Woodward meets a Guide--His Reception at Home--Preparations for a Fete.
Woodward rode slowly, as he indulged in those disagreeable reflections
to which we alluded, until he reached a second crossroads, where he
found himself somewhat at a loss whether to turn or ride straight
onward. While pausing for a moment, as to which way he should take, the
mellow whistle of some person behind him indulging in a light-hearted
Irish air, caused him to look back, when he saw a well-made, compact,
good-looking young fellow approaching, who, finding his attention
evidently directed to him, concluded his melody and respectfully touched
hia hat.”
“Pray, my good friend,” said Woodward, “can you direct me to Rathfillan,
the residence of Mr. Lindsay, the magistrate?”
“Misther Lindsay's, is it?”
“Yes; I said so.”
“Well, I think I can, sir.”
“Yes; but are you sure of it?”
“Well, I think I am, sir.”
“You think! why, d--n it, sir, do you not know whether you are or not?”
“May I ax, sir,” inquired the other in his turn, “if you are a religious
character?”
“WHy, what the devil has that to do with the matter in question?” said
Woodward, beginning to lose his temper. “I ask you to direct me to
the residence of a certain gentleman, and you ask me whether I am a
religious character? What do you mean by that?”
“Why, sir,” replied the man, “not much, I'm afeard--only if you had let
me speak, which you didn't, God pardon you, I was going to say, that
if you knew the way to heaven as well as I do to Misther Lindsay's you
might call yourself a happy man, and born to luck.”
Woodward looked with something of curiosity at his new companion, and
was a good deal struck with his appearance. His age might be about
twenty-eight or from that to thirty; his figure stout and well-made;
his features were decidedly Milesian, but then they were Milesian of
the best character; his mouth was firm, but his lips full, red, and
handsome; his clear, merry eyes would puzzle one to determine whether
they were gray or blue, so equally were the two colors blended in them.
After a very brief conversation with him, no one could doubt that humor
formed a predominant trait in his disposition. In fact, the spirit of
the forthcoming jest was visible in his countenance before the jest
itself came forth; but although his whole features bore a careless
and buoyant expression, yet there was no mistaking in them the
unquestionable evidences of great shrewdness and good sense. He also
indulged occasionally in an ironical and comic sarcasm, which, however,
was never directed against his friends; this he reserved for certain
individuals whose character entitled them to it at his hands. He
also drew the long-bow, when he wished, with great skill and effect.
Woodward, after having scrutinized his countenance for some time, was
about to make some inquiries, as a stranger, concerning his family and
the reputation they bore in the neighborhood, when he found himself,
considerably to his surprise, placed in the witness-box for a rather
brisk fire of cross-examination.
“You are no stranger in this part of the country, I presume” said
he, with a view of bringing him out for his own covert and somewhat
ungenerous purposes.
“I am no stranger, sure enough, sir,” replied the other, “so far as a
good slice of the counthry side goes; but if I am not you are, sir, or
I'm out in it.”
“Yes, I am a stranger here.”
“Never mind, sir, don't let that disthress you; it's a good, man's case,
sir. Did you thravel far, wid submission? I spake in kindness, sir.”
“Why, yes, a--a--pretty good distance; but about Mr. Lindsay and--”
“Yes, sir; crossed over, sir, I suppose? I mane from the other side?”
“O! you want to know if I crossed the Channel?”
“Had you a pleasant passage, sir?”
“Yes, tolerable.”
“Thank God! I hope you'll make a long stay with us, sir, in this part
of the counthry. If you have any business to do with Mr. Lindsay--as of
coorse you have--why, I don't think you and he will quarrel; and by the
way, sir, I know him and the family well, and if I only got a glimpse, I
could throw in a word or two to guide you in dalin' wid him--that is, if
I knew the business.”
“As to that,” replied Woodward, “it is not very particular; I am only
coming on a pretty long visit to him, and as you say you know the
family, I would feel glad to hear what you think of them.”
“Misther Lindsay, or rather Misther Charles, and you will have a fine
time of it, sir. There's delightful fishin' here, and the best of
shootin' and huntin' in harvest and winter--that is, if you stop so
long.”
“What kind of a man is Mr. Lindsay?”
“A fine, clever (*Portly, large, comely) man, sir; six feet in his
stockin' soles, and made in proportion.”
“But I want to know nothing about his figure; is the man reputed good or
bad?”
“Why, just good or bad, sir, according as he's treated.”
