low gasping sigh.
The next moment a thought seemed to strike her; she sprang towards the
wall, and stepping on the trunk of a fallen tree, looked over it down
the road. The figure of a young man was visible at a little distance,
and while he walked, as if in careless mood, he passed his cane lightly
through the wayside grass and flowers, striking off their heads as he
went by. She watched him till he disappeared from view, taking the turn
which led to Daly's farm.
'I knew it, I knew it!' she murmured; and in that passion of sorrow
which seems as if it must take hold of and cling to something, she
wound her arms tightly about the young elm that stood by her side,
striving to choke back the sobs that rose in her throat. The evening
breeze went moaning through its topmost boughs, mingling its sighs with
hers. A shower of yellow leaves, shaken by her convulsive grasp, fell
around her to the ground, like the faded hopes for which she lamented.