CASTLE MOYNA.
The Dillon party took possession of Castle Moyna, its mistress, and
Captain Sydenham, who had a fondness for Americans. Mona Everard owned
any human being who looked at her the second time, as the oriole catches
the eye with its color and then the heart with its song; and Louis had
the same magnetism in a lesser degree. Life at the castle was not of the
liveliest, but with the Captain's aid it became as rapid as the
neighboring gentry could have desired. Anne cared little, so that her
children had their triumph. Wrapped in her dreams of amethyst, the
exquisiteness of this new world kept her in ecstasy. Its smallest
details seemed priceless. She performed each function as if it were the
last of her life. While rebuffs were not lacking, she parried them
easily, and even the refusal of the parish priest to accept her aid in
his bazaar did not diminish the delight of her happy situation. She knew
the meaning of his refusal: she, an upstart, having got within the gates
of Castle Moyna by some servility, when her proper place was a _shebeen_
in Cruarig, offered him charity from a low motive. She felt a rebuke
from a priest as a courtier a blow from his king; but keeping her
temper, she made many excuses for him in her own mind, without losing
the firm will to teach him better manners in her own reverent way. The
Countess heard of it, and made a sharp complaint to Captain Sydenham.
The old dowager had a short temper, and a deep gratitude for Anne's
remarkable services in New York. Nor did she care to see her guests
slighted.
"Father Roslyn has treated her shabbily. She suggested a booth at his
bazaar, offered to fit it up herself and to bring the gentry to buy. She
was snubbed: 'neither your money nor your company.' You must set that
right, Sydenham," said she.
"He shall weep tears of brine for it," answered the Captain cheerfully.
"Tell him," said the Dowager, "the whole story, if your priest can
appreciate it, which I doubt. A Cavan peasant, who can teach the fine
ladies of Dublin how to dress and how to behave; whose people are half
the brains of New York; the prize-fighter turned senator, the Boss of
Tammany, the son with a gold mine. Above all, don't forget to tell how
she may name the next ambassador to England."
They laughed in sheer delight at her accomplishments and her triumphs.
"Gad, but she's the finest woman," the Captain declared. "At first I
thought it was acting, deuced fine acting. But it's only her nature
finding expression. What d'ye think she's planning now? An audience with
the Pope, begad, special, to present an American flag and a thousand
pounds. And she laid out Lady Cruikshank yesterday, stone cold. Said her
ladyship: 'Quite a compliment to Ireland, Mrs. Dillon, that you kept the
Cavan brogue so well.' Said Mrs. Dillon: 'It was all I ever got from
Ireland, and a brogue in New York is always a recommendation to mercy
from the court; then abroad it marks one off from the common English and
their common Irish imitators.' Did she know of Lady Cruikshank's effort
to file off the Dublin brogue?"
"Likely. She seems to know the right thing at the right minute."
Evidently Anne's footing among the nobility was fairly secure in spite
of difficulties. There were difficulties below stairs also, and Judy
Haskell had the task of solving them, which she did with a success quite
equal to Anne's. She made no delay in seizing the position of arbiter in
the servants' hall, not only of questions touching the Dillons, and
their present relations with the Irish nobility, but also on such vital
topics as the rising, the Fenians, the comparative rank of the Irish at
home and those in America, and the standing of the domestics in Castle
Moyna from the point of experience and travel. Inwardly Judy had a
profound respect for domestics in the service of a countess, and looked
to find them as far above herself as a countess is above the rest of the
world. She would have behaved humbly among the servants of Castle Moyna,
had not their airs betrayed them for an inferior grade.
"These Americans," said the butler with his nose in the air.
"As if ye knew anythin' about Americans," said Judy promptly. "Have ye
ever thraveled beyant Donegal, me good little man?"
"It wasn't necessary, me good woman."