“Is he well liked, then? I trust you understand me now.”
“By his friends, sir, no man betther--by them that's his enemies, not so
well.”
“You mentioned a son of his, Charles, I think; what kind of a young
fellow is he?”
“Very like his father, sir.”
“I see; well, I thank you, my friend, for the liberality of your
information. Has he any daughters?”
“Two, sir; but very unlike their mother.”
“Why, what kind of a woman is their mother?”
“She's a saint, sir, of a sartin class--ever and always at her prayers,”
(_sotto voce_, “such as they are--cursing her fellow-cratures from
mornin' till night.”)
“Well, at all events, it is a good thing to be religious.”
“Devil a better, sir; but she, as I said, is a saint from--heaven”
(_sotto voce_, “and very far from it too.) But, sir, there's a lady
in this neighborhood--I won't name her--that has a tongue as sharp and
poisonous as if she lived on rattlesnakes; and she has an eye of her own
that they say is every bit as dangerous.”
“And who is she, my good fellow?”
“Why, a very intimate friend of Mrs. Lindsay's, and seldom out of her
company. Now, sir, do you see that house wid the tall chimleys, or
rather do you see the tall chimleys--for you can't see the house itself?
That's where the family we spake of lives, and there you'll see Mrs.
Lindsay and the lady I mention.”
Woodward, in fact, knew not what to make of his guide; he found him
inscrutable, and deemed it useless to attempt the extortion of any
further intelligence from him. The latter was ignorant that Mrs.
Lindsay's son was expected home, as was every member of that gentleman's
family. He had, in fact, given them no information of his return.
The dishonest fraud which he had practised upon his uncle, and the
apprehension that that good old man had transmitted an account of his
delinquency to his relatives, prevented him from writing, lest he might,
by subsequent falsehoods, contradict his uncle, and thereby involve
himself in deeper disgrace. His uncle, however, was satisfied with
having got rid of him, and forbore to render his relations unhappy by
any complaint of his conduct. His hope was, that Woodward's expulsion
from his house, and the withdrawal of his affections from him, might,
upon reflection, cause him to turn over a new leaf--an effort which
would have been difficult, perhaps impracticable, had he transmitted to
them a full explanation of his perfidy and ingratitude.
A thought now occurred to Woodward with reference to himself. He saw
that his guide, after having pointed out his father's house to him, was
still keeping him company.
“Perhaps you are coming out of your way,” said he; “you have been
good enough to show me Mr. Lindsay's residence, and I have no further
occasion for your services. I thank you: take this and drink my
health;”,and as he spoke he offered him some silver.
“Many thanks, sir,” replied the man, in a far different tone of voice,
“many thanks; but I never resave or take payment for an act of civility,
especially from any gentleman on his way to the family of Mr. Lindsay.
And now, sir, I will tell you honestly and openly that there is not
a better gentleman alive this day than he is. Himself, his son, and
daughter* are loved and honored by all that know them; and woe betide
the man that 'ud dare to crock (crook) his finger at one of them.”
* His daughter Jane was with a relation in England, and does
not appear in this romance.
“You seem to know them very well.”
“I have a good right, sir, seein' that I have been in the family ever
since I was a gorson.”
“And is Mrs. Lindsay as popular as her husband?”
“She is his wife, sir--the mother of his children, and my misthress;
afther that you may judge for yourself.”
“Of course, then, you are aware that they have a son abroad.”
“I am, sir, and a fine young man they say he is. Nothing vexes them so
much as that he won't come to see them. He's never off their tongue; and
if he's aquil to what they say of him, upon my credit the sun needn't
take the trouble of shinin' on him.”
“Have they any expectation of a visit from him, do you know'?”
“Not that I hear, sir; but I know that nothing would rise the cockles of
their hearts aquil to seein' him among them. Poor fellow! Mr. Hamilton's
will was a bad business for him, as it was thought he'd have danced into
the property. But then, they say, his other uncle will provide for him,
especially as he took him from the family, by all accounts, on that
condition.”
This information--if information it could be called--was nothing more
nor less than wormwood and gall to the gentleman on whose ears and
into whose heart it fell. The consciousness of his present
position--discarded by a kind uncle for dishonesty, and deprived, as
he thought, by the caprice or mental imbecility, of another uncle, of a
property amounting to upwards of twelve hundred per annum--sank upon his
heart with a feeling which filled it with a deep and almost blasphemous
resentment at every person concerned, which he could scarcely repress
from the observation of his guide.
