If my kind reader is not already tired of the mountain-road and the wild
west, may I ask him--dare I say her?--to accompany me a little farther,
while I present another picture of its life?
You see that bold mountain, jagged and rugged in outline, like the spine
of some gigantic beast, that runs far out into the Atlantic, and ends in
a bold, abrupt headland, against which the waves, from the very coast of
Labrador, are beating without one intervening rock to break their force?
Carry your eye along its base, to where you can mark a little clump of
alder and beech, with here and there a taper poplar interspersed, and
see if you cannot detect the gable of a long, low, thatched house, that
lies almost buried in the foliage. Before the door a little patch of
green stretches down to the shore, where a sandy beach, glowing in all
the richness of a morning sun, glitters with many a shell and brilliant
pebble. That, then, is Murranakilty.
But approach, I beg you, a little nearer. Let me suppose that you have
traced the winding of that little bay, crossing the wooden bridge over
the bright trout stream, as it hastens on to mingle its waters with the
ocean; you have climbed over the rude stile, and stopped for an instant
to look into the holy well, in whose glassy surface the little wooden
crucifix above is dimly shadowed, and at length you stand upon the lawn
before the cottage. What a glorious scene is now before you! On the
opposite side of the bay, the mountain, whose summit is lost among the
clouds, seems as it were cleft by some earthquake force; and through its
narrow gorge you can trace the blue water of the sea passing in, while
each side of the valley is clothed with wood. The oak of a hundred
years, here sheltered from the rude wind of the Atlantic, spreads its
luxuriant arms, while the frothy waves are breaking at its feet. High,
however, above their tops you may mark the irregular outline of a large
building, with battlements and towers and massive walls, and one tall
and loopholed turret, that rises high into the air, and around whose
summit the noisy rooks are circling in their flight. That is Kilmorran
Castle, the residence of Sir Simon Bellew. There, for centuries past,
his ancestors were born and died; there, in the midst of that wild and
desolate grandeur, the haughty descendants of an ancient house lived on
from youth to age, surrounded by all the observances of feudal state,
and lording it far and near, for many a mile, with a sway and power that
would seem to have long since passed away.
You carry your eye seaward, and I perceive your attention is fixed upon
the small schooner that lies anchored in the offing; her topsail is in
the clews, and flaps lazily against the mast, as she rolls and pitches
in the breaking surge. The rake of her low masts and the long boom that
stretches out far beyond her taffrail have, you deem it, a somewhat
suspicious look; and you are right. She is _La Belle Louise_, a
smuggling craft from Dieppe, whose crew, half French, half Irish, would
fight her to the gunwale, and sink with but never surrender her. You
hear the plash of oars, and there now you can mark the eight-oared gig
springing to the stroke, as it shoots from the shore and heads out to
sea. Sir Simon loves claret, and like a true old Irish gentleman he
drinks it from the wood; there may, therefore, be some reason why those
wild-looking red-caps have pulled in shore.
But now I'll ask you to turn to an humbler scene, and look within that
room where the window, opened to the ground, is bordered by blossoming
honeysuckle. It is the priest's parlour. At a little breakfast-table,
whose spotless cloth and neat but simple equipage has a look of
propriety and comfort, is seated one whose gorgeous dressing-gown and
lounging attitude seem strangely at variance with the humble objects
around him. He seems endeavouring to read a newspaper, which ever and
anon he lays down beside him, and turns his eyes in the direction of the
fire; for although it is July, yet a keen freshness of the morning air
makes the blazing turf by no means objectionable. He looks towards the
fire, perhaps you would say, lost in his own thoughts and musings; but
no, truth must out, and his attention is occupied in a very different
way. Kneeling before the fire is a young and lovely country-girl,
engaged in toasting a muffin for the priest's breakfast. Her features
are flushed, partly with shame, partly with heat; and as now and then
she throws back her long hair from her face with an impatient toss of
her head, she steals a glance at the stranger from a pair of eyes so
deeply blue that at first you were unjust enough to think them black.
