“Ye might ken the style of these epistles by this time, Dinah,” said Mr.
Henderson, as he walked leisurely up and down a long low-ceilinged room,
and addressed himself to a piece of very faded gentility, who sat at a
writing-table. “She wants to hear naething but what she likes, and, as
near as may be, in her ain words too.”
“I always feel as if I was copying out the same letter every time I
write,” whined out a weak, sickly voice.
“The safest thing ye could do,” replied he, gravely. “She never tires
o' reading that everybody on the estate is a fule or a scoundrel, and
ye canna be far wrang when ye say the worst o' them all. Hae ye told her
aboot the burnin' at Kyle-a-Noe?”
“Yes, I have said that you have little doubt it was malicious.”
“And hae ye said that there's not a sixpence to be had out of the whole
townland of Kiltimmon?”
“I have. I have told her that, except Miss Mary herself, nobody would
venture into the barony.”
“The greater fule yerself, then,” said he, angrily. “Couldna ye see that
she'll score this as a praise o' the young leddy's courage? Ye maun just
strike it out, ma'am, and say that the place is in open rebellion--”
“I thought you bade me say that Miss Mary had gone down there and spoken
to the people--”
“I bade ye say,” broke he angrily in, “that Miss Mary declared no rent
should be demanded o' them in their present distress; that she threw
the warrants into the fire, and vowed that if we called a sale o' their
chattels, she 'd do the same at the castle, and give the people the
proceeds.”
“You only said that she was in such a passion that she declared she 'd
be right in doing so.”
“I hae nae time for hair-splitting, ma'am. I suppose if she had a right
she 'd exercise it! Put down the words as I gie them to ye! Ye hae no
forgotten the conspeeracy?”
“I gave it exactly as you told me, and I copied out the two paragraphs
in the papers about it, beginning, 'Great scandal,' and 'If our landed
gentry expect--'”
“That's right; and ye hae added the private history of Joan? They 'll
make a fine thing o' that on the trial, showing the chosen associate
o' a young leddy to hae been naething better than--Ech! what are ye
blubberin' aboot,--is it yer feelin's agen? Ech! ma'am, ye are too
sentimental for a plain man like me!”
This rude speech was called up by a smothering effort to conceal
emotion, which would not be repressed, but burst forth in a violent fit
of sobbing.
“I know you didn't mean it. I know you were not thinking--”
“If ye canna keep your ain counsel, ye must just pay the cost o' it,”
said he, savagely. “Finish the letter there, and let me send it to the
post. I wanted ye to say a' about the Nelligans comin' up to visit
Miss Mary, and she goin' ower the grounds wi' them, and sendin' them
pineapples and grapes, and how that the doctor's girls are a'ways wi'
her, and that she takes old Catty out to drive along wi' herself in
the pony phaeton, which is condescendin' in a way her Leddyship will no
approve o'. There was mony a thing beside I had in my head, but ye hae
driven them a' clean awa' wi' your feelin's!” And he gave the last word
with an almost savage severity.
“Bide a wee!” cried he, as she was folding up the letter. “Ye may add
that Mister Scanlan has taken to shootin' over the preserves we were
keepin' for the Captain, and if her Leddyship does not wish to banish
the woodcocks a'the-gither, she 'd better gie an order to stop him.
Young Nelli-gan had a special permission from Miss Mary hersel' and if
it was na that he canna hit a haystack at twenty yards, there 'd no be
a cock pheasant in the demesne! I think I 'm looking at her as she reads
this,” said he, with a malicious grin. “Ech, sirs, won't her great black
eyebrows meet on her forehead, and her mouth be drawn in till never a
bit of a red lip be seen! Is na that a chaise I see comin' up the road?”
cried he, suddenly. “Look yonder!”
“I thought I saw something pass,” said she, trying to strain her eyes
through the tears that now rose to them.
“It's a post-chaise wi' twa trunks on the top. I wonder who's comin' in
it?” said Henderson, as he opened the sash-door, and stood awaiting the
arrival. The chaise swept rapidly round the beech copse, and drew up
before the door; the postilion, dismounting, lowered the steps, and
assisted a lady to alight. She threw back her veil as she stood on the
ground, and Kate Henderson, somewhat jaded-looking and pale from her
journey, was before her father. A slight flush--very slight--rose to
his face as he beheld her, and without uttering a word he turned and
re-entered the house.
“Ye are aboot to see a visitor, ma'am,” said he to his wife; and, taking
his hat, passed out of the room. Meanwhile Kate watched the postboy as
he untied the luggage and deposited it at her side.
“Did n't I rowl you along well, my Lady?--ten miles in little more than
an hour,” said he, pointing to his smoking cattle.
“More speed than we needed,” said she, with a melancholy smile, while
she placed some silver in his hand.
“What's this here, my Lady? It's like one of the owld tenpenny bits,”
said he, turning over and over a coin as he spoke.
“It's French money,” said she, “and unfortunately I have got none other
left me.”
“Sure they'll give you what you want inside,” said he, pointing towards
the house.
“No, no; take this. It is a crown piece, and they'll surely change it
for you in the town.” And so saying, she turned towards the door.