“What is your name?” said he abruptly to him; and as he asked the
question he fixed a glance upon him that startled his companion.
The latter looked at him, and felt surprised at the fearful expression
of his eye; in the meantime, we must say, that he had not an ounce of
coward's flesh on his bones.
“What is my name, sir?” he replied. “Faith, afther that look, if you
don't know my name, I do yours; there was your mother's eye fastened on
me to the life. However, take it easy, sir; devil a bit I'm afeared. If
you're not her son, Misther Woodward, why, I'm not Barney Casey, that's
all. Don't deny it, sir; you're welcome home, and I'm glad to see you,
as they all will be.”
“Harkee, then,” said Woodward, “you are right; but, mark me, keep quiet,
and allow me to manage matters in my own way; not a syllable of the
discovery you have made, or it will be worse for you. I am not a person
to be trifled with.”
“Troth, and you're right there, sir; it's what I often said, often say,
and often will say of myself. Barney Casey is not the boy to be trifled
wid.”
On arriving at the house, Barney took round the horse--a hired one, by
the way--to the stable, and Woodward knocked. On the door being
opened, he inquired if Mr. Lindsay was within, and was answered in the
affirmative.
“Will you let him know a gentleman wishes to see him for a few minutes?”
“What name, sir, shall I say?”
“O, it doesn't matter--say a gentleman.”
“Step into the parlor, sir, and he will be with you immediately.”
He did so, and there was but a very short time when his step-father
entered. Short, as the time was, however, he could not prevent himself
from reverting to the strange equestrian he had met on his way, nor to
the extraordinary ascendancy he had gained over him. Another young man
placed in his circumstances would have felt agitated and excited by his
approaching interview with those who were so nearly related to him, and
whom, besides, he had not seen for such a long period of time. To
every such emotion, however, he was absolutely insensible; there was
no beating pulse, no heaving of the bosom, not a nerve disturbed by the
tremulous vibrations of awakened affection, no tumult of the heart, no
starting tear--no! there was nothing of all this--but, on the contrary,
a calm, cold, imperturbable spirit, so dead and ignorant of domestic
attachment, that the man could neither feel nor understand what it
meant.
When his step-father entered, he naturally bowed to the stranger,
and motioned him to a seat, which the other accordingly took. Lindsay
certainly was, as Barney Casey had said, a very fine-looking man for his
years. He was tall, erect, and portly, somewhat inclined to corpulency,
of a handsome, but florid countenance, in which might be read a large
expression of cheerfulness and good humor, together with that peculiar
tinge which results from conviviality. Indeed, there could scarcely
be witnessed a more striking contrast than that between his open,
kind-looking features, and the sharp, disagreeable symmetry which marked
those of his step-son with such a dark and unpleasant character.
“My servant tells me,” said Lindsay, courteously, “that you wished to
see me.”
“I did, sir,” replied Woodward; “in that, he spoke correctly; I wished
to see you, and I am glad to see you.”
“I thank you, sir,” replied the other, bowing again; “but--ahem--in the
meantime, sir, you have the advantage of me.”
“And intend to keep it, sir, for a little,” replied Woodward with one of
his cold smiles. “I came to speak to you, sir, concerning your son who
is abroad, and to ask if you have recently heard from himself or his
uncle.”
“O, then, I presume, sir,” replied Lindsay, “you are an acquaintance
or friend of his; if so, allow me to bid you welcome; nothing, I assure
you, could afford either myself or my family greater pleasure than to
meet and show attention to any friend of his. Unfortunately, we have
heard nothing from him or his uncle for nearly the last year and a half;
but, you will be doubly welcome, sir, if you can assure us that they are
both well. His uncle, or rather I should, say his grand-uncle, for in
that relation he stands to him, adopted him, and a kinder man does not
live.”
“I believe Mr. Woodward and his uncle are both well, the former, I
think, sir, is your step-son only.”
“Don't say only, sir, he is just as much the son of my affection as his
brother, and now, sir, may I request to know the name of the gentleman I
am addressing?”
“Should you wish to see Henry Woodward himself, sir?”
“Dear sir, nothing would delight me more, and all of us, especially his
mother; yet the ungrateful boy would never come near us, although he was
pressed and urged to do so a hundred times.”
“Well, then, sir,” replied that gentleman, rising up, “he now stands
before you; I am Henry Woodward, father.”
