BARRY'S GUESS.
"O many a shaft at random sent,
Finds mark the archer little meant."—_Scott._
THE following morning Helen was formally conducted round the premises
by her cousins. They explored the tangled shrubbery, the garden, and
the yard; the latter was empty—save for a clutch of chickens, and a
flock of voracious ducks,—and at least half the offices were minus
roofs and windows.
"The whole place was tumbling down," explained Dido; "and as the Padré
could do nothing, Darby Chute said he might just as well make the best
of a bad job, and he took off the doors and rafters for fire-wood."
"Yes, and Barry was _raging_," supplemented Katie. "Barry is papa's
heir.—He is our cousin, and lives a mile away on the Terryscreen road.
He says there won't be a stick or a stone left together before long. He
often comes over here. He declares the place is going to rack and ruin."
Helen glanced at the range of yawning, roofless stables, and could
not help sharing in Mr. Barry's rueful anticipations; and Katie,
interpreting her glance, added hastily,—
"But papa will restore it all some day. He always says his brain is his
Golconda, and he will be a Crœsus yet. He says——"
"This is the dairy," interrupted Dido, suddenly turning a big key.
"Mind the step."
It struck Helen that she frequently broke in upon the current of her
sister's narratives, especially when she was attempting to give
detailed descriptions of the sayings and doings of their gifted parent.
"This is the dairy," she repeated, ushering them into a white-washed,
red-tiled room, filled with big, brown pans of wrinkled cream, tubs of
milk, and golden pats of butter.
"We have five fine cows," she said, twirling the key round her thumb.
"We sell the milk about the place, and the butter in Terryscreen
market; Sally MacGravy takes it in every Thursday. She is cook,
laundress, and dairy-maid. The 'Master' churns. By-the-way, I wonder
where he is?"
"Where he ought not to be, you may be perfectly certain," responded
Katie. "Yes, I see him, he is over in the turf-house." And sure enough,
just above the half-door of a great shed, the ill-tempered face of an
old brown mule was visible.
"And that's the 'Master,'" exclaimed Helen, rather relieved in her own
mind; for visions of her eccentric uncle wielding the churn-dash had
somewhat disturbed her.
"Yes," said Dido. "We call him the 'Master' because the name suits him
so beautifully. He goes and comes exactly as he pleases, opens doors
and gates, and walks in and out at pleasure. He was here when we came,
eight years ago, and is consequently the oldest inhabitant. Some people
say he is forty years of age; but at any rate he is older than any of
us! Now let us go to the garden."
The garden was of vast extent, surrounded by high grey walls, and
wholly devoted to fruit and vegetables. Grass pathways, lined with
currant and gooseberry bushes, divided it into immense plots of
potatoes, peas, and cabbages. In some places, so dense was the jungle
of unwieldy bushes that these walks were quite impassable.
"What quantities of fruit you will have!" remarked Helen, to whom this
huge garden was a novel sight.
"Yes, there will be a fine crop of strawberries—at least I hope so,
for nothing pays so well," rejoined the distinguished-looking, but
practical Dido. "We make a good deal out of the fruit; and we work hard
ourselves; not in fancy aprons and with little trowels, but in real
sober earnest; we plant, and prune, and weed, and water; and on the
whole the garden is a financial success. And 'All Right' helps us.
That's him there in the next plot—the man without the hat. He minds
the cows, and goes to the post, and makes himself useful. He is called
'All Right' just because he is _not_ quite all there! Here he is now,"
as an individual with a spade over his shoulder, and minus hat and
boots, came shuffling down a neighbouring walk.
Andy was a middle-aged man, who looked quite juvenile; partly on
account of his very light and abundant hair, and almost white eyebrows,
and partly because of a certain childish expression,—relieved by
occasional flashes of very mature cunning.
"Well, Andy," said Dido pleasantly, "you have a fine day for the young
plants; how are you getting on?"
"Oh, finely, Miss, finely."
"Here is our cousin.—Another young lady to help you in the garden, you
see."
Andy, in answer to this introduction, half closed his eyes and scanned
her critically. After a long pause he scornfully replied,—
"Faix I expect she'll only be good for weeding, Miss Dido! And see
here, Miss Dido, not to be losing all our day.—Will ye just tell me
what's to be done with them ash-leaved praties and the skerry-blues?
for sorra a know I know!"
"I'll go this very instant, Andy. Katie, just show Helen round the
garden; but keep clear of the bees whatever you do."
"I'll tell you all about Andy now," said Katie confidentially, taking
her companion's arm as they walked away. "You see what he is like! He
was never very strong in the head at the best of times; but a mistake
that happened a good many years ago, quite settled him.—A mistake
about a murder."
