"THE POACHER'S GHOST."
"But I am constant as the Northern Star."
IT was not dark, it was not even dusk, when Helen, having fought her
way through the laurustinus and syringa of the pleasure-grounds,
mounted the hill which lay between Crowmore and Ballyredmond. Here she
paused on the summit, and looked back. What a change even two days can
make in one's whole existence! Two evenings previously she had been
picking mushrooms on this very hill in her ordinary, tranquil frame
of mind; now, glancing down on the old Castle, Crowmore was to have a
new master, and she must leave its shelter! Her annual pittance would
soon be due, and she would thus be enabled to return to her duties,
at Malvern House. Well, she had never intended to quarter herself
altogether on her cousins! With a half-stifled sigh she turned her face
towards Ballyredmond, whose gables and chimneys peeped above the trees.
And so Gilbert Lisle was under that roof—probably at dinner at that
moment, sitting opposite to Miss Calderwood! "Of _course_ he is engaged
to her," she said aloud; "Dido only denied it because the wish was
father to the thought! I dare say they will be married soon; perhaps
before I leave. Well, I think I shall be able to decorate the church,
and even to accept an invitation to the wedding—if I get one!"
These thoughts brought her to the notorious gate, which separated the
two estates. It led from the hill-side pasture of Crowmore straight
into the dense woods of Ballyredmond and was at present fastened by a
stout padlock. There was no sign of John Dillon; no sound to be heard,
save the cawing of rooks and the cooing of wood-pigeons; and, without a
moment's delay, Helen dived into her pocket, produced a small penknife,
and commenced to carve her initials with somewhat suspicious haste.
She was not the least afraid of ghosts; her solution of the great
"apparatus" scare had effectually banished all such fears; but it was a
silent, lonely place, where she had no desire to linger.
The wood she was operating upon was hard, the penknife brittle, and
the process slow. She had only achieved the letter H, when her ears,
being quickened by an almost unconscious apprehension, caught the tread
of a footstep coming through the plantation. Nearer and nearer it
approached; now it was walking over leaves, which deadened the sound;
now it stepped upon a rotten twig, which snapped. Her heart, despite
her bravery, commenced to flutter wildly. Was this the poacher's ghost?
she would know in another second; in another second the branches were
thrust aside by a grey tweed arm, and she beheld, not John Dillon,—but
Gilbert Lisle! and she felt that the sharpest crisis of her life, was
at hand.
He stopped for an instant, as though to collect himself, then came
straight up to the gate and doffed his cap. He looked grave, and
extremely pale; and after a perceptible pause, he said,—
"Miss Denis, I am very glad to meet you again."
In answer to this she merely inclined her head. At this supreme moment
she could not have spoken to save her life.
"I see that the pleasure is entirely on my side; and, naturally, you
believe me to be the most faithless, perfidious—"
"The past is past," she interrupted in a low hurried voice. "Let
us agree to forget that we have ever met before. I was a silly
school-girl; you were a traveller—a man of the world, seeking to
enlarge your experience of places and people. You experimented on _me_.
It was rather cruel, you know, but it does not matter now. We do not
live in the age of broken hearts!"
"Miss Denis!" he returned passionately, "I'd rather a man had struck
me across the mouth than be obliged to stand and listen to such
words from a woman! And the worst of it all is, that your taunts
seem well-deserved. You do not know the _truth_. Look here," hastily
producing a letter addressed to herself, "I was on my way to leave this
for you with my own hands. I did not venture to expect that you would
see me; but since I have so happily met you, will you listen to me?"
"No, Mr. Lisle," she answered coldly, "I am not a school-girl _now_."
"Pardon me, but you must—you shall—hear me," suddenly closing his
hand on her wrist with a vice-like grasp, and speaking with unusual
vehemence.
"Of course I must hear you, if you choose to detain me against my will!
Would you keep me here by such means?" she asked, her voice trembling
with indignation.
"I would! Yes, brutal as it sounds, I _would_. Every criminal has a
right to be heard; and from you, in whose eyes I appear a miserable
traitor, I claim that privilege. I will no longer suffer you to think
me a base, false-hearted cur! There," suddenly liberating her hand as
he spoke, "There, I release you, but I appeal to your sense of honour,
and justice, to give me a hearing!"
Helen made no reply, but, as she did not move, he naturally took
silence for consent, and, without a moment's delay, began to plead his
cause in rapid, broken sentences.