A hug that half strangled him was the first acknowledgment of his
identity. “Zounds, my dear Harry--Harry, my dear boy, you're welcome a
thousand times, ten thousand times. Stand off a little till I look at
you; fine young fellow, and your mother's image. Gadzooks, I was stupid
as a block not to know you; but who would have dreamed of it. There, I
say--hallo, Jenny!--come here, all of you; here is Harry at last. Are
you all deaf, or asleep?”
These words he shouted out at the top of his voice, and in a few minutes
his mother, Charles, and his sister Maria entered the room, the two
latter in a state of transport.
“Here, Jenny, here he is; you have the first claim; confound it,
Charley, Maria, don't strangle the boy; ha, ha, ha!”
In fact, the precaution, so far as the affectionate brother and sister
were concerned, was anything but needless. His mother, seeing their
eagerness to embrace him, which they did with tears of delight, stood
calmly by until he was disentangled from their arms, when she approached
him and imprinted two kisses upon his lips, with an indifference of
manner that, to a stranger, would have been extraordinary, but which,
to those who were present, excited no surprise; for she had scarcely,
during her life, ever kissed one of her own children. Nothing, indeed,
could exceed the tumultuous exultation of spirits with which they
received him, nor was honest Lindsay himself less joyously affected. Yet
it might be observed that there was a sparkle in the eye of his mother,
which was as singular as it was concentrated and intense. Such an
expression might be observed in a menagerie when a tigress, indolently
dallying with one of her cubs, exhibits, even in repose, those fiery
scintillations in the eye which startle the beholders. The light of that
eye, though intense, was cold, calculating, and disagreeable to look
upon. The frigidity of her manner and reception of him might, to a
certain extent, be accounted for from the fact that she had gone to his
uncle's several times for the purpose of seeing him, and watching his
interests. Let us not, therefore, impute to the coldness of her habits
any want of affection for him; on the contrary, his little finger was a
thousand times dearer to her than the bodies and souls of all her other
children, adding to them her husband himself, put together. Besides,
she was perfectly unsusceptible of emotions of tenderness, and,
consequently, a woman of powerful will, inflexible determination, and
the most inexorable resentments. She was also ambitious, as far as
she had scope for it, within her sphere of life, and would have been
painfully penurious in her family, were it not that the fiery resolution
of her husband, when excited by long and intolerable provocation, was at
all times able to subdue her--a superiority over her will and authority
which she never forgave him. In fact, she neither loved himself,
nor anything in common with him; and the natural affection which he
displayed on the return of her son was one reason why she received him
with such apparent indifference. To all the rest of the family she had a
heart of stone. Since her second marriage they had lost three children;
but, so far as she was concerned, each of them went down into a tearless
grave. She had once been handsome; but her beauty, like her son's, was
severe and disagreeable. There is, however, such a class of beauty, and
it is principally successful with men who have a penchant for overcoming
difficulties, because it is well known that the fact of conciliating or
subduing it is justly considered no ordinary achievement. A great number
of our old maids may trace their solitude and their celibacy to the very
questionable gift of such beauty, and the dispositions which usually
accompany it. She was tall, and had now grown thin, and her features had
become sharpened by ill-temper into those of a flesh-less, angular-faced
vixen. Altogether she was a faithful exponent of her own evil and
intolerable disposition; and it was said that she had inherited that and
the “unlucky eye” from a family that was said to have I been deservedly
unpopular, and equally unscrupulous in their resentments.
“Well, Harry,” said she, after the warmhearted ebullition of feeling
produced by his appearance had subsided, “so you have returned to us at
last; but indeed, you return now to a blank and dismal prospect. Miss
Goodwin's adder tongue has charmed the dotage of your silly old uncle to
some purpose for herself.”
“Confound it, Jenny,” said her husband, “let the young man breathe, at
least, before you bring up that eternal subject. Is not the matter over
and decided and where is the use of your making both yourself and us
unhappy by discussing it?”
“It may be decided, but it is not over, Lindsay,” she replied; “don't
imagine it: I shall pursue the Goodwins, especially that sorceress,
Alice, with a vengeance that will annul the will, and circumvent those
who wheedled him into the making of it. My curse upon them all, as it
will be!”
“Harry, when you become better acquainted with your mother,” said his
step-father, “you will get sick of this. Have you breakfasted; for that
is more to the point?”