Her dress is a low bodice, and a short skirt of that brilliant dye the
Irish peasant of the west seems to possess the secret for. The jupe is
short, I say; and so much the better for you, as it displays a pair of
legs which, bare of shoe or stocking, are perfect in their symmetry--the
rounded instep and the swelling ankle chiselled as cleanly as a statue
of Canova.
And now, my good reader, having shown you all this, let me proceed with
my narrative.
'And sure now, sir, wouldn't it be better for you, and you sickly, to
be eating your breakfast, and not be waiting for Father Tom? Maybe he
wouldn't come in this hour yet.'
'No, thank you, Mary; I had rather wait. I hope you are not so tired of
my company that you want an excuse to get away?'
'Ah, be aisy now, if you plaze, sir! It's myself that's proud to be
talking to you.' And as she spoke she turned a pair of blue eyes upon me
with such a look that I could not help thinking if the gentlemen of
the west be exposed to such, their blood is not as hot as is reputed.
I suppose I looked as much; for she blushed deeply, and calling out,
'Here's Father Tom!' sprang to her legs and hurried from the room.
'Where are you scampering that way?' cried the good priest, as he passed
her in the hall. 'Ah, Captain, Captain! behave yourself!'
'I protest, father----' cried I.
'To be sure you do! Why wouldn't you protest? But see now, it was your
business brought me out this morning. Hand me over the eggs; I am
as hungry as a hawk. The devil is in that girl--they are as hard as
bullets! I see how it was, plain enough. It's little she was thinking of
the same eggs. Well, well! this is an ungrateful world; and only think
of me, all I was doing for you.'
'My dear father, you are quite wrong----'
'No matter. Another slice of bacon. And, after all, who knows if I
have the worst of it? Do you know, now, that Miss Bellew has about the
softest cheek----'
'What the devil do you mean?' said I, reddening. 'Why, just that I was
saluting her _à la Française_ this morning; and I never saw her look
handsomer in my life. It was scarce seven o'clock when I was over at
Kilmorran, but, early as it was, I caught her making breakfast for me;
and, father and priest that I am, I couldn't help feeling in love with
her. It was a beautiful sight just to watch her light step and graceful
figure moving about the parlour--now opening the window to let in the
fresh air of the morning; now arranging a bouquet of moss-roses; now
busying herself among the breakfast things, and all the while stealing a
glance at Sir Simon, to see if he were pleased with what she was doing.
He'll be over here by-and-by, to call on you; and, indeed, it is an
attention he seldom pays any one, for latterly, poor fellow, he is not
over satisfied with the world--and if the truth were told, he has not
had too much cause to be so.'
'You mentioned to him, then, that I was here?' 'To be sure I did; and
the doing so cost me a scalded finger; for Miss Louisa, who was pouring
out my tea at the moment, gave a jerk with her hand, and spilled the
boiling water all over me.--Bad cess to you, Mary, but you've spoiled
the toast this morning! half of it never saw the fire, and the other
half is as black as my boot.--But, as I was saying, Sir Simon knows all
about you, and is coming over to ask us to dine there--though I offered
to give the invitation myself, and accept it first; but he is very
punctilious about these things, and wouldn't hear of anything but doing
it in the regular way.'
'Did he allude to Mr. Ulick Burke's affair?'
'Not a word. And even when I wished to touch on it for the sake of
a little explanation, he adroitly turned the subject, and spoke of
something else. But it is drawing late, and I have some people to see
this morning; so come along now into my little library here, and I'll
leave you for a while to amuse yourself.'
The priest led me, as he spoke, into a small room, whose walls were
covered with books from the floor to the ceiling; even the very door
by which we entered had its shelves, like the rest, so that when once
inside you could see no trace of it. A single window looked seaward,
towards the wide Atlantic, and presented a view of many miles of coast,
indented with headland and promontory. Beneath, upon the placid sea, was
a whole fleet of fishing-boats, the crews of which were busily engaged
in collecting the sea-weed to manure the land. The sight was both
curious and picturesque. The light boats, tossing on the heavy swell,
were crowded with figures whose attitude evinced all the eagerness of a
chase. Sometimes an amicable contest would arise between two parties, as
their boat-hooks were fixed in the same mass of tangled weed. Sometimes
two rival crews would be seen stretching upon their oars, as they headed
out to sea in search of a new prize. The merry voices and the loud
laughter, however, that rose above all other sounds, told that
good-humour and goodwill never deserted them in all the ardour of the
contest.