"A murder!" echoed Helen, looking with startled eyes at the slouching
figure that was carrying off her graceful cousin.
"Yes. You must know," continued Katie, now dropping into a tone of glib
narration, "that Crowmore belonged to papa's uncle, an old miser, who
lived in Dublin and let the house, and garden, and a few acres, to a
man of the name of Dillon. The rest of the land was managed by the old
steward, who was a first-rate farmer, and as honest as the sun. But to
return to Dillon. He had a good-for-nothing son, called John, who never
did anything but loaf and poach. In those days Andy was a handy-man,
or boy, about the yard, and he and this John were always quarrelling.
One day John beat him cruelly, and Andy was heard to declare that
he would certainly have his life! Anyway, a short time afterwards,
Dillon was found shot dead up at the black gate, between this and
Ballyredmond, and Andy was taken up and lodged in jail. However, he was
soon discharged, as it was proved at the inquest that Dillon's gun must
have gone off accidentally, though some people say it did _not_ to this
day.—But some people will say anything.—At any rate, the whole affair
gave Andy such a terrible fright, that he has never been the same
since."
"And how is he affected?"
"Chiefly by the sight of a policeman—a 'peeler,' as he calls him. At
the first glimpse, he takes to his heels and runs for his life. He
never ventures beyond the cross-roads, and would not go within a mile
of the black gate, by day or night, for millions; indeed, _no_ one goes
round that way after sundown," she added impressively.
"And pray why not?"
"Because they say John Dillon walks."
"Walks?" echoed Helen, with a look of puzzled curiosity.
"_Haunts_ it, then. Dozens have seen him leaning over the gate, just
about dusk, and it is quite certain that he shoots the coverts as
regularly as ever he did; I've often heard the shots myself."
"Poachers, my dear simple little Katie."
"Poachers, _real_ poachers, would not venture on the Crowmore or
Ballyredmond estates for all the game in Ireland! I'll tell you
something more extraordinary. Dillon had a brace of splendid red
setters. I remember them when we first came, very old, and nearly
blind. They say for a fact, that when these dogs would be lying by the
kitchen fire at night, they would suddenly hear Dillon's whistle, and
jump up and rush to the door, and whine and scratch until they were let
out; and then they would be away for hours, and come home all muddy,
and tired, and draggled, as if they had been working hard. Several
people have told me they have seen this themselves."
"No doubt they have. Some one imitated John's whistle; I could do it
myself, if I heard it once. Some clever poacher was sharp enough to
make use of the late Mr. Dillon's excellent sporting dogs."
"I never thought of that," said Katie reflectively. "But every one here
believes in Dillon's ghost. Darby Chute would not go up the woods after
dark for all you could offer him; _he_ believes in him, so does Barry.
Barry met him once in the dusk; he was carrying game, and he looked so
desperately wicked, and shook his gun in such a threatening way, that
Barry confesses that he turned, as he expresses it, and 'ran like a
hare.'"
"And what is this sporting ghost like?"
"He is very tall, with a long black beard, leather gaiters, and a
peaked cap pulled over his eyes."
"My dear Katie, he was the first person to welcome me yesterday! We met
each other in the shrubbery, face to face."
"Oh, Helen, _no_!" gasped her cousin, suddenly stopping and releasing
her arm. "Were you not frightened to death?"
"Not I! I felt no qualms, no cold thrills; I received no hint that I
was in the presence of the supernatural.—He looked alive, and in the
best of health."
"But he was _not_," rejoined Katie in a quavering voice; "that was just
John, the terror of the whole country. Oh, Helen, dear, I hope he has
not come to you as a _warning_," her voice now sinking to an awe-struck
whisper.
"A fiddlestick! it was undoubtedly a human being going out to snare
rabbits. There are no such things as ghosts; at any rate, if this was
one, he smelt very strongly of bad tobacco! Come now, to change the
subject, do tell me something more about your bold cousin Barry,—who
runs like a hare?"
"Oh, Helen! please, now really, you must not laugh at Barry. He can't
bear being chaffed," remonstrated Katie, in some dismay. "He is as
brave as any one in reality."
"Oh, indeed! and what are his other virtues?"
"Perhaps you may think him coarse and countrified, and too fond of
contradicting every word you say, and laying down the law; but he is a
very good fellow in the main, if you take him the right way."
"And what is the right way? Please instruct me, in order that _I_ may
find him a very good fellow!"
"Well; pretend that you think he is conferring a great, great favour,
and he will do anything for you. He can stand any amount of blarney,
but no contradiction!"
"Strictly between ourselves, my little Katie, I don't think I shall
like this cousin of yours."