“I have, sir,” replied the other; “and you would scarcely guess where;”
and here he smiled and glanced significantly at his mother.
“Why, I suppose,” said Lindsay, “in whatever inn you stopped at.”
“No,” he replied; “I was obliged to seek shelter from the storm last
night, and where do you think I found it?”
“Heaven knows. Where?”
“Why, with your friend and neighbor, Mr. Goodwin.”
“No friend, Harry,” said his mother; “don't say that.”
“I slept there last night,” he proceeded, “and breakfasted there this
morning, and nothing could exceed the cordiality and kindness of my
reception.”
“Did they know who you were?” asked his mother, with evident interest.
“Not till this morning, at breakfast.”
“Well,” said she again, “when they heard it?”
“Why, their attention and kindness even redoubled,” replied her son;
“and as for Miss Goodwin herself, she's as elegant, as sweet, and as
lovely a girl as I ever looked on. Mother, I beg you to entertain no
implacable or inveterate enmity against her. I will stake my existence
that she never stooped to any fraudulent circumvention of my poor
uncle. Take my word for it, the intent and execution of the will must be
accounted for otherwise.”
“Well and truly said, Harry,” said his step-father--“well and generously
said; give me your hand,--my boy; thank you. Now, madam,” he proceeded,
addressing his wife, “what have you to say to the opinion of a man who
has lost so much by the transaction, when you hear that that opinion is
given in her favor?”
“Indeed, my dear Harry,” observed his sister, “she is all that you
have said of her, and much more, if you knew her as we do; she is all
disinterestedness and truth, and the most unselfish girl that ever
breathed.”
Now, there were two persons present who paused upon hearing this
intelligence; one of whom listened to it with unexpected pleasure, and
the other with mingled emotions of pleasure and pain. The first of these
were Mrs. Lindsay, and the other her son Charles. Mrs. Lindsay, whose
eyes were not for a moment off her son, understood the significant
glance he had given her when he launched forth so heartily in the praise
of Alice Goodwin; neither did the same glance escape the observation of
his brother Charles, who inferred, naturally enough, from the warmth of
the eulogium that had been passed upon her, that she had made, perhaps,
too favorable an impression upon his brother. Of this, however, the
reader shall hear more in due time.
“Well,” said the mother slowly, and in a meditating voice, “perhaps,
after all, we may have done her injustice. If so, no person would regret
it more than myself; but we shall see. You parted from them, Harry, on
friendly terms?”
“I did, indeed, my dear mother, and am permitted, almost solicited, to
make their further acquaintance, and cultivate a friendly intimacy with
them, which I am determined to do.”
“Bravo, Harry, my fine fellow; and we will be on friendly terms with
them once more. Poor, honest, and honorable old Goodwin! what a pity
that either disunion or enmity should subsist between us. No; the
families must be once more cordial and affectionate, as they ought to
be. Bravo, Harry! your return is prophetic of peace and good feeling;
and, confound me, but you shall have a bonfire this night for your
generosity that will shame the sun. The tar-barrels shall blaze, and the
beer-barrels shall run to celebrate your appearance amongst us. Come,
Charley, let us go to Rathfillan, and get the townsfolk to prepare
for the fete: we must have fiddlers and pipers, and plenty of dancing.
Barney Casey must go among the tenants, too, and order them all into the
town. Mat Mulcahy, the inn-keeper, must give us his best room; and, my
life to yours, we will have a pleasant night of it.”
“George,” exclaimed his wife, in a tone of querulous remonstrance, “you
know how expensive--”
“Confound the expense and your penury both,” exclaimed her husband;
“is it to your own son, on his return to us after such an absence, that
you'd grudge the expense of a blazing bonfire?”
“Not the bonfire,” replied his wife, but--”
“Ay, but the cost of drink to the tenants. Why, upon my soul, Harry,
your mother is anything but popular here, you must know; and I think
if it were not from respect to me and the rest of the family she'd
be indicted for a witch. Gadzooks, Jenny, will I never get sense
or liberality into your head? Ay, and if you go on after your usual
fashion, it is not unlikely that you may have a tar-barrel of your own
before long. Go, you and Harry, and tell your secrets to each other
while we prepare for the jubilation. In the meantime, we must get up an
extempore dinner to-day--the set dinner will come in due time, and be a
different affair; but at all events some of the neighbors we must have
to join us in the jovialities--hurroo!”
“Well, George,” said she, with her own peculiar smile, “I see you are in
one of your moods to-day.”