"Faith, it's yerself 'ud be blowin' about it if ye had. An' d'ye think
people that thraveled five thousan' miles to spind a few dollars on yer
miserable country wud luk at the likes o' ye? Keep yer criticisms on
these Americans in yer own buzzum. It's not becomin' that an ould
gossoon shud make remarks on Mrs. Dillon, the finest lady in New York,
an' the best dhressed at this minnit in all Ireland. Whin ye've
thraveled as much as I have ye can have me permission to talk on what ye
have seen."
"The impidence o' some people," said the cook with a loud and scornful
laugh.
"If ye laughed that way in New York," said Judy, "ye'd be sint to the
Island for breaking the public peace. A laugh like that manes no
increase o' wages."
"The Irish in New York are allowed to live there I belave," said a pert
housemaid with a simper.
"Oh, yes, ma'am, an' they are also allowed to sind home the rint o'
their houses to kape the poor Irish from starvin', an' to help the lords
an' ladies of yer fine castles to kape the likes o' yees in a job."
"'Twas always a wondher to me," said the cook to the housemaid, as if no
other was present, "how these American bigbugs wid their inilligant ways
ever got as far as the front door o' the Countess."
"I can tell ye how Mrs. Dillon got in so far that her fut is on the neck
of all o' yez this minnit," said Judy. "If she crooked her finger at ye
this hour, ye'd take yer pack on yer back an' fut it over to yer
father's shanty, wid no more chance for another place than if ye wor in
Timbuctoo. The Countess o' Skibbereen kem over to New York to hould a
concert, an' to raise money for the cooks an' housemaids an' butlers
that were out of places in Donegal. Well, she cudn't get a singer, nor
she couldn't get a hall, nor she cudn't sell a ticket, till Mrs. Dillon
gathered around her the Boss of Tammany Hall, an' Senator Dillon, an'
Mayor Birmingham, an' Mayor Livingstone, an' says to thim, 'let the
Countess o' Skibbereen have a concert an' let Tammany Hall buy every
ticket she has for sale, an' do yeez turn out the town to make the
concert a success.' An' thin she got the greatest singer in the world,
Honora Ledwith, that ye cudn't buy to sing in Ireland for all the little
money there's in it, to do the singin', an' so the Countess med enough
money to buy shirts for the whole of Ireland. But not a door wud have
opened to her if Mrs. Dillon hadn't opened them all be wan word. That's
why Castle Moyna is open to her to the back door. For me I wondher she
shtays in the poor little place, whin the palace o' the American
ambassador in London expects her."
The audience, awed at Judy's assurance, was urged by pride to laugh
haughtily at this last statement.
"An' why wudn't his palace be open to her," Judy continued with equal
scorn. "He's afraid of her. She kem widin an ace o' spoilin' his chances
o' goin' to London an' bowin' to the Queen. An, bedad, he's not sure of
his futtin' while she's in it, for she has her mind on the place for Mr.
Vandervelt, the finest man in New York wid a family that goes back to
the first Dutchman that ever was, a little fellow that sat fishin' in
the say the day St. Pathrick sailed for Ireland. Now Mr. Livingstone sez
to Mrs. Dillon whin he was leavin' for London, 'Come over,' sez he, 'an'
shtay at me palace as long as I'm in it.' She's goin' there whin she
laves here, but I don't see why she shtays in this miserable place, whin
she cud be among her aquils, runnin' in an out to visit the Queen like
wan o' thimselves."
By degrees, as Judy's influence invaded the audience, alarm spread among
them for their own interests. They had not been over polite to the
Americans, since it was not their habit to treat any but the nobility
with more than surface respect. New York most of them hoped to visit and
dwell within some day. What if they had offended the most influential of
the great ladies of the western city! Judy saw their fear and guessed
its motive.
"Me last word to the whole o' yez is, get down an yer knees to Mrs.
Dillon afore she l'aves, if she'll let yez. I hear that some o' ye think
of immigratin' to New York. Are yez fit for that great city? What are
yer wages here? Mebbe a pound a month. In our city the girls get four
pounds for doin' next to nothin'. An' to see the dhress an' the shtyle
o' thim fine girls! Why, yez cudn't tell them from their own
misthresses. What wud yez be doin' in New York, wid yer clothes thrun on
yez be a pitchfork, an' lukkin' as if they were made in the ark? But if
ye wor as smart as the lady that waits on the Queen, not wan fut will ye
set in New York if Mrs. Dillon says no. Yez may go to Hartford or
Newark, or some other little place, an' yez'll be mighty lucky if ye're
not sint sthraight on to quarantine wid the smallpox patients an' the
Turks."