"Exactly what he said of _you_," she exclaimed, clapping her hands in
great glee. "He declared you would be a stuck-up English girl, with a
grand accent, and a great opinion of yourself. He said you were sure
to have had your head turned by all the attention you had received in
those islands."
"Well, if it was,—which I do not admit,—it has had ample time to go
back again. Governesses are not often the spoiled darlings of society."
"But you are not a bit like a governess."
"Am I not? You should see me at Mrs. Kane's."
"Barry wondered very much that you came home unmarried," continued
Katie, who knew not the meaning of the words reticence and discretion,
and delighted in the sound of her own voice. "He said it was either of
two things——" pausing meditatively.
"Did he, really! How kind of him to give his mind to my humble
affairs," exclaimed Helen, with an irony entirely lost upon her cousin,
who was now fighting her way through a small forest of currant bushes,
and discoursing as fluently as if she was sitting in an arm-chair.
"Yes; he said it was either of two things—Helen, mind your eyes with
that branch! Either—I'll give you his own words—either you were
mortal ugly, or you had had a love affair, and the pigs ran through
it—meaning a disappointment, you know."
Helen winced as though she had been struck, and if her companion had
happened to glance round, she would have been astonished at the colour
of her face;—a sudden deep blush suffused it from chin to brow. She
told herself passionately that dislike was far too weak a term to apply
to this country clown, whose clumsy curiosity had probed her secret to
the very core. This to herself; but aloud she merely said,—
"Your cousin Barry must be blessed with a rich imagination?"
"Oh, no! he is not a bit clever; but he is uncommonly sharp. He rather
prides himself——"
Whatever he prided himself upon was not to be disclosed at present, for
a sudden turn brought them close to Dido, who called out,—
"I thought I saw your heads above that thicket! I have to go to the
Cross, to speak to Darby: would you care to come, Helen? You may as
well learn all the geography of the place at once."
To this suggestion she promptly assented, and in a few minutes was
walking down the neatly-kept front avenue, whose gates opened on the
Cross (or cross-road); the middle of which amply testified to the
indefatigable dancing that took place on Sundays (for "Crowmore Cross"
was what the assembly-rooms would be in some populous, fashionable
neighbourhood). A dozen cottages were scattered about, and the windows
of one of them exhibited two long clay pipes, some red and white candy,
and a ball of worsted, and on the strength of this rich display was
called "the shop." Dido halted at the door of a comfortable slated
house, and called out over the half-door,—
"Is Darby within, Mrs. Chute?"
"No, me lady, he is not," replied a little, withered old woman,
dropping a curtsey; then, as her eye fell upon Katie and Helen, she
said, "An' this is your cousin from England? The Lord spare you your
health, Miss."
"And how are you yourself, Mrs. Chute?" inquired Dido sympathetically.
"Oh, I got a very heavy turn that last time, me lady; but that stuff
you sent me and the jam did me a power of good. I'm finely now."
"Well, I'm very glad to hear it. Tell Darby I want to see him this
evening, please—it's about the pigs; you won't forget?" said Dido,
turning her face homewards as she spoke.
"Isn't it a funny thing, that of all the years we have been here we
have never been inside Chute's house!" exclaimed Katie. "Mrs. Chute
comes and stands at the door, but she never asks us further. This in
Ireland, where the first word is, 'Won't you walk in and take a sate?'
is _odd_."
"Is that his wife?" inquired Helen.
"Oh, no; his mother. He was nearly being married once to the daughter
of a well-to-do farmer, but they fell out about her dowry. They
'split,' as they call it, over a chest of drawers. I don't think he
will ever marry now. Somehow the neighbours don't like him; they say he
is very distant and dark in himself."
"I heard you were wanting me, Miss Dido," said a squeaky voice, which
made them all turn round with quite a guilty start.
Standing on the grass behind them (why could he not walk on the road?)
Helen beheld a tall, elderly man, with sharp features and a pair of
keen, grey eyes, set close together in his head. He had a coat over his
shoulder, a stick in his hand, and a most deceitful-looking lurcher at
his heels.
"Yes, Darby, I left a message," replied Dido, quickly recovering
herself. "It's only to ask you about selling the store pigs."
"Av they are fit,—and with all the feeding they are getting they bid
to be as fat as snails—ye might sell them on the fifteenth; but mind
you," shaking his head solemnly, "pigs is down—terribly down! And so
this is your cousin, Miss Denis?" putting his finger to his hat.
"Yes; and you would never know she was any relation, would you?" said
Katie. "Would you guess we were cousins?"