“Ay, right enough, the imperative one, my dear.”
“And, so far as I am concerned, it would not certainly become me to
stand in the way of any honor bestowed upon my son Harry; so I perceive
you must only have it your own way--I consent.”
“I don't care a fig whether you do or not. When matters come to a push,
I am always master of my own house, and ever will be so--and you know
it. Good-by, Harry, we will be back in time for dinner, with as many
friends as we can pick up on so short notice--hurroo!”
He and Charles accordingly went forth to make the necessary
preparations, and give due notice of the bonfire, after which they
succeeded in securing the attendance of about a dozen guests to partake
of the festivity.
Barney, in the meantime, having received his orders for collecting,
or, as it was then called, warning in the tenantry to the forthcoming
bonfire, proceeded upon his message in high spirits, not on account of
the honor it was designed to confer on Woodward, against whom he had
already conceived a strong antipathy, in consequence of the resemblance
he bore to his mother, but for the sake of the fun and amusement which
he purposed to enjoy at it himself. The first house he went into was a
small country cabin, such as a petty farmer of five or six acres at that
time occupied. The door was not of wood, but of wicker-work woven across
long wattles and plastered over with clay mortar. The house had two
small holes in the front side-walls to admit the light; but during
severe weather these were filled up with straw or rags to keep out the
storm. On one side of the door stood a large curra, or, “ould man,” for
it was occasionally termed both--composed of brambles and wattles tied
up lengthwise together--about the height of a man and as thick as an
ordinary sack. This was used, as they termed it, “to keep the wind from
the door.” If the blast came from the right, it was placed on that side,
and if from the left, it was changed to the opposite. Chimneys, at that
period, were to be found only upon the houses of extensive and wealthy
farmers, the only substitute for them being a simple hole in the roof
over the fireplace. The small farmer in question cultivated his acres
with a spade: and after sowing his grain he harrowed it in with a large
thorn bush, which he himself, or one of his sons, dragged over it with
a heavy stone on the top to keep it close to the surface. When Barney
entered this cabin he found the vanithee, or woman of the house, engaged
in the act of grinding oats into meal for their dinner with a quern,
consisting of two diminutive millstones turned by the hand; this was
placed upon a praskeen, or coarse apron, spread under it on the floor to
receive the meal. An old woman, her mother, sat spinning flax with the
distaff--for as yet flax wheels were scarcely known--and a lubberly
young fellow about sixteen, with able, well shaped limbs and great
promise of bodily strength, sat before the fire managing a double task,
to wit, roasting, first, a lot of potatoes in the _greeshaugh_, which
consisted of half embers and half ashes, glowing hot; and, secondly, at
a little distance from the larger lighted turf, two duck eggs, which,
as well as the potatoes, he turned from time to time, that they might
be equally done. All this he conducted by the aid of what was termed a
_muddha vristha_, or rustic tongs, which was nothing more than a wattle,
or stick, broken in the middle, between the ends of which he held
both his potatoes and his eggs while turning them. Two good-looking,
fresh-colored girls were squatted on their hunkers (hams), cutting
potatoes for seed--late as the season was--with two case knives, which,
had been borrowed from a neighboring farmer of some wealth. The dress
of the women was similar and simple. It consisted of a long-bodied gown
that had only half skirts; that is to say, instead of encompassing the
whole person, the lower part of it came forward only as far as the hip
bones, on each side, leaving the front of the petticoat exposed. This
posterior part of the gown would, if left to fall to its full length,
have formed a train behind them of at least two feet in length. It
was pinned up, however, to a convenient length, and was not at all an
ungraceful garment, if we except the sleeves, which went no farther than
the elbows--a fashion in dress which is always unbecoming, especially
when the arms are thin. The hair of the elder woman was doubled back in
front, from about the middle of the forehead, and the rest of the
head was covered by a _dowd cap_, the most primitive of all female
headdresses, being a plain shell, or skull-cap, as it were, for the
head, pointed behind, and without any fringe or border whatsoever.
This turning up of the hair was peculiar only to married life, of which
condition it was universally a badge. The young females wore theirs
fastened behind by a skewer; but on this occasion one of them, the
youngest, allowed it to fall in natural ringlets about her cheeks and
shoulders.
“God save all here,” said Barney, as he entered the house.
“God save you kindly, Barney,” was the instant reply from all.
