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.