The cook gave a gasp, and Judy saw that she had won the day. One more
struggle, however, remained before her triumph was complete. The
housekeeper and the butler formed an alliance against her, and refused
to be awed by the stories of Mrs. Dillon's power and greatness; but as
became their station their opposition was not expressed in mere
language. They did not condescend to bandy words with inferiors. The
butler fought his battle with Judy by simply tilting his nose toward the
sky on meeting her. Judy thereupon tilted her nose in the same fashion,
so that the servants' hall was convulsed at the sight, and the butler
had to surrender or lose his dignity. The housekeeper carried on the
battle by an attempt to stare Judy out of countenance with a formidable
eye; and the greatest staring-match on the part of rival servants in
Castle Moyna took place between the representative of the Skibbereens
and the maid of New York. The former may have thought her eye as good as
that of the basilisk, but found the eye of Miss Haskell much harder.
The housekeeper one day met Judy descending the back stairs. She fixed
her eyes upon her with the clear design of transfixing and paralyzing
this brazen American. Judy folded her arms and turned her glance upon
her foe. The nearest onlookers held their breaths. Overcome by the calm
majesty of Judy's iron glance, which pressed against her face like a
spear, the housekeeper smiled scornfully and began to ascend the stairs
with scornful air. Judy stood on the last step and turned her neck round
and her eyes upward until she resembled the Gorgon. She had the
advantage of the housekeeper, who in mounting the stairs had to watch
her steps; but in any event the latter was foredoomed to defeat. The
eyes that had not blinked before Anne Dillon, or the Senator, or Mayor
Livingstone, or John Everard, or the Countess of Skibbereen, or the
great Sullivan, and had modestly held their own under the charming
glance of the Monsignor, were not to be dazzled by the fiercest glance
of a mere Donegal housekeeper. The contempt in Judy's eyes proved too
much for the poor creature, and at the top of the stairs, with a
hysterical shriek, she burst into tears and fled humbled.
"I knew you'd do it," said Jerry the third butler. "It's not in thim
wake craythurs to take the luk from you, Miss Haskell."
"Ye're the wan dacint boy in the place," said Judy, remembering many
attentions from the shrewd lad. "An' as soon as iver ye come to New
York, an' shtay long enough to become an American, I'll get ye a place
on the polls."
From that day the position of the Dillon party became something
celestial as far as the servants were concerned, while Judy, as arbiter
in the servants' hall, settled all questions of history, science,
politics, dress, and gossip, by judgments from which there was no
present appeal. All these details floated to the ears of Captain
Sydenham, who was a favorite with Judy and shared her confidence; and
the Captain saw to it that the gossip of Castle Moyna also floated into
the parish residence daily. Some of it was so alarming that Father
Roslyn questioned his friend Captain Sydenham, who dropped in for a
quiet smoke now and then.
"Who are these people, these Americans, do you know, Captain? I mean
those just now stopping with the Countess of Skibbereen?"
"That reminds me," replied the Captain. "Didn't you tell me Father
William was going to America this winter on a collecting tour? Well, if
you get him the interest of Mrs. Dillon his tour is assured of success
before he begins it."
A horrible fear smote the heart of the priest, nor did he see the
peculiar smile on the Captain's face. Had he made the dreadful mistake
of losing a grand opportunity for his brother, soon to undertake a
laborious mission?
"Why do you think so?" he inquired.
"You would have to be in New York to understand it," replied the
Captain. "But the Countess of Skibbereen is not a patch in this county
compared to what Mrs. Dillon is in New York!"
"Oh, dear me! Do you tell me!"