Long after the priest left me, I continued to watch them. At last I set
myself to explore the good father's shelves, which I found, for the most
part, were filled with portly tomes of divinity and polemics--huge folio
copies of Saint Augustine, Origen, Eusebius, and others; innumerable
volumes of learned tractates on disputed points in theology--none of
which possessed any interest for me. In one corner, however, beside the
fire, whose convenience to the habitual seat of Father Tom argued that
they were not least in favour with his reverence, was an admirable
collection of the French dramatists--Molière, Beaumarchais, Racine, and
several more. These were a real treat; and seating myself beside the
window, I prepared, for about the twentieth time in my life, to read _La
Folle Journée_.
I had scarcely got to the end of the second act, when the door was
gently opened, and Mary made her appearance--not in the deshabille of
the morning, however, but with a trim cotton gown, and smart shoes and
stockings; her hair, too, was neatly dressed, in the country fashion.
Yet still I was more than half disposed to think she looked even better
in her morning costume.
The critical scrutiny of my glance had evidently disconcerted her, and
made her, for the moment, forget the object of her coming. She looked
down and blushed; she fiddled with the corner of her apron, and at last,
recollecting herself, she dropped a little curtsy, and, opening the door
wide, announced Sir Simon Bellew.
'Mr. Hinton, I believe,' said Sir Simon, with a slight smile, as he
bowed himself into the apartment; 'will you allow me to introduce
myself--Sir Simon Bellew.'
The baronet was a tall, thin, meagre-looking old man, somewhat stooped
by age, but preserving, both in look and gesture, not only the remains
of good looks, but the evident traces of one habituated to the world.
His dress was very plain; but the scrupulous exactitude of his powdered
cue, and the massive gold-headed cane he carried, showed he had not
abandoned those marks of his position so distinctive of rank in those
days. He wore, also, large and handsome buckles in his shoes; but in
every other particular his costume was simplicity itself. Conversing
with an ease which evinced his acquaintance with all the forms of
society, he touched shortly upon my former acquaintance with his
daughter, and acknowledged in terms slight, but suitable, how she had
spoken of me. His manner was, however, less marked by everything I had
deemed to be Irish than that of any other person I had met with in the
country; for while he expressed his pleasure at my visit to the west,
and invited me to pass some days at his house, his manner of doing so
had nothing whatever of the warmth and _empressement_ I had so often
seen. In fact, save a slight difference in accent, it was as English as
need be.
Whether I felt disappointed at this, or whether I had myself adopted the
habite and prejudices of the land, I am unable to say, but certainly
I felt chilled and repulsed; and although our interview scarce lasted
twenty minutes, I was delighted when he rose to take his leave, and say,
good-morning.
'You are good enough, then, to promise you 'll dine with us to-morrow,
Mr. Hinton. I need scarcely remark that I can have no party to meet you,
for this wild neighbourhood has denied us that; but as I am aware that
your visit to the west is less for society than scenery, perhaps I may
assure you you will not be disappointed. So now, _au revoir_.' Sir Simon
bowed deeply as he spoke, and, with a wave of his hat that would have
done honour to the court of Louis xv., he took his leave and departed.
I followed him with my eye, as mounted on his old gray pony, he ambled
quietly down the little path that led to the shore. Albeit an old man,
his seat was firm, and not without a certain air of self-possession and
ease; and as he returned the salutations of the passing country-people,
he did so with the quiet dignity of one who felt he conveyed an honour
even in the recognition. There was something singular in the contrast
of that venerable figure with the wild grandeur of the scene; and as I
gazed after him, it set me thinking on the strange vicissitudes of life
that must have made such as he pass his days in the dreary solitude of
these mountains.