“Ah, Mrs. Davoren,” he proceeded, “ever the same; by this and by that,
if there's a woman living ignorant of one thing, and you are that
woman.”
“Sorrow off you, Barney! well, what is it?”
“Idleness, achora. Now, let me see if you have e'er a finger at all to
show; for upon my honorable word they ought to be worn to the stumps
long ago. Well, and how are you all? But sure I needn't ax. Faith,
you're crushin' the _blanter_* anyhow, and that looks well.”
* Blantur, a well-known description of oats. It was so
called from having been originally imported from Blantire in
Scotland.
“We must live, Barney; 'tis a poor shift we'd make 'idout the praties
and the broghan,” (meal porridge).
“What news from the big house?”
“News, is it? Come, Corney, come, girls, bounce; news is it? O, faitha',
thin it's I that has the news that will make you all shake your feet
to-night.”
“Blessed saints, Barney what is it?”
“Bounce, I say, and off wid ye to gather brusna (dried and rotten
brambles) for a bonfire in the great town of Rathfillan.”
“A bonfire, Barney! Arra, why, man alive?”
“Why? Why, bekaise the masther's stepson and the misthress's own pet has
come home to us to set the counthry into a state o' conflagration wid
his beauty. There won't be a whole cap in the barony before this day
week. They're to have fiddlers, and pipers, and dancin', and drinkin'
to no end; and the glory of it is that the masther, God bless him, is to
pay for all. Now!”
The younger of the two girls sprang to her feet with the elasticity and
agility of a deer.
“O, _beetha_, Barney,” she exclaimed, “but that will be the fun! And
the misthress's son is home? Arra, what is he like, Barney? Is he as
handsome as Masther Charles?”
“I hope he's as good,” said her mother.
“As good, Bridget? No, but worth a shipload of him; he has a pair of
eyes in his head, _Granua_,” (anglice, Grace,) addressing the younger,
“that 'ud turn _Glendhis_ (the dark glen) to noonday at midnight; divil
a lie in it; and his hand's never out of his pocket wid generosity.”
“O, mother,” said Grace, “won't we all go?”
“Don't ax your mother anything about it,” replied Barney, “bekaise
mother, and father, and sister, and brother, daughter and son, is all to
come.”
“Arra, Barney,” said Bridget Davoren, for such was her name, “is this
gentleman like his _ecald_ of a mother?”
“Hasn't a feature of her purty face,” he replied, “and, to the back o'
that, is very much given to religion. Troth, my own opinion is, he'll be
one of ourselves yet; for I can tell you a saicret about him.”
“A saicret, Barney,” said Grace; “maybe he's married?”
“Married, no; he tould me himself this momin' that it's not his
intention ever to marry 'till he meets a purty girl to plaise him; he'll
keep a loose foot, he says, and an aisy conscience till then, he says;
but the saicret is this, he never aits flesh mate of a Friday--when
he emit get it. Indeed, I'm afeared he's too good to be long for this
world; but still, if the Lord was to take him, wouldn't it be a proof
that he had a great regard for him!”
Grace Davoren was flushed and excited with delight. She was about
eighteen, rather tall for her age, but roundly and exquisitely moulded;
her glossy ringlets, as they danced about her cheeks and shoulders, were
black as ebony; but she was no brunette; for her skin was milk white,
and that portion of her bosom, which was uncovered by the simple nature
of her dress, threw back a polished light like ivory; her figure was
perfection, and her white legs were a finer specimen of symmetry
than ever supported the body of the _Venus de Medicis_. This was all
excellent; but it was the sparkling lustre of her eyes, and the radiance
of her whole countenance, that attracted the beholder. If there was
anything to be found fault with, it was in the spirit, not in the
physical perfection, of her beauty. There was, for instance, too much
warmth of coloring and of constitution visible in her whole exquisite
person; and sometimes her glances, would puzzle you to determine whether
they were those of innocence or of challenge. Be this as it may, she was
a rare specimen of rustic beauty and buoyancy of spirit.
“O, Barney,” said she, “that's the pleasantest news I heard this month
o' Sundays--sich dancin' as we'll have! and maybe I won't foot it, and
me got my new shoes and drugget gown last week;” and here she lilted a
gay Irish air, to which she set a-dancing with a lightness of foot
and vivacity of manner that threw her whole countenance into a most
exquisite glow of mirthful beauty.
“Granua,” said her mother, reprovingly, “think of yourself and what
you are about; if you worn't a light-hearted, and, I'm afeard, a
light-headed, girl, too, you wouldn't go on as you do, especially when
you know what you know, and what Barney here, too, knows.”
“Ah,” said Barney, his whole manner immediately changing, “have you
heard from him, poor fellow?”
“Torley's gone to the mountains,” she replied, “and--but here he is.
Well, Torley, what news, asthore?”
Her husband having passed a friendly greeting to Barney, sat down, and
having taken off his hat, lifted the skirt of his cothamore (big coat)
and wiped the perspiration off his large and manly forehead, on which,
however, were the traces of deep care. He did not speak for some time,
but at length said:
“Bridget, give me a drink.”
His wife took a wooden noggin, which she dipped into a churn and handed
him. Having finished it at a draught, he wiped his mouth with his
gathered, palm, breathed deeply, but was still silent.
“Torley, did you hear me? What news of that unfortunate boy?”
“No news, Bridget, at least no good news; the boy's an outlaw, and will
be an outlaw--or rather he won't be an outlaw long; they'll get him
soon.”
“But why would they get him? hasn't he sense enough to keep from them?”
“That's just what he has not, Bridget; he has left the mountains and
come down somewhere to the Infield country; but where, I cannot make
out.”
“Well, asthore, he'll only bring on his own punishment. Troth, I'm not a
bit sorry that Granua missed him. I never was to say, for the match,
but you should have your way, and force the girl there to it, over and
above. Of what use is his land and wealth to him now?”
“God's will be done,” replied her husband, sorrowfully. “As for me, I
can do no more in it, nor I won't. I was doing the best for my child.
He'll be guided by no one's advice but his own.”
“That's true,” replied his wife, “you did. But here's Barney Casey, from
the big house, comin' to warn the tenantry to a bonfire that's to be
made to-night in Rathfillan, out of rejoicin' for the misthress's son
that's come home to them.”
Here Barney once more repeated the message, with which the reader is
already acquainted.
“You are all to come,” he proceeded, “ould and young; and to bring every
one a backload of sticks and brusna to help to make the bonfire.”
“Is this message from the masther or misthress, Barney?” asked Davoren.
“O, straight from himself,” he replied. “I have it from his own lips.
Troth he's ready to leap out of his skin wid delight.”
“Bekaise,” added Davoren, “if it came from the misthress, the sorrow
foot either I or any one of my family would set near her; but from
himself, that's a horse of another color. Tell him, Barney, we'll be
there, and bring what we can to help the bonfire.”
Until this moment the young fellow at the fire never uttered a syllable,
nor seemed in the slightest degree conscious that there was any
person in the house but himself. He was now engaged in masticating the
potatoes, and eggs, the latter of which he ate with a thin splinter of
bog deal, which served as a substitute for an egg-spoon, and which is
to-this day used among the poor for the same purpose in the remoter
parts of Ireland. At length he spoke:
“This won't be a good night for a bonfire anyhow.”
“Why, Andy, _abouchal?_” (my boy.)
“Bekaise, mudher, _the storm was in the fire_* last night when I was
rakin' it.”
* This is a singular phenomenon, which, so far as I am
aware, has never yet been noticed by any Irish or Scotch
writers when describing the habits and usages of the people
in either country. When stirring the _greeshaugh_, or red-
hot ashes, at night at the settling, or mending, or Taking
of the fire, a blue, phosphoric-looking light is distinctly
visible in the embers, and the more visible in proportion to
the feebleness of the light emitted by the fire. It is only
during certain states of the atmosphere that this is seen.
It is always considered as as prognostic of severe weather,
and its appearance is termed as above.
“Then we'll have rough weather,” said his father; “no doubt of that.”
“Don't be afeard,” said Barney, laughing; “take my word for it, if
there's to be rough weather, and that some witch or wizard has broken
bargain with the devil, the misthress has intherest to get it put off
till the bonfire's over.”
He then bade them good-by, and took his departure to fulfil his
agreeable and welcome mission. Indeed, he spent the greater portion of
the day not only in going among the tenants in person, but in sending
the purport of the said mission to be borne upon the four winds of
heaven through every quarter of the barony; after which he proceeded to
the little market-town of Rathfillan, where he secured the services of
two fiddlers and two pipers. This being accomplished, he returned home
to his master's, ripe and ready for both dinner and supper; for, as he
had missed the former meal, he deemed it most judicious to kill, as he
said, the two birds with one stone, by demolishing them both together.