"Her people are all in politics, and in the church, and in business. Her
son is a--well, he owns a gold mine, I think, and he is in politics,
too. In fact, it seems pretty clear that if you want anything in New
York Mrs. Dillon is the woman to get it, as the Countess found it. And
if you are not wanted in New York by Mrs. Dillon, then you must go west
as far as Chicago."
"Oh, how unfortunate! I am afraid, Captain, that I have made a blunder.
Mrs. Dillon came to me--most kindly of course--and made an offer to take
care of a booth at the bazaar, and I refused her. You know my feeling
against giving these Americans any foothold amongst us----"
"Don't tell that to Father William, or he will never forgive you," said
the Captain. "But Mrs. Dillon is forgiving as well as generous. Do the
handsome thing by her. Go up to the castle and explain matters, and she
will forget your----"
"Oh, call it foolishness at once," said the priest. "I'm afraid I'm too
late, but for the sake of charity I'll do what you say."
A velvety welcome Anne gave him. Before all others she loved the priest,
and but that she had to teach Father Roslyn a lesson he would have seen
her falling at his feet for his blessing. In some fashion he made
explanation and apology.
"Father dear, don't mention it. Really, it is my place to make
explanations and not yours. I was hurt, of course, that you refused the
little I can give you, but I knew other places would be the richer by
it, and charity is good everywhere."
"A very just thought, madam. It would give us all great pleasure if you
could renew your suggestion to take a booth at the bazaar. We are all
very fond of Americans here--that is, when we understand them----"
"Only that I'm going up to London, father dear, I'd be only too happy.
It was not the booth I was thinking of, you see, but the bringing of all
the nobility to spend a few pounds with you."
"Oh, my dear, you could never have done it," cried he in astonishment;
"they are all Protestants, and very dark."
"We do it in America, and why not here? I used to get more money from
Protestant friends than from me own. When I told them of my scheme here
they all promised to come for the enjoyment of it. Now, I'm so sorry I
have to go to London. I must present my letters to the ambassador before
he leaves town, and then we are in a hurry to get to Rome before the end
of August. Cardinal Simeoni has promised us already a private audience
with the Pope. Now, father dear, if there is anything I can do for you
in Rome--of course the booth must go up at the bazaar just the same,
only the nobility will not be there--but at Rome, now, if you wanted
anything."
"My dear Mrs. Dillon you overwhelm me. There is nothing I want for
myself, but my brother, Father William----"
"Oh, to be sure, your brother," cried Anne, when the priest paused in
confusion; "let him call on us in Rome, and I will take him to the
private audience."
"Oh, thank you, thank you, my dear madam, but my brother is not going to
Rome. It is to America I refer. His bishop has selected him from among
many eminent priests of the diocese to make a collecting tour in America
this winter. And I feel sure that if a lady of your rank took an
interest in him, it would save him much labor, and, what I fear is
unavoidable, hardship."
Anne rose up delighted and came toward Father Roslyn with a smile. She
placed her hand lightly on his shoulder.
"Father dear, whisper."
He bent forward. There was not a soul within hearing distance, but Anne
loved a dramatic effect.
"He need never leave New York. I'll see that Father William has the
_entree_ into the diocese, and I'll take care of him until he leaves for
home."
She tapped him on the shoulder with her jeweled finger, and gave him a
most expressive look of assurance.
"Oh, how you overwhelm me," cried Father Roslyn. "I thank you a hundred
times, but I won't accept so kind an offer unless you promise me that
you will preside at a booth in the bazaar."
Of course she promised, much as the delay might embarrass the American
minister in London, and the Cardinal who awaited with impatience her
arrival in Rome.
The bazaar became a splendid legend in the parish of Cruarig; how its
glory was of heaven; how Mrs. Dillon seemed to hover over it like an
angel or a queen; how Father Roslyn could hardly keep out of her booth
long enough to praise the others; how the nobility flocked about it
every night of three, and ate wonderful dishes at fancy prices, and were
dressed like princes; and how Judy Haskell ruled the establishment with
a rod of iron from two to ten each day, devoting her leisure to the
explanation and description of the booths once presided over by her
mistress in the great city over seas. All these incidents and others as
great passed out of mind before the happenings which shadowed the last
days at Castle Moyna with anxiety and dread.
