A RESOLVE.
“Sad is my fate; I must emigrate
To the wilds of Amerikee.”
_Old Irish Song._
“In the fresh fairness of the spring to ride,
As in the old days when he rode with her.”
The postmaster at Rathbarry was evidently not in the habit of
despatching many telegrams. He was now standing in the street,
scratching his red beard, and looking thoughtfully up at the single wire
which dropped from the tarred pole--literally the last outpost of
civilization--down through the roof of his little shop, while I read to
him the message with which I had ridden over early on Tuesday morning.
“You know where Boston is?” I asked, when I had finished; “Boston, in
America, you know?”
“_Boyshton_, miss?” he said, correcting my pronunciation. “I do, miss.
Sure I think it’s there that me sisther’s son is a plumber these five
years.”
“Well, listen,” I said, beginning to read it aloud again, “‘To
Farquharson, 16, Charles Street, Boston. Start for Boston February 6th.
THEO.’ Are you quite sure you understand it? It is very important.”
“No fear at all, miss,” he answered, and went into his shop to get my
change.
This was a lengthy proceeding, which involved the sending of a little
girl to the public-house opposite, and an argument, as to the amount to
be returned to me, between Mr. Cassidy, the postmaster, and his
daughter. However, I was in no particular hurry to get back, and
Blackthorn never objected to standing. The day felt more like May than
the second of February. The only tokens of yesterday’s rain were the
swollen yellow streams in the gutters on either side of the narrow
street, and the delicate clearness of the sky. It was so enticingly mild
and spring-like, that by the time that Mr. Cassidy had brought me my
change, I had made up my mind to go home by the longer road, instead of
by the usual way round the head of the harbour.
The road I had chosen went past the Clashmore entrance gates, and as I
rode slowly along it, I noticed the ravages which the storm had worked
in The O’Neill’s woods. Half-uprooted firs and beeches leaned forlornly
against their neighbours in every direction among the plantations that
sloped to the road, and torn boughs hung over the demesne wall. Near the
big front gates a group of men was collected in the road, where a tree
had, in falling, partly broken down the wall. As I came near, one of
them, a short, square man, detached himself from the others, and,
lifting his hat, walked towards me. To my astonishment I found that it
was O’Neill himself.
“How do you do? I’m delighted to see you,” he began effusively. “I see
you’re surprised to find me here. I came down from Dublin on Saturday,
to settle some business, and I’ve been shut up ever since by the storm.
I dare say you’ve had plenty of it at Durrus?” He hardly waited for my
answer. “And what have you been doing with yourself all this time?” he
went on. “I don’t think you look quite the thing--very charming, of
course”--with a wave of his hand--“but still not as blooming as you did
when I saw you last.”
“I have been in the house a good deal lately,” I answered evasively;
“the weather has been so bad.”
“Has Willy come back from Cork yet?” O’Neill asked, turning to look at
where his men were working as he spoke. “I heard that he was there
yesterday.”
There was no use in trying to conceal a fact that would soon become
common property.
“Yes,” I answered, in a constrained voice, “he came home last night, but
not to stay; he--he went away again this morning.”
“Ah!” said O’Neill, still watching the sawing and chopping of the fallen
tree; “has he gone away for long?”
“Yes; I am afraid he has.”
“Gone to England, has he?” pursued O’Neill, running his pudgy hand along
my horse’s neck.
“No,” I replied unwillingly; “at least, I believe he is going there
first.”
“Then he _is_ going to emigrate?” O’Neill said quickly, forgetting his
endeavour to appear ignorant, and looking at me through his eye-glass
with undisguised excitement.
I made no answer.
“The fact is,” O’Neill went on, clearing his throat, “I heard some
rumour that he had got into trouble; but I hoped it might not have been
true. These people,” with a glance at his workmen, “delight in
exaggerating, especially if it is bad news.”
Then it _had_ become common property.
“What did they tell you?” I said faintly.
O’Neill’s red face got a trifle redder.
“Well, it sounds preposterous, but they had some cock-and-a-bull story
that he had--a--in fact,” he said, looking considerately away from me,
“they said he was married.”
“It is quite true,” I said, with despairing candour; “he has married the
daughter of the man at the lodge, and he--that is to say--they, have
started for Australia.”
“God bless my soul!” ejaculated O’Neill. “Dear, dear, how very shocking!
I couldn’t believe it when those fellows told me about it this morning.
What a pity it all is--a nice young fellow like that ruining himself in
such a way, and we all thought----” He stopped and stammered, perhaps
becoming aware for the first time of the connection between the news we
were discussing and my pale face and red eyes. “I mean, we had never
anticipated anything of this kind.”
I began to gather up my reins preparatory to saying good-bye.
“I hope Madam O’Neill is quite well? I have not heard from Connie for a
long time.”
“Oh, quite well--quite well, thank you. I left them in Dublin.” Then,
laying his hand on the reins as if impelled by irresistible curiosity,
“I suppose your uncle is very angry with Willy?”
I assented.