"Do you know, that for the last ten days I have been searching for you
everywhere, and that I have been half distracted!—At first I addressed
myself to your aunt, who curtly refused your address, and made some
sceptical remarks on my motives in seeking you; then I travelled down
to Tenby, and interviewed Mrs. Kane,—unfortunately, she had lost your
last letter, and could only remember that your post town began with a
T,—which was rather vague. Next I telegraphed out to Mrs. Holmes—who
replied with 'Malvern House.' Finally Mrs. Platt was induced to believe
that I was in _earnest!_ she sent a line to Mrs. Durand; Mrs. Durand
forwarded it to me instantly. I started for Ireland within half an
hour, and here I am!"
"But why?" inquired the young lady frigidly.
"Simply because, until the last fortnight, I believed you to be the
wife of James Quentin! Yes, you may well look indignant and scornful;
I richly deserve such looks. You shall judge me, you alone—Here,"
suddenly removing his cap, and laying his hand on the gate. "I stand
as it were at the bar before you. Be patient with me for a few
minutes; hear my defence, and then you shall say if I am guilty or not
guilty.—I leave my cause, my fate, my future life in your hands!"
Helen listened to his appeal in profound silence; poignant memories,
maidenly pride, trembling expectation, struggled fiercely in her
breast. In the end her heart proved to be her suitor's most eloquent
advocate, and with a hasty gesture of assent, she motioned him to go on.
"You remember that night at Port Blair, when we parted, as I hoped
but for a few hours? Well, I went home and waited up for Quentin, and
talked to him in a way that astonished him. Nevertheless, he stuck
to his point, and blustered, and stormed, and swore that you _were_
engaged to him."
"And you believed him?" she exclaimed, with repressed emphasis.
"I did not believe his words. What converted me was his facts—the fact
that he possessed the wreck ring, and placed it in my hand. That was
sufficient. I thought, when you could give _him_ that,—you could not
care for _me_."
"And from first to last you were Mr. Quentin's cat's-paw?"
"His cat's-paw, his tool, his fool; whatever you like!" vehemently. "I
was an infatuated idiot. I mistook him for a gentleman, and measured
him by a wrong standard. He told me lies by the dozen, and when I left
the Nicobars I was under the impression that he was about to return to
Port Blair, and to marry you at once. I went to Singapore, to Japan, to
California; I rambled about the world, quite beyond reach of news from
the Andamans. Indeed, news from the Andamans I never sought—_that_
page in my life was closed. I came to London about three weeks ago, and
almost the first people I met were Quentin and his wife! After that,
Mrs. Durand cleared up the whole business.—She told me how your ring
had been stolen, and she it was, who succeeded in wringing your address
from your aunt, and that's about the whole story!"
"What did Mr. Quentin mean?" inquired Helen gravely.
"It's hard to say. He is a notorious lady-killer. He did not like to be
cut out. He was going away, and was utterly reckless. I believe he had
a comfortable conviction that he could commit any social enormity in
those out-of-the-way islands with the utmost impunity. He believed that
when he sailed away, he put himself beyond the reach of all reprisals.
And now, Helen, what do _you_ say? If you only knew what I have felt
the last fortnight, you would think that I've been pretty well punished
for being Quentin's dupe! Am I guilty or not guilty? Can you ever
forgive me?"
"Yes; I do forgive you," she replied at length, with a little catch in
her breath.
"And we will go back to where we left off that evening at Port Blair,"
suddenly leaning his arms on the gate, and looking at her earnestly.
To this she shook her head in silence.
"There is some one else?" he said, in a low voice.
"No, there is no one else," she answered, without looking up.
"Then you are really implacable; and, indeed, I cannot wonder."
"I am not implacable," and she laughed a little nervous laugh; "but I
am a governess!"
"And what in the world has that to do with it?"
"Everything. I am not a suitable wife for a great landed proprietor
like you. You took us all in at Port Blair; but now I know who you
really are, it would never do. I am a lady, certainly—your wife can be
no more than that—but I have no money, no connections."
"I don't understand you," he said, rather stiffly.
"Ask your friends, ask your father, your uncle, _they_ will explain it
all very forcibly."
"That is a miserable excuse, and will not serve you. My father has
been goading me towards the yoke of matrimony for years. My worthy
uncle, little knowing, talked of you all lunch-time, to-day, and wished
himself a young man for your sake—not that if he were—you would
listen to him, I _hope_!"
"I am not going to listen to any one."
"Yes, you are, you are going to listen to ME. When I was a poor obscure
nobody at Port Blair, you accepted me as your future husband—you know
you did."