The Dowager gave a fete in honor of her guests one afternoon, and all
the county came. As a rule the gentry sneered at the American guests of
the Countess, and found half their enjoyment at a garden fete in making
fun of the hostess and her friends in a harmless way. There might not
have been so much ridicule on this occasion for two reasons: the
children were liked, and their guardian was dreaded. Anne had met and
vanquished her critics in the lists of wit and polite insolence. Then a
few other Americans, discovered by Captain Sydenham, were present, and
bore half the brunt of public attention. The Dillons met their
countrymen for a moment and forgot them, even forgot the beautiful woman
whose appearance held the eyes of the guests a long time. Captain
Sydenham was interesting them in a pathetic story of battle and death
which had just happened only a few miles away. When the two boys were
dead beside the stream in the glen, and the tourists had met their fate
before the magistrate in Cruarig, he closed the story by saying,
"And now down in the hotel is the loveliest Irish girl you ever saw,
waiting with the most patient grief for the help which will release her
father from jail. Am I not right, Mrs. Endicott?"
The beautiful American looked up with a smile.
"Yes, indeed," she replied in a clear, rich voice. "It is long since I
met a woman that impressed me more than this lonely creature. The
Captain was kind enough to take me to see her, that I might comfort her
a little. But she seemed to need little comfort. Very self-possessed you
know. Used to that sort of thing."
"The others got scot free, no thanks to old Folsom," said the Captain,
"and one went off to their yacht and the other intended to start for
Dublin to interest the secretary. The Countess should interest herself
in her. Egad, don't you know, it's worth the trouble to take an interest
in such a girl as Honora Ledwith."
"Honora Ledwith," said the Dowager at a little distance. "What do you
know of my lovely Honora?"
Already in the course of the story a suspicion had been shaping itself
in Anne's mind. The ship must have arrived, it was time to hear from
Arthur and his party; the story warned her that a similar fate might
have overtaken her friends. Then she braced herself for the shock which
came with Honora's name; and at the same moment, as in a dream, she saw
Arthur swinging up the lawn towards her group; whereupon she gave a
faint shriek, and rose up with a face so pale that all stretched out
hands to her assistance; but Arthur was before them, as she tottered to
him, and caught her in his arms. After a moment of silence, Mona and
Louis ran to his side, Captain Sydenham said some words, and then the
little group marched off the lawn to the house, leaving the Captain to
explain matters, and to wonder at the stupidity which had made him
overlook the similarity in names.
"Why, don't you know," said he to Mrs. Endicott, "her son was one of the
party of tourists that Folsom sent to jail, and I never once connected
the names. Absurd and stupid on my part."
"Charming young man," said the lady, as she excused herself and went
off. Up in one of the rooms of Castle Moyna, when the excitement was
over and the explanations briefly made, Mona at the window described to
Arthur the people of distinction, as they made their adieus to their
hostess and expressed sympathy with the sudden and very proper
indisposition of Mrs. Dillon. He could not help thinking how small the
world is, what a puzzle is the human heart, how weird is the life of
man.
"There she is now," cried Mona, pointing to Mrs. Endicott and an old
lady, who were bidding adieu to the Countess of Skibbereen. "A perfectly
lovely face, a striking figure--oh, why should Captain Sydenham say our
Honora was the loveliest girl he ever saw?--and he saw them together you
know----"
"Saw whom together?" said Arthur.
"Why, Mrs. Endicott called on Honora at the hotel, you know."
"Oh!"
He leaned out of the window and took a long look at her with scarcely an
extra beat of the heart, except for the triumph of having met her face
to face and remained unknown. His longest look was for Aunt Lois, who
loved him, and was now helping to avenge him. Strange, strange, strange!
"Well?" cried Mona eagerly.
"The old lady is a very sweet-looking woman," he answered. "On the whole
I think Captain Sydenham was right."