"'Deed I would _not_. And I never thought them English ladies were so
handsome till now," he rejoined, resting his hands on the top of his
stick, and speaking in a deliberate, confidential squeak. "I declare
that wan up at Ballyredmond has a face that sour on her, she gives me
the cramps every time I look at her; an' her walk!" raising his stick
and his eyes simultaneously, "for all the world like a turkey among
stubbles. Now, av I was asked——"
"Darby, what _do_ you think? Only fancy! she met John Dillon face to
face last evening!" interrupted Katie with extraordinary irrelevance.
A very curious look flashed into Darby's eyes. It came and went in the
space of half a second, and he rejoined, in a peevish, argumentative
tone,—
"And sure, and how would Miss Denis know him?"
"She describes him exactly; cap and all."
"Yes, but all the same, I'm positive that it was no _ghost_,"
supplemented Helen stoutly.
"Holy St. Patrick, do ye hear her!" ejaculated Darby, in a tone of
pious horror. "Well, well, well; poor young lady; it's easy seen she is
a stranger! Don't ye be for letting her out about the place alone after
dark just now," he added in a sort of husky aside.
"It's rather early for him _yet_," grumbled Katie. "From August to
February is his usual time."
"Yes, the shooting season!" rejoined Helen, with a merry laugh.
"Nothing more is needed to persuade _me_ that the notorious John is
anything worse than a common poacher!"
"Have your own way,—have your own way, Miss," wheezed Darby,
irritably. And it struck her that there was the _soupçon_ of a threat
in his narrow little eyes as he added,—
"Maybe you won't get off so _aisy_ next time he meets you! If ye will
be said and led by me, ye will not be going about alone afther dusk.
And mind, if anything happens, and ye are found with the print of five
black fingers on your neck"—spreading out his own horny digits by way
of illustration—"and stretched as dead as a doornail, don't go and say
afterwards that ye waren't warned."
With this remarkable caution, Darby hitched his coat over his shoulder,
nodded his head impressively, and then turning to Dido, said,—
"I'll be up about them pigs this evening, Miss; but you need not be
laying out to get a heavy price for them! I'm for my dinner now," and
with an abrupt nod, Mr. Chute plodded off.
"I'm sure you are shocked at his free-and-easy ways, Helen—at
all their free-and-easy ways!" exclaimed Dido. "But they mean no
incivility, and they take an interest in the——"
"Yes, Darby, I can see, is very anxious that I should not put myself
in the way of being strangled by John Dillon. Really, it will be quite
exciting to go out after dark."
"And the _only_ excitement we can offer you. You have no idea what a
quiet place you have come to," said Katie; "we have no society at all.
Papa never returned people's visits, or answered their invitations. He
never goes out, excepting about the place, in the dusk; he is entirely
buried in his experiments. People have all sorts of ideas about us;
they think that the Padré practises the black art, and that Dido and I
keep pigs in the parlour, and a threshing-machine in the back hall!"
Helen laughed aloud at this description. If Crowmore was shabby, it was
beautifully clean; and if her cousins occasionally used the first thing
to hand instead of a regulation implement, the interior of the house
was not merely neat, but tasteful.
"Of course, that's an exaggeration," said Dido. "But no one calls
here, excepting the rector, Barry, and old Mr. Redmond. He comes
from mere idle curiosity, to see if we are all alive and the house
not burnt down—he _said_ so! He and papa fought frantically about a
Greek word the only time they ever met. We tried to cut him, he was
so awfully rude to the Padré; but he would not see it, and he comes
here, and sends us books, and baskets of hot-house fruit and flowers,
and fish and game. We call it Mr. Redmond's out-door relief. He is a
kind-hearted old man!"
"And does he live alone?"
"No, there is Miss Redmond, his sister, a cripple from rheumatism, and
his ward, a horrid, supercilious creature; and in the shooting season,
he always has a house full. He rents the shooting of Crowmore as well.
Papa lets it—he lets everything."
Her cousin's eyes travelled reflectively along the extensive demesne
wall, and she said,—
"Crowmore is a large estate, is it not?"
"Yes; but you need not run away with the notion that it is a fine
property. We are as poor as rats. On the other hand, Mr. Redmond is as
rich as a Jew."
"Dido, do tell me who is the unfortunate English girl who has such a
painful effect on Mr. Chute," inquired Helen, as she and her relatives
strolled up the avenue arm-in-arm.
"Oh, she is not nearly as bad as he makes out, though personally I do
not like her," replied Dido frankly. "She is the girl we were speaking
of just now; a Miss Calderwood—Kate Calderwood—a great heiress."
"Has she freckles and high shoulders?"—halting as she asked the
question.
"How on earth did _you_ know?" cried Dido in amazement. "Her shoulders
are up to her ears, and she is as freckled as a turkey's egg! But
for all that they say she is engaged to be married,—and to such a
good-looking man, to Mr. Redmond's favourite nephew, Gilbert Lisle."