“Ah! very naturally; but, upon my soul, I think it was as much his own
fault as any one else’s. He never could get on with his own family, you
know. There was your poor father, now--the dearest fellow in the
world--my greatest friend--though, of course, he was a good deal older
than I,” O’Neill threw in parenthetically,--“he never hit it off with
him. He hasn’t spoken to me for years past because I backed up Owen
when he got into trouble with his father; and there was that other
business about Owen’s funeral--a hole and corner affair--no one given
any notice about it, the poor dear fellow buried in Cork as if he were a
pauper!” O’Neill paused, and blew his nose with indignant vigour. “But
all that’s neither here nor there,” he resumed; “all I mean to say is,
that Dominick was not the man to make the best of a young fellow. That
poor boy Willy never got a chance. He was brought up, as you might say,
among the common people; and, now I come to think of it, we _did_ hear
something of this girl before--but that was before _you_ came, you know.
Ahem!”--he cleared his throat--“it really is most incomprehensible.”
“I am afraid I must say good-bye, O’Neill,” I said hurriedly, each of
his words giving me a fresh stab; “and I do not know if I shall see you
again, as I am going away on Saturday. I am going back to America.”
O’Neill looked as aghast as was possible for a person of his complexion.
“That’s the worst news I have heard yet. How can you treat us so
cruelly?” he said gallantly. “You come over and break all our hearts,
and then off you go, and leave us to mend them as best we can.”
“I hope it is not as bad as all that,” I said, with a sickly smile. “I
won’t say good-bye to you now; I am sure I shall see you again before I
go--perhaps at Miss Burke’s to-morrow.” And I rode quickly away, without
heeding the farewell words that he shouted after me.
To say the truth, I could not face another good-bye, even with O’Neill,
and I trotted home at a good pace along the muddy road, doing my best
to outstrip the associations that every fresh turn in its familiar
windings called up.
There was a note for me on the hall table when I arrived.
“Miss Burke left it herself, miss,” said Roche, “and she hopes you’ll
send over an answer this afternoon. She wanted to see the masther, but
sure he’s not able to see any one--and no wondher, faith, no wondher!”
The note was written on the small coquettish paper, with a golden
“Mimi,” engrossed on the corner, which was affected by Miss Burke, and
her good-natured, untidy handwriting had sprawled over all four sides of
the sheet. She said that she “heard that Willy was gone,” and, without
making any further comment, she asked me if I would come and stay with
them for as long or as short a time as I might wish. She hoped I would
come to-morrow, if possible, as it was their “at home” day, and I might
meet a few friends; and she remained, mine most affectionately, Mary
Burke.
I considered the matter. It certainly would be a relief to get away from
Durrus and its horrible silence and forsakenness, even for a night or
two. To-day was Tuesday; I did not start till Saturday. If I went over
to Garden Hill to-morrow afternoon, timing my arrival so as to evade the
“few friends,” I could stay there till Friday morning. I knew it would
make no difference to my uncle; I could tell him about it when I saw him
at dinner: and I sent a note telling Miss Burke that I should be very
glad to go over to her to-morrow afternoon. But I did not see my uncle
at dinner.
“He’s not at all well, miss,” Roche said mysteriously. “I was telling
him a while ago that ’tis for the docthor he should send; but indeed, he
was for turning me out of the room when I said it.”
“Do you think he would like to see me?”
“Don’t go near him at all to-night, miss,” Roche answered, with
unexpected urgency. “He’ll be betther to-morrow--you’ll see him then.”
But I did see my uncle again that night. When I went upstairs to bed, I
was startled by seeing his tall figure, in his dressing-gown, standing
outside the door of the room which Willy had locked. He had a large
bunch of keys, and was trying them one after the other in the lock.
“Perhaps you can help me with these,” he said, looking round as I came
up to him. “I am almost sure that one of these keys opens this door, but
I cannot find it.”
His hand trembled so much, that the keys were shaking and jingling as he
held them out to me.
“I am afraid Willy has got the key----” I began.
“But, my dear, I think it is very probable that we shall find Willy in
that room,” he said, in a low confidential voice, pressing the keys upon
me. “I cannot think why he remains in there. I have tried several times
to-day to open the door, but that fellow Roche keeps pestering me. I
believe he is in league with Willy.”
My own hand was trembling almost as much as my uncle’s, but I did not
dare to refuse to take the keys, and I made a pretence of trying one in
the lock. He watched me anxiously for a moment.
“No, my dear, I see it is no use trying to-night. You are tired, and so
am I”--he sighed deeply, and put his hand to his chest,--“this
oppression that I am suffering from tries me terribly. I will go to my
room and see if I can get a little rest. I need rest sadly.”
“Yes, you look very tired,” I said, in as ordinary a voice as I could
manage, handing the keys back to him.
“Do I? Well, to tell you the truth, I have been quite unable to sleep
lately. I am so much disturbed by these hackney carmen who make it a
practice to drive past the house at all hours of the night; I hope they
do not annoy you? I have told them several times to go away, but they
simply laugh at me. And the strange thing is,” he continued, leaning
over the rail of the corridor and looking suspiciously down into the
hall, “that though that tree is still lying across the avenue, it does
not stop them in the least--they just drive through it. Well, good
night, my dear,” he said, nodding at me in a friendly way; “we must
give it up for to-night, but we shall unearth Master Willy to-morrow.”
He nodded again, and walked away down the corridor.
[Illustration: text decoration]
[Illustration: text decoration]