"Yes; and now that I'm a poor obscure nobody at Crowmore, you wish to
return the compliment."
"Helen!" he exclaimed, in a tone of sharp reproach, "you don't believe
in your heart that I set any value on my money, or my birth. I want you
to take me for myself alone, as if you were a dairy-maid, and I was a
blacksmith. Will you?" extending his hand.
"But if I say yes, what will become of Miss Calderwood?" she inquired,
ignoring the proffered clasp.
"Miss Calderwood is nothing to me, I am nothing to her; our estates
suit one another, that's all. You don't suppose that I care a straw for
Miss Calderwood, or she for me?" coming as close to her as the gate
would permit, and looking at her fixedly. "You know very well that I
care for no one but _you_; don't you, Helen?"
Helen raised her eyes, and looked at him—and believed him.
"I'm afraid you have had a very rough time of it since we parted—both
at Port Blair, and in London?—I hate to think of it."
"Yes. I was miserable at first, most miserable," her eyes filling.
"Afterwards I got on better, and I've been very happy here."
"But, my dearest Helen—" (N.B. from Miss Denis to Helen, from Helen
to my dearest Helen, had been a rapid transition)—"Is not your uncle
very" mad, he was going to say, but changed it to the word "odd?"
"Very, very odd; indeed, more than odd, poor man, but he was very good
to me. I am fond of my cousins, especially Dido. Katie is going to
marry her cousin Barry."
"Unhappy Katie!" in a tone of profound commiseration. "Tell me, Helen,
has that ill-conditioned Orson ever dared to make love to you?"
"Never mind—I detest him—in fact, it is to prove that he is a coward,
that I am here now. He defied me to come up here, and cut my name on
this gate. See, I have got as far as H."
"I see! and it is hardly worth your while to add the D," he added,
significantly. "Before very long you will have another initial. And why
did Mr. Barry Sheridan defy you to cut your monogram on this gate?"
"Because it is said to be haunted by Dillon's ghost! No one ventures
here after dusk."
"Indeed! Do you know that I came across _your_ ghost in Terryscreen
yesterday; a market girl who is your double. When I saw her I felt that
it was a good omen, that you and I would be face to face ere long."
"Yes, and you were kind enough to toss her a sovereign—here it is,"
now producing it; "it has been burning a hole in my pocket ever since.
Yes," in answer to his stare of incredulity, "I may as well confess to
you at once, that it was not my double that you saw, but myself. You
may well look amazed. Did I not play my part to perfection?"
"Inimitably—but why?"
"We," with a backward wave of her hand, "are miserably poor! Uncle's
inventions absorb all the money. Darby, the steward, is a thief, and
Dido has nothing to look to but the garden; every week she sends a
cart to market, and it is the mainstay of the housekeeping. Sally, the
dairy-maid, was laid up—I took her place."
"And when did you pick up the brogue and the blarney?"
"Oh, that was the easiest part of the matter! I can take off anything."
"_You_ can?" rather startled.
"Yes, ever since I could speak; but I never attempted it in earnest
till yesterday. Please take back your sovereign," holding it out.
"What am I to do with it? Fasten it to my watch-chain as a memento of
the day my wife sold vegetables in the market square at Terryscreen?"
"If I were you, I would not talk of your wife before you have one,"
returned the young lady, blushing crimson. "I think you might give it
in charity."
"So be it!" obediently placing it in his waistcoat pocket. "After
all, I'm glad that you and the flower-seller were identical. I always
thought you were the prettiest girl in the world and it gave me quite
an unpleasant shock to see your counterpart."
(After this speech it was no longer in Helen's power to say that Mr.
Lisle had never paid her a compliment.)
"And who have we here, coming down the hill with a brace of rabbits
over his shoulders, and a gun under his arm?" he asked abruptly.
Helen glanced behind her, and beheld a man approaching with a black
beard and peaked cap, and shrank closer to her companion instinctively,
as she answered,—
"It must be John Dillon!"
And it was. The seemingly solitary white figure offered a peculiarly
tempting opportunity to the ghost, and he advanced with long and rapid
strides (not being aware of the presence of a third party, who was at
the other side of the gate and somewhat in the shade). He was within
three yards of Helen, and had already stretched out a threatening arm,
when,—
"Hullo, John!" in a masculine voice, caused him to pause and recoil a
step or two. "I say, you seem to have had good sport?"
John glowered, backed, and would have fled, but Gilbert was too quick
for him. He vaulted over the gate, and said,—
"Come here, my friend, and give an account of yourself. It's not every
day that I see a ghost! Let me have a look at you!"
