"CROWMORE CASTLE."
"We have seen better days."
LARRY and Finnigan's mare were not long in dwindling into a little
speck in the distance; and when they had completely vanished Helen
set out to walk to Cara Cross, the goal of the post-car races. Once
there she had no difficulty in discovering the road to the left;
and a quarter of a mile brought two massive pillars into view,
each surmounted by a battered, wingless griffin. But there were no
gates—unless a stone wall and a gate were synonymous terms in Ireland.
Three feet of solid masonry completely barred the former entrance, and
said "no admittance" in the plainest language. Helen leant her elbows
on the coping-stones and gazed in amazement at the scene before her.
She saw a grassy track that had once been an avenue lined by a dense
thicket of straggling, neglected shrubs. To her right and left stood
the roofless shells of two gate lodges. On the step of one of them she
descried her bag; and only for this undeniable clue she would certainly
have walked on and sought the entrance to Crowmore elsewhere. Being (as
Larry had not failed to remark) an active, "souple" young lady, she
lost no time in getting over the wall and rejoining her property. As
she picked it up, she cast a somewhat timid glance into the interior
of the ruin and beheld a most dismal, melancholy-looking kitchen, with
the remains of ashes on the hearth; the roof and rugged rafters partly
open to the skies; hideous green stains disfiguring the walls, and the
floor carpeted with nettles and dockleaves. A bat came flickering out
of an inner chamber, which warned her that time was advancing and she
was _not_. So she hurriedly turned about and pursued the grass-grown
avenue, which presently became almost lost in the wide, surrounding
pasture. At first it ascended a gentle incline, over which numbers of
sheep were scattered; some, who were reposing in her very track, rose
reluctantly, and stared stolidly as she approached. On the top of the
hill she came upon a full view of the Castle, and was filled with a
sense of injury and disappointment at having been deceived by such a
high-sounding title. Certainly there _was_ a kind of square, old keep,
out of whose ivy-covered walls half-a-dozen large modern windows stared
with unabashed effrontery. But a great, vulgar, yellow house, with long
ears of chimneys, and a mean little porch, had evidently married the
venerable pile, and impudently appropriated its name. "Yes," murmured
Helen to herself, as she descended the hill, "uncle showed his sense
in calling it simply 'Crowmore;' a far more suitable name, judging by
the rookeries in the trees behind it and the flocks of crows—more
crows—who are returning home."
An iron fence presently barred her further progress along the
almost obliterated avenue, and, keeping by the railings, she
arrived at a rusty gate leading into what might once have been a
pleasure-ground,—but was now a wilderness. Traces of walks were still
visible, and outlines of flower-beds could be distinguished—with a
little assistance from one's imagination—flower-beds, in which roses,
and fuchsias, and thistles, and ferns, were all alike strangled in
the cruel bonds of "Robin round the hedge." She passed a tumble-down
summer-house—a fitting pendant to the gate lodges—and some rustic
seats, literally on their last legs. Everywhere she looked, neglect and
decay stared her in the face.
As she pushed her way through a thicket of shrubs, that nearly choked
a narrow foot-path, she observed a tall man, like a gamekeeper,
approaching from the opposite direction. He wore a peaked cap, drawn
far over his eyes, and a very long black beard, so that his face was
almost entirely concealed; he was dressed in a shabby shooting-coat,
and gaiters, and carried a bundle of netting on his back, and a stick
in his hand. As he stood aside, so as to permit her to pass, she had a
conviction—though she could not see his eyes—that he was scrutinizing
her closely; nay, more, that he halted to look after her,—as she
ceased to hear the onward tramp of his heavy, clumsy boots. Another two
minutes brought her to a little wicket, which opened on a well-kept
gravel drive, a complete contrast to the overgrown jungle which she
had just quitted. There was no one to be seen, not even a dog, though
a clean plate and a well-picked bone testified to a dog's recent
dinner. The hall door stood wide open (Irish fashion), but no knocker
was visible,—neither could she discover a bell. She waited on the
steps for some minutes in great perplexity, and gazed into a large,
cool, stone-paved hall, crossed here and there with paths of cocoa-nut
matting, lined with strange ancient sporting prints, and apparently
opening into half-a-dozen rooms. Not a sound was audible save the
bleating of the sheep, the cawing of the rooks, and the loud ticking
of a brazen-faced grandfather's clock, that immediately faced the
stranger. Suddenly a fresh young voice came through an open door, so
near that Helen gave a little nervous start; a fresh young voice with
an undeniable Irish accent, and this was what it said,—
"Dido, Dido! do you want to _boil_ the mignonette, and all the
unfortunate flowers?"