When she made one step towards it, however, she stopped. A painful
irresolution seemed to possess her; but, recovering it, she turned the
handle and entered.
“We did not know you were coming; at least, he never told me,” said her
stepmother, in a weak, broken voice, as she arose from her seat.
“There was no time to apprise you,” said Kate, as she walked towards the
fire and leaned her arm on the chimney-piece.
“You came away suddenly, then? Had anything unpleasant--was there any
reason--”
“I had been desirous of leaving for some time back. Lady Dorothea only
gave her consent on Tuesday last,--I think it was Tuesday; but my head
is not very clear, for I am somewhat tired.” There was an indescribable
sadness in the way these simple words were uttered and in the sigh which
followed them.
“I 'm afraid he 'll not be pleased at it!” said the other, timidly.
Another sigh, but still weaker than the former, was Kate's only reply.
“And how did you leave Mr. Martin? They tell us here that his case is
hopeless,” said Mrs. Henderson.
“He is very ill, indeed; the doctors give no hope of saving him. Is Miss
Martin fully aware of his state?”
“Who can tell? We scarcely ever see her. You know that she never was
very partial to your father, and latterly there has been a greater
distance than ever between them. They differ about everything; and with
that independent way he has--”
A wide stare from Kate's full dark eyes, an expression of astonishment,
mingled with raillery, in her features, here arrested the speaker, who
blushed deeply in her embarrassment.
“Go on,” said Kate, gently. “Pray continue, and let me hear what it is
that his independence accomplishes.”
“Oh, dear!” sighed the other. “I see well you are not changed, Kate.
You have come back with your old haughty spirit, and sure you know well,
dear, that he 'll not bear it.”
“I 'll not impose any burden on his forbearance. A few days' shelter--a
week or two at furthest--will not be, perhaps, too much to ask.”
“So, then, you have a situation in view, Kate?” asked she, more eagerly.
“The world is a tolerably wide one, and I 'm sure there is room for me
somewhere, even without displacing another. But let us talk of anything
else. How are the Nelligans? and Joe, what is he doing?”
“The old people are just as you left them; but Mr. Joseph is a great
man now,--dines with the Lord-Lieutenant, and goes into all the grand
society of Dublin.”
“Is he spoiled by his elevation?”
“Your father thinks him haughtier than he used to be; but many say that
he is exactly what he always was. Mrs. Nelligan comes up frequently to
the cottage now, and dines with Miss Martin. I 'm sure I don't know how
my Lady would like to see her there.”
“She is not very likely,” said Kate, dryly.
“Why not?”
“I mean, that nothing is less probable than Lady Dorothea's return
here.”
“I suppose not!” half sighed Mrs. Henderson, for hers was one of those
sorrowful temperaments that extract only the bitter from the cup of
life. In reality, she had little reason to wish for Lady Dorothea's
presence, but still she could make a “very good grievance” out of her
absence, and find it a fitting theme for regret. “What reason do you
mean to give for your coming home, Kate, if he should ask you?” inquired
she, after a pause.
“That I felt dissatisfied with my place,” replied Kate, coldly.
“And we were always saying what a piece of good luck it was for you to
be there! Miss Mary told Mrs. Nelligan--it was only the other day--that
her uncle could n't live without you,--that you nursed him, and read to
him, and what not; and as to her Ladyship, that she never took a drive
in the carriage, or answered a note, without asking your advice first.”
“What a profound impression Miss Martin must have received of my talents
for intrigue!” said Kate, sneeringly.
“I believe not. I think she said something very kind and good-natured,
just as if it was only people who had really very great gifts that could
condescend to make themselves subservient without humiliation. I know
she said 'without humiliation,' because your father laughed when he
heard of it, and remarked, 'If it's Kate's humility they like, they are
assuredly thankful for small mercies!”
“I should like to go over and see Miss Martin. What distance is it from
this to the cottage?”
“It's full three miles; but it's all through the demesne.”
“I'm a good walker, and I'll go,” said she, rising. “But first, might I
ask for a little refreshment,--a cup of tea? Oh, I forgot,” added she,
smiling, “tea is one of the forbidden luxuries here.”
“No; but your father doesn't like to see it in the daytime. If you'd
take it in your own room--”
“Of course, and be most thankful. Am I to have the little room with the
green paper, where I used to be, long ago?”
“Well, indeed, I can scarcely tell. The bed was taken down last autumn;
and as we never thought of your coming home--”
“Home!” sighed Kate, involuntarily.
“But come into my room, and I 'll fetch you a cup of tea directly.”
“No, no; it is better not to risk offending him,” said Kate, calmly. “I
remember, now, that this was one of his antipathies. Give me anything
else, for I have not eaten to-day.”
While her stepmother went in search of something to offer her, Kate sat
down beside the fire, deep in thought. She had removed her bonnet, and
her long silky hair fell in rich masses over her neck and shoulders,
giving a more fixed expression to her features, which were of deathlike
paleness. And so she sat, gazing intently on the fire, as though
she were reading her very destiny in the red embers before her. Her
preoccupation of mind was such that she never noticed the opening of
the door, nor remarked that her father had entered. The noise of a chair
being moved suddenly startled her. She looked up, and there he stood,
his hat on his head and his arms closely folded on his breast, at the
opposite side of the fire.
“Well, lassie,” said he, after a long and steady stare at her, “ye hae
left your place, or been turned oot o' it,--whilk is the case?”
“I came away of my own accord,” said she, calmly.
“And against my Leddy's wish?”
“No, with her full consent.”
“And how did ye do it? for in her last letter to my sel', she says, 'I
desire ye, therefore, to bear in mind that any step she takes on this
head'--meaning about going away--'shall have been adopted in direct
opposition to my wishes.' What has ye done since that?”
“I have succeeded in convincing her Ladyship that I was right in leaving
her!” said Kate.
“Was it the force of your poleetical convictions that impelled ye to
this course?” said he, with a bitter grin, “for they tell me ye are a
rare champion o' the rights o' the people, and scruple not to denounce
the upper classes, while ye eat their bread.”
“I denounce no one; nor, so far as I know myself, is ingratitude amongst
my faults.”
“Maybe, if one were to tak' your ain narrative for it, ye hae nae faults
worse than mere failings! But this is na telling me why ye left my
Leddy.”
Kate made no answer, but sat steadily watching the fire.
“Ye wad rayther, mayhap, that I asked hersel' aboot it! Well, be it so.
And noo comes anither point. Do ye think that if your conduct has in
any way given displeasure to your mistress, or offended those in whose
service ye were,--do ye think, I say, that ye hae the right to involve
_me_ in your shame and disgrace?”
“Do you mean,” said she, calmly, “that I had no right to come here?”
“It 's just exactly what I mean; that if ye canna mak' friends for
yoursel', ye ought not to turn away those whilk befriend your family.”
“But what was I to have done, then?” said she, gently. “There were
circumstances that required--imperatively required me--to leave Lady
Dorothea--”
“Let me hear them,” said he, breaking in, “It would lead me to speak of
others than myself,--of events which are purely family matters,--were I
to enter upon this theme. Besides,” said she, rising, “I am not, so far
as I know, on my trial. There is not anything laid to my charge. I have
no apologies to render.”
At this moment her stepmother appeared with a tray at the door, and
seeing Henderson, endeavored to retire unobserved, but his quick eye
had already detected her, and he cried out, “Come here,--ye canna do
too much honor to a young leddy who has such a vara profound esteem
for hersel'! Cake and wine! my faith! No but ye 'll deem it vara vulgar
fare, after the dainties ye hae been used to! And yet, lassie, these are
nae the habits here!”
“She has eaten nothing to-day!” meekly observed her stepmother.
“My fayther wad hae askit her hoo much has she earned the day?” said
Henderson, severely.
“You are quite right, sir,” broke in Kate,--“I have earned nothing. Not
just yet,” added she, as her stepmother pressed a glass of wine on her
acceptance; “a little later, perhaps. I have no appetite now.”
“Are ye sae stupid, ma'am, that ye canna see ye are dealin' wi' a fine
leddy, wha is no obleeged to hae the same mind twa minutes thegither?
Ye 'll hae to train wee Janet to be a' ready for whate'er caprice is
uppermost. But mine me, lassie,”--here he turned a look of stern meaning
towards her,--“ye hae tried for mony a lang day to subdue _me_ to your
whims and fancies, as they tell me ye hae done wi' sae mony others, and
ye are just as far fra it noo as the first time ye tried it. Ye canna
cheat nor cajole _me! I_ know ye!” And with these words, uttered in a
tone of intense passion, he slowly walked out of the room.
“Had he been angry with you?--had anything occurred before I came in?”
asked her stepmother.
“Very little,” sighed Kate, wearily. “He was asking me why I came here,
I believe. I could scarcely tell him; perhaps I don't very well know,
myself.”
“He can't get it out of his head,” said the other, in a low, stealthy
whisper, “that, if you should leave Lady Dorothea, he will be turned
away out of the stewardship. He is always saying it,--he repeats it even
in his dreams. But for that, he 'd not have met you so--so--unkindly.”
Kate pressed her hand affectionately, and smiled a thankful
acknowledgment of this speech. “And the cottage,” said she, rallying
suddenly, “is about three miles off?”
“Not more. But you could scarcely walk there and back again. Besides, it
is already growing late, and you have no chance of seeing Miss Mary if
you 're not there by breakfast-time, since, when she comes home of an
evening, she admits no one. She reads or studies, I believe, all the
evening.”
“I think she'd see me,” said Kate; “I should have so much to tell her
about her friends. I 'm sure she 'd see _me_,--at least, I'll try.”
“But you'll eat something,--you 'll at least drink a glass of wine
before you set out?”
“I do not like to refuse you,” said Kate, smiling good-naturedly, “but I
could n't swallow now. I have a choking feeling here in my throat, like
a heavy cold, that seems as though it would suffocate me. Good-bye, for
a while. I shall be quite well, once I 'm in the open air. Good-bye!”
And, so saying, she wrapped her shawl around her, and motioning a
farewell with her hand, set out on her errand.