Very slowly and reluctantly the spectre slouched back, and stood within
a few feet of his questioner. Flight was useless; he had to deal with a
man of half his age, and thrice his activity. Moreover, his gun was not
loaded.
"And so I hear that you made a capital bag on our bog on the eleventh,
John; what do you do with your game? You know you have no game licence
and are a terrible poacher; woodcock, pheasants, hares, all come handy
to you. My uncle tells me that three hundred head of his long tails
were sent away to Dublin and sold last winter, and this in spite of
watchers at night, and every precaution; you won't leave a head of game
in the county! Now, I don't mind betting a sovereign that you have a
brace of grouse in one of your pockets."
Here John, who had hitherto simply stood and glowered, showed signs of
moving off, but his captor took him firmly by the arm, and leading him
out beyond the shadow of the trees, said,—
"Mr. Darby Chute, if I'm not greatly mistaken! I've suspected you
for years. Just take off your cap, will you? Now your beard, if you
please?" And, sure enough, there stood Darby.
For some seconds there was an eloquent silence, broken at last by Helen
who, notwithstanding her scepticism of Mr. Chute, was unprepared for
_this dénouement_.
"Oh, Darby, how COULD you?" she exclaimed with horror.
"Mr. Gilbert," he stammered in a tremulous voice, "I've known ye,
man and boy, and ever since ye wor a terror with the catapult. 'Twas
I first taught you to handle ferrets, and sure you would not go and
expose me now?"
"Why should I not? You have poached this estate for the last ten years;
not modestly now and then, like your neighbours, but as systematically
as if you had leased the shooting. You must have made your fortune."
"Fortune, indeed! an' how would I make a fortune?" indignantly.
"Easily, Darby! what about the white cow you sold for Miss Dido
for twenty pounds, and you only gave her sixteen?" demanded Helen
authoritatively.
"Arrah! what are you talking about, miss?" he asked with an air of
virtuous repudiation. "Do ye want to destroy mee character?"
"It is all right, Darby, _I_ was there. I heard you sell it to a man
named James Casey. We will send for him to-morrow if you like."
"Faix, I see I may as well make a clean breast of it—I see that it's
all over," remarked Darby with sullen self-possession.
"If you mean the shooting of the best covers in the county, and robbing
old Mr. Sheridan, I think you are about right, and that it _is_ all
over," returned Gilbert emphatically.
"Well, sure, if _I_ did not take from him, some one else would," was
the cool rejoinder. "'Tis a shame for the likes of him, to be tempting
poor people!"
"I suppose it was your shots that we used to hear in the woods?"
"I expect it was, Mr. Gilbert."
"And it was you who terrified the wits out of every one after
dark—more especially other poachers. That was a clever dodge."
"It was not too bad, Mr. Gilbert.—Some people does be very wake in
themselves, and shy at night."
"And there are not half enough knaves in the world, for the fools that
are in it! You are a most infernal rascal."
"Maybe I am, Mr. Gilbert; but I never went again me conscience."
"You could not well go against what you have not got."
"And, sure, what is game but wild birds?"
"And the cow, was she a wild bird?—I suppose you sent all your bags to
Dublin?"
"Faix, an' I did, Mr. Gilbert!" returned Darby with perfect equanimity.
"And who bought your spoil?"
"Oh, a spalpeen in William Street, a rale chate! he never gave me more
ner two shillings a brace. Don't _you_ have no dalings with him," said
the culprit with heroic impudence.
"And now, what am I to do with you, Mr. Chute? You are convicted here
as a thief and poacher, on your own confession."
"Well, now, since you _ax_ me, I think ye might as well let me off, Mr.
Gilbert! Sure, it won't be no pleasure, or relief, to you to prosecute
me, and me old mother would think bad of me going to jail. Won't you
spake a word for me, Miss Helen? Sure, there's no one but yourself
can say a hate against me, and ye would not like to be put up in the
witness box at Terryscreen."
"You need not be distressed about Miss Denis, Darby," said Gilbert
sternly. "I could prove enough without her. If I do let you off, it
will be on account of your old mother, and because I've known you ever
since I could walk, and because the harm is done now, and to publish
your knavery, would make half the county look like fools."
"Look here, Mr. Gilbert, I'll never offer to fire a shot in anyone's
ground again, nor to set foot in Crowmore. And I'll make restitution
on the cow, an' wan or two small matters beside, in all twinty pounds.
There now! I'm laying me sins bare before you—and what more can I do?"