Emboldened by this sound, the new arrival rapped loudly on the door
with her knuckles, and the same melodious brogue called out,—
"If that's you, Judy, no eggs to-day!"
"'Deed then, Miss Katie," expostulated a somewhat aged and cracked
organ, "I'm not so sure of _that_.—We are rather tight in eggs, and
you were talking of a cake, when the young lady comes——"
By this time the young lady had advanced to the threshold and looked
in. She beheld a large, shabby dining-room, with three long windows,
heavy old furniture, and faded hangings; a stout girl with fair curly
hair, sitting with her back to the door, knitting a sock; her slender
sister—presumably that Dido, who was working such destruction among
the flowers—was stooping over a green stand covered with plants, which
she was busily watering, with the contents of a small copper tea-urn;
and a little trim old woman, in a large frilled cap, was in the act
of removing the tea things. Helen's light footfall on the matting was
inaudible, and she had ample time to contemplate the scene, ere the
servant, who was just lifting the tray, laid it down and ejaculated,—
"The Lord presarve us!"
The girl with the tea-urn turned quickly round, and dropping her
impromptu watering-pot, cried,—
"It's Helen, it must be cousin Helen!" running to her, and embracing
her. "You are as welcome as the flowers in May. This is Katie,—I'm
Dido.—We went to meet you in the morning by the twelve o'clock train;
how in the world did you get here?"
All this poured out without stop, or comma, in a rich and rapid brogue.
"I missed the early train and came on by the next. I got a seat on the
post-car, but the horse ran away and upset us, so I preferred to walk
to the end of my journey. I told the man, Larry ——, Larry ——"
"Larry Flood, Miss," prompted the old woman eagerly. "A little ugly
sleveen of a fellow—with a lip on him, would trip a goat!"
"Now, Biddy, how can you be so spiteful," remonstrated Katie, with a
laugh, "and all just because he wants to marry Sally."
"That's the name—Larry Flood," continued Helen. "I told him I would
walk, and he left my bag at the—the gate."
"Oh! so you came by the old avenue! and a nice way Larry treated you!
Just wait till I see him," said Dido. "How long were you at the door,
Helen?"
"About five minutes."
"And why on earth did you not come in?"
"I was looking for the bell or the knocker," she answered rather
diffidently.
"And you might have been looking for a week, my dear! They are
conspicuous by their absence. We don't stand on ceremony here; you
either hammer with a stone—there is one left on the steps for that
express purpose, only, of course, _you_ never guessed its use—or you
dispense with the stone, and walk in—the door stands open all day
long,—precisely as you see it."
"But, of course, you shut it after dark?"
"Yes, in a fashion; we put a chair against it just to keep the sheep
from coming in! The lock is broken—it was taken off weeks ago by Micky
the smith, and he has never brought it back yet. Now, I see you are
horrified, Helen!—but this is not London—there are no thieves or
housebreakers about, and we are as safe as if we had twenty locks and
bolts. Here, Biddy," to the old servant, "Miss Denis is starving; bring
up the cold fowl, and some more of those hot cakes, as fast as ever you
can. Helen, give me your hat and jacket, and sit down in this arm-chair
this minute, and relate every one of your adventures without delay."
It was impossible to be shy with Dido and Katie; in a few moments their
cousin felt perfectly at home, and they were all holding animated
eager conversation, and talking together as if they had known each
other for weeks. Katie was an incessant chatter-box; no matter who was
speaking, her voice was sure to chime in also, and to keep up a running
accompaniment similar to the variations on a popular air! She was fair,
very plump, and rather pretty,—with the beauty of rosy cheeks, bright
eyes, and curly locks. Dido, the eldest, was tall, and graceful, with
a head and throat that would have served for a sculptor's model; she
had quantities of brown hair, and greenish-grey eyes. Without being
exactly handsome, she had a look of remarkable distinction, and as she
stood at the table busily carving a fowl for the delectation of her
hungry guest, that guest said to herself, that her cousin Dido, for all
her threadbare dress and washed-out red cotton pinafore, aye, and her
brogue,—had the air—of—yes—of a princess!
"When shall I see uncle?" inquired his niece, with dutiful politeness.
"Oh, the Padré never appears in the daytime," replied Katie, "and he
only goes out with the owls; but he will come down and welcome you, of
course. He is very much occupied just now,—and grudges every moment,
his time is _so_ precious."
A grunt of scornful dissent from the old woman here attracted Katie's
notice, and once more resuming her knitting, and her chair, she said,—
"Well, what's the matter now, Biddy, eh? Tell me, what do you think of
Miss Denis?" speaking precisely as if Miss Denis were a hundred miles
away.
Biddy thus adjured, immediately laid down a plate, and resting her
hands on her hips, surveyed the new-comer as coolly and deliberately as
if she was a picture.
"Shure, I'm no great judge, Miss Katie! but since you ax me,—I'll just
give ye me mind. I think she's a teetotally beautiful young lady,—and
that it would be no harm if there was twins of her!"
Helen coloured and laughed, and Dido exclaimed, "Well, that's more than
you ever said of _me_, Biddy, and I'm your own nurse-child that you
reared ever since I was six months old—you never wished for twins of
_me_!"
"Troth, and why would I? Many and many's the night that I lost me rest
along of you. Aye, but you wor the peevish little scaltheen! Wan of
_you_ was plenty!"
"And you never called _me_ a teetotally beautiful young lady! I'm
offended."
"Arrah, Miss Dido, sure you would not be askin' me to parjure myself!"
retorted Biddy, with some warmth. "Ye can see with your own two eyes,
that your cousin is a sight better-looking than ayther of yees; but you
are a lady all out! The Queen herself need not be ashamed to be seen
walkin' with ye! Sure, and aren't you cliver! and isn't that enough for
you? They don't go together, I'm thinking—great wit, and great looks!"
"Biddy MacGravy," replied Dido, with great solemnity, "you started off
very nicely,—wishing Miss Helen was a twin—but now you have spoiled
everything! I really think you had better go before you say something
worse,—I really do."
"And sure, and what did I say but what was the pure truth?" folding
her arms over her white apron, and evidently preparing to discuss the
subject exhaustively.
"You have merely told her, that it was doubtful if she was a lady, and
that it was very certain that she was a fool."
"Ah, now, Miss Dido!" in a tone of mournful reproach, "see, now, I
declare to goodness—Whist! here's the masther." And seizing the tray,
the nimble old woman vanished like a flash.
"She is quite one of the family," explained Dido, "and says just what
she pleases. You would never imagine that she had been for years on the
Continent! She acquired nothing there, but the art of making cakes and
coffee——"
"And paying compliments," amended Katie, with a giggle.
At that moment the door opened slowly, and a tall, but bent,
white-headed gentleman entered the room. He had a noble head, a
cream-coloured beard, reaching almost to his waist, and sunken,
dark eyes, that looked out on the world abstractedly, from beneath
a penthouse of shaggy brows. His hands were long and thin, with
singularly claw-like fingers, through which he had a habit of drawing
the end of his beard, as he conversed. He was attired in an easy, grey
dressing-gown, a black skull-cap, and red list slippers.
Helen rose as he approached and extended one of his long hands. His
dreamy eyes flashed into momentary life, as he said, in a curiously
slow, nasal voice,—
"And this is my English niece! Niece, I am glad to see you, for your
own sake,—and for your father's.—He was a worthy brother to my wife.
I hope you will be happy here. By-the-way, how did you come?"
Before Helen could open her lips, Katie, the irrepressible, had begun
to relate her recent experiences, as volubly as if she herself had been
a passenger by the Irish mail; not to mention the Terryscreen post-car!
But long ere her recital had come to an end, her parent's thoughts were
miles away—presumably in the clouds. At length the sudden cessation of
the narrative, recalled him to the present once more, and speaking very
deliberately, he said,—
"You must take us as you find us, niece. We live far beyond any sordid,
worldly circle, enjoying simple, domestic retirement, and a purely
rural life. Our wealth is that of the mind. In mundane substance we
are poor, but at any rate we can offer you _one_ thing, without
stint—accept a welcome." And with a wave of his hand, implying that he
had endowed Helen with some priceless treasure, and a bow signifying
that the interview was at an end, Mr. Sheridan glided noiselessly away,
leaving, as was his invariable wont, the door wide open behind him.