"You can leave the country! You must clear out within twenty-four
hours, and never show your face again in these parts, either as John
Dillon or Darby Chute. And, as to the restitution, I shall have a word
with Father Fagan, _he_ will see to that."
"Very well, Mr. Gilbert," he rejoined quietly, "as you plase. But I
warn you that there will be nations of poachers in it, when I go."
"Nations or not, go you must. I wonder what my uncle would say if he
knew I let you off so cheap."
"'Deed then, Mr. Gilbert, I'm thinking he would just destroy both you
and me! Howd-somever, I've a brother in America, and I've long laid out
to go there. So it's not putting me much about!"
"And is less inconvenient than jail! Well, I daresay you will be smart
enough even for some of them."
"Shure, how would I be smart, that never had no book learning?"
protested Darby scornfully. "Look here, Mr. Gilbert, if that's your
young lady—and, faix, it _looks_ like it—I never saw any one make
a worse hand of coortin' than yourself. Raally, I'm surprised at ye!
You at one side of the gate, and her at the other. Miss Helen," now
turning to her, "I suppose ye may as well have this brace of grouse,"
producing the birds from his pocket. "And with regard to that little
account you were spakin' of, and the _other_ change, I'll send it up
the first thing in the morning, and may be you won't let on, but it was
a mistake."
"Indeed, Darby, I shall tell the whole truth," cried Helen indignantly.
"You need not expect _me_ to keep such a thing secret."
"Well, I'll be out of it to-morrow! so it's no great matter. Good-bye,
Mr. Gilbert; good-bye, Miss Helen. You and I were never very thick,
still I wish you both luck and grace, and that you may live long and
die happy," and picking up his cap and gun, Mr. Darby Chute walked away
with considerable dignity.
"There's a nice ruffian for you!" exclaimed Gilbert emphatically.
"Yes; and to think how he must have robbed uncle, and poor Dido!"
"And to think of the years he has been poaching the country. However,
never mind him now, we have something else to talk about."
"But there's the stable clock striking eight, and I must go. And it's
your dinner-hour at Ballyredmond."
"Not to-night.—To-night I don't want any dinner. (Could manly devotion
go further?) I am going to walk back with you. Thank goodness, there is
no Mrs. Creery to hustle me away _this_ time."
To his proposal the young lady made no demur, no protestations; not
even when he insisted on taking her home by the longest way, up the
hill, out by the road, and in by the new avenue! The whole distance
was about three-quarters of a mile; the time occupied three-quarters
of an hour; the moon, a full harvest moon, had risen, and the twilight
had given place to a light almost as clear as day. Seated on her own
door-step, smoking her little dhudeen, they descried the "Fancy,"—and
she saw them! The unexpected appearance of an interesting-looking young
couple strolling down the road, was a welcome windfall to this active
old woman, who instantly sprang up, and darted out, to waylay them with
her invariable whine of,—
"Give the poor old woman the price of a cup of tay, your honour. Oh!"
recognizing him, "and 'tis yourself is welcome home, me own darling Mr.
Gilbert. Give me the price of a new petticoat, and that you may _gain
the lady_!"
In answer to this romantic appeal, he promptly threw her the sovereign
that Helen had returned, and Judy (having made herself acquainted with
the value of the coin) accompanied the lovers to the gates overpowering
them the while with shrill benedictions.
From the following few words it would appear as if the "Fancy's"
good wishes were wholly superfluous, and that the lady had already
surrendered.
"Good-night," she said as she paused half-way up the avenue. "You
really must not come any further."
"And pray why not?"
"Because they know nothing, and it will look so strange," she
stammered. "I should like to tell them first," she added rather shyly.
"Then I shall come over at cock-crow, to-morrow. May I come to
breakfast?"
"Yes, you may. Good-night," holding out her hand.
"Good-night! and is that all? I am not going to let you run off like
that, _this_ time!" detaining her. "You have forgotten something."
"Oh, of course! how stupid of me—the grouse to be sure!"
"No—NOT the grouse!" replied Gilbert—who was far bolder than Darby
imagined!
Two minutes later Helen's cousins,—who had been sitting with the
drawing-room door open, and the hall door as usual, eagerly listening
to every sound,—heard her running up the gravel, and then up the
steps. Her cheeks were scarlet, but on the whole, she did not look as
if she was flying from a ghost!
"What a fright you have given us!" cried Dido, rushing at her. "Katie
and I have been almost distracted.—You have been away nearly two
hours."
"Have I really!" she exclaimed apologetically. "I did not think I had
been half that time."
The anxieties of her relatives had evidently not been shared by Barry,
who sat with his feet upon a chair, a paper in his hand, and a look of
stolid indifference on his face.
"Well, did you see Dillon?" he demanded, as she entered the
drawing-room.
"Oh, yes! I saw him," she returned carelessly; "and here," exhibiting
the birds, "are a brace of grouse he gave me!"
"I don't believe you!" bringing down his boots with a loud bang.
"And there's his beard!" tossing a black object into Katie's lap,—who
immediately rose with a loud shriek, and shook it off as if it had been
a rattlesnake.
"I'll tell you something else,"—addressing herself specially to her
cousins. "What do you think? We made a grand discovery this evening.
John Dillon, the notorious ghost poacher, is your esteemed friend,
Darby Chute!"
When the ensuing storm of exclamations and questions had somewhat
subsided, Dido said suddenly, "But surely he never confessed all this
to you alone? Who was with you? What do you mean by _we_?"
Helen's sole answer was a brilliant blush; and, strange to say, this
reply was sufficient for her cousin.
* * * * *
A year has elapsed since Gilbert Lisle stood on his trial at the black
gate. He has now quite settled down in the _rôle_ of a married man, and
spends most of his time between Berkshire and Ballyredmond. However,
his wings have not been _too_ closely clipped, for people who bore a
striking resemblance to him and his wife were met in Tangiers last
winter; and they are meditating a trip to the East, and paying a flying
visit to Dido (Dido who is now residing on the plains of Hindostan and
learning the practical use of punkahs and mosquito nets).
Thanks to Helen's good offices, the course of Miss Sheridan's true
love ran smoothly after all, and she was married with considerable
_éclat_ from the Lisles' house in London. Between that mansion and 15,
Upper Cream Street—there is a cloud. Helen and her relatives exchange
dignified salutes when they meet in public, but there their intimacy
ceases. Mr. Lisle has forbidden his wife to cross her aunt's threshold
(an embargo that is by no means irksome to that young lady), and the
Misses Platt tell all their acquaintance what an odious, ungrateful
creature she is, and how once upon a time they took her in, and kept
her out of charity. And _this_ is their reward!
Nevertheless, the Honourable Mrs. Gilbert Lisle does not forget old
friends. She is not ashamed to see the Smithson Villa vehicle standing
before her door; and she has more than once visited at Malvern House,
and entertained Mrs. Kane, and some of her former pupils. Lord
Lingard has been altogether captivated by his daughter-in-law. She
is everything his heart desires; young, pretty, and pleasant. He has
invested her with the family diamonds!
Barry and Katie reign at Crowmore. The place is much altered, for the
better; the old lodges have been swept away, the wall is gone, the
gates restored; the garden is pruned, the yard is reclaimed, and the
out-offices are roofed, and filled. Katie is happy in her own way.
She rather enjoys being bullied by Barry, is lenient to his little
foibles, and she listens to his vainglorious personal reminiscences
with deep interest, and implicit faith. On one point alone she is
somewhat sceptical, viz., that Barry could have married her cousin,
had he chosen;—her pretty cousin Helen, who occasionally drives over
from Ballyredmond in a smart Stanhope phaeton, and seems perfectly
satisfied with her own husband, and who snubs Barry, as mercilessly as
ever!
Mr. Sheridan, poor gentleman, has now but few lucid intervals. He is
at present engaged in an absorbing search for the elixir of life, and
lives in his tower along with a companion, whom he treats with the most
reverent respect and calls "Archimedes," but to the outer world he is
known as James Karney—a keeper from a lunatic asylum.
Biddy, thanks to Helen's good offices, has relented at last, and
permitted her niece Sally to bestow her capable hand upon "that little
sleveen, Larry Flood." The market-cart has consequently been abolished,
and the Master's occupation (like Othello's), is gone. He is now a
pensioner at Ballyredmond, where, to quote his late charioteer, Mrs.
Flood, "he never does a hand's turn, barrin' thievin' in the haggard,
and chasing the cows."
The "Fancy" continues to flourish, to levy tribute, and to make a
comfortable income out of her holding at the Cross. And, according to
the last accounts from America, Darby Chute reported himself to be
doing _well_.
THE END
PRINTED BY
KELLY AND CO., GATE STREET, LINCOLN'S INN FIELDS, W.C.
AND MIDDLE MILL, KINGSTON-ON-THAMES.
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES.
1. Silently corrected simple spelling, grammar, and typographical errors.
2. Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed.