to acknowledge receipt of your communication of the blank instant,
which shall have my very best attention.’ Papa’s constituents
invariably hear from me in that exact phraseology by return of post. I
have a whole lot of such letters, as the Americans say, ‘on hand.’”
“If it were not for the off-nights, madam,” continued the member for
Doodleshire, “Wednesdays and Saturdays, I should seriously think of
accepting the Chiltern Hundreds, which is a gentlemanlike way of
resigning a seat in the House.”
“And on the off-nights poor papa devotes himself to _me_,” exclaimed
Mabel; “and I always accept invitations for those nights, so the only
chance he has for sleep is during the recess.”
I wondered who her friends might be, what they were like, where they
resided, and if the men were all in love with her. She had upon three
distinct occasions referred to a Mr. Melton, and somehow the mention of
this man filled me with a grim foreboding.
“We take too much sleep. We should do with as little as possible, and
divide that by three. Sleep is waste of time. Sleep is a sad nuisance,
a bore. It is born in a yawn and dies in imbecility,” cried Harry,
suddenly bursting into vitality.
“Is it thus you would designate Nature’s soft nurse, sir?” demanded Mr.
Hawthorne in a severe tone.
“This comes very badly from Mr. Welstone,” said my mother, “who
requires to be called about ten times before he will deign to leave off
sleeping.”
“You should see the panels of his door—actually worn away with
knuckle-knocking,” I added.
“In the country I sleep because there’s nothing else to do. I get up
early! What for? To see the same mist on the same mountains, and the
same cows in the same field, and the same birds in the same trees;
though, _mot d’honneur_, I was up and out this morning at eight
o’clock, and played Romeo to Miss Hawthorne’s Juliet—at least, so far
as a garden and a balcony could do it.”
“Who ever heard of a Romeo by daylight?” I exclaimed sarcastically.
“Let’s see what that love-stricken wretch does ‘neath the sun’s rays.
We all know what he says and does in the pale moonlight.”
“He kills Tybalt,” I interposed, not utterly displeased in being able
to show Mabel that I was on intimate terms with the Bard of Avon.
“And buys a penn’orth of strychnine,” added Harry with a grin.
“We know a gentleman who plays Romeo to perfection,” observed Mabel.
“Such a handsome fellow! And the dress suits him charmingly.”
How I hated this Romeo!
“A Mr. Wynwood Melton.”
I knew it before she had uttered the words.
“An actor?” I drawled in a careless sort of way.
“Oh! dear, no; he’s in the Foreign Office, and a swell. He is nephew or
cousin—I don’t know which—to Mr. Gladstone or some other great chief.”
This with an animation that sent a thrill of despairing jealousy to my
very soul.
“He is—ahem!—a very promising young man, a great favorite of ours, and
will make his mark. He is destined for the House. You’ll meet him, Mr.
Ormonde, when you come over. He is—ha! ha! ha!—rather a constant
visitor,” with a significant glance in the direction of his daughter.
She flushed crimson. The deep scarlet glowed all over her like a rosy
veil. That blush tolled the death-knell of my hopes. Our eyes met; she
withdrew her glance, as I haughtily outstared her.
“He is a great favorite of papa’s,” she murmured, almost
apologetically.
“And how about papa’s only daughter?” laughed my mother.
“Papa’s only daughter admires him very much—thinks him very handsome,
very nice, very cultivated, very clever, _et voilà tout_.”
“What more would papa’s only daughter have?”
A quaint little shrug, and a dainty laugh.
“A thousand things,” she said. From that moment I marked down Melton as
my foe—as the man who had dared to cross my path. Not that I hoped for
success, or could ever hope for it; yet to him she had evidently
surrendered her heart, and _he_ must reckon with _me_. Meet him!
Rather! I would now accept the invitation to London for the sole
purpose of falling foul of Melton. It would be such exquisite torture
to see them together; such racking bliss to behold them pressing hands
and looking into each other’s eyes. What pleasurable agony to look
calmly on while those nameless frivolities and gentle dalliances by
which lovers bridge the conventionalities were being performed beneath
my very nose! Ha! ha! I would close with Mr. Hawthorne’s offer and make
arrangements for proceeding to ‘town,’ as he would persist in calling
the English metropolis, at the earliest possible opportunity consistent
with his, and Melton’s, convenience.
“Miss Hawthorne,” suddenly exclaimed Harry, “_do_ tell us something
more about this Romeo. You have only given us enough to make us wish
for more. What is he like?”
“Will you have his portrait in oil or a twopenny photo?” she laughed.
“Let us strike ‘ile’ by all means.”
“_Imprimis_—that’s a good word to begin with—he is tall.”
“Good!”
“Graceful.”
“Good again!”
“Dignified-looking.”
“_Bravissimo!_”
“Parts his hair in the centre.”
“I don’t care for that,” said Harry.
“It becomes _him_.”
“Possibly. Pray proceed. His eyes?”
“Gray.”
“Nose?”
“Aquiline.”
“Beard?—men parting their hair in the centre wear beards.”
“Henri Quatre.”
“Hands?”
“Small and white.”
I threw a hasty glance at mine; they were of the same hue as the leg of
the mahogany breakfast-table at which we were seated. Sun and saddle
had done their work effectually.
“Does he smile?”
“Why, _of course_ he does.”
“Now,” said Harry, “upon your description of his smile a good deal may
depend.”
“I object to this line of cross-examination,” said my mother.
“I consider the subject has been sufficiently thrashed already,” I
added. Truly, I was sick of it.
“I shall throw up my brief, if I do not get an answer to my question.”
“I shall tell you by and by, Mr. Welstone.”
“By and by will not do.”
“Well, then, Mr. Melton’s smile is like a sunbeam. Are you satisfied
_now_?”
“Mr. Hawthorne,” said Harry, turning to the M.P., “this is a very bad
case.”
“I’m afraid—ha! ha! ha!—that it looks somewhat suspicious,” was the
significant reply.
“If you mean—” Mabel began.
“I don’t mean what _you_ mean,” laughed Harry.
“What _do_ you mean?” she asked.
“What do _you_ mean?” he playfully retorted.
At this juncture Peter O’Brien’s shock head appeared at the open
window, through which he unceremoniously thrust it, announcing, in no
very delicate accents:
“The yokes is _con_vaynient.”
“That’s a fine morning, Peter,” exclaimed Miss Hawthorne, rising and
approaching the window.
“Troth, it’s that same, miss, glory be to God! It’s iligant weather
intirely for the craps.”
“We’ve cut all our corn in England, Peter.”
“See that, now,” gloomily; but, brightening up, he added: “Sorra a
haporth to hindher _us_ from cuttin’ it long ago, av it was only ripe
enough.”
“An Irish peasant will never admit Saxon superiority in anything,” said
my mother, placing her arm about Mabel’s waist. “What ‘yokes’ have you
out to-day, Peter?”
“The shay for you, ma’am, and the young leddy there; though I’m afeared
it’s not as nate as it ought for to be, be raisin av a rogue av a hin—a
red wan, full av consait an’ impidence—makin’ her nest right—”
“Here, Peter,” I cried, to put a stop to these hideous revelations,
“get my car round at once.” I could have strangled him.
As all English visitors to Ireland are possessed of a frantic desire to
experience the jolting of an Irish jaunting-car, I ordered my own
special conveyance round, also from the workshop of Bates—a low,
rakish-looking craft, with a very deep well for the dogs when going out
shooting, and bright yellow corduroy cushions; an idea of my own, and
upon which I rather piqued myself. Harry Welstone and the ladies came
to the doorsteps to see us off, and while he explained the beauties of
the chariot to Miss Hawthorne I endeavored to initiate her father into
the mysteries of clinging on, advising him not to clutch the front and
back rail so convulsively, but rather to allow his body to swing with
every motion of the vehicle, and above all things to trust to luck.
“Lave yourself as if ye wor a sack o’ male, sir,” suggested Peter, who
was charioteer, “or as if ye had a sup in. Sorra a man that was full
ever dhropped off av a car, barrin’ Murty Flinn; an’ shure that was not
his fault aither, for it was intirely be raisin av a bargain he med wud
a lump av a mare he was dhrivin’ at that time.”
“Who was Murty Flinn, Peter?” asked Miss Hawthorne.
“A dacent boy, miss, that lives beyant at the crass-roads—a rale hayro
for sperits,” was the prompt response, accompanied by a semi-military
salute.
“And how did he fall off the car?”
“Troth, thin, _mavourneen_, it wasn’t Murty that fell aff av the car,
so much as that the car fell aff av Murty; an’ this is how it happened:
Murty was comin’ from the fair av Bohernacopple, where he wint for to
sell a little slip av a calf, an’ afore he left the fair he tuk several
gollioges av sperits, an’ had a cupple uv haits wud Phil Clancy, the
red-hedded wan—not Phil av Tubbermory—an’ he was bet up intirely betune
the whiskey an’ the rounds wud red Clancy, so that whin he cum for to
make for home he was hard set for to yoke the mare, an’ harder set agin
for to mount to his sate on the car. But Murty is the persevarionist
man ye ever laid yer two purty eyes on, miss, an’ he ruz himself into
the sate afther a tremendjus battle; and th’ ould mare, whin she seen
that he was comfortable, tuk the road like a Christian mare. Well,
Murty rowled backwards an’ forwards, an’ every joult av the car ye’d
think wud sind him on the crown av his _caubeen_; but, be me song, he
was as secure as a prisner in Botany Bay, an’ it’s a sailor he thought
he was, up in a hammock no less. Well, miss, the night was a little
dark an’ the road was shaded wud threes, an’ whin they cum to th’ ould
graveyard at Killencanick never a fut the mare ‘ud go farther.
“‘What’s the matther wud ye?’ axed Murty; but sorra an answer she med
him.
“‘Are ye bet,’ sez he, ‘an’ you so far from home?’ She riz a cupple av
kicks, as much as to say, ‘Ye hit it off that time, anyhow, Misther
Flinn!’
“‘Did ye get a dhrink at the fair beyant, Moria?’—the little mare’s
name, miss. She shuk her hed in a way that tould him that she was as
dhry as a cuckoo.
“‘Musha, musha, but that was cruel thratemint,’ sez he. ‘What’s to be
done at all, at all?’
“Well, miss, he thought for a minit, an’ he sez: ‘Moria, we’re only two
mile from the Cock an’ Blackberry, an’ I’ll tell ye what I’ll do wud
ye: you carry me wan mile, sez he, ‘an’ I’ll carry you th’ other.’”
This proposition on the part of Murty Flinn was received with a peal of
ringing laughter from Miss Hawthorne, who, with flashing eyes and an
eager expression of delighted curiosity, begged of Peter to proceed.
“Av coorse, miss,” replied the gratified Jehu. “Well, ye see the words
was hardly acrass his mouth whin, cockin’ her ears an’ her tail, th’
ould mare darted aff as if she was runnin’ for the Cunningham Coop at
Punchestown, an’ Murty swingin’ like a log round a dog’s neck all the
voyage; an’ the minnit she come to the milestone undher Headford
demesne she stopped like a dead rabbit.
“‘Where are we now?’ axed Murty.
“She sed nothin’, but rouled the car up to the milestone an’ grazed it
wud the step.
“‘Well, yer the cutest little crayture,’ sez Murty, ‘that ever wore
shoes,’ sez he; ‘an’, be the powers, as ye kept yer word wud me, I’ll
keep me word wud you.’ And he rouled aff av the car into the middle o’
the road, while th’ ould mare unyoked herself as aisy as if it was
aitin’ hay she was insted av undoin’ buckles that riz many a blisther
on Murty’s fingers; for the harness was _con_trairy, and more betoken
as rusty as a Hessian’s baggonet. When Murty seen the mare stannin’
naked in the road, he med an offer for to get up, but he was bet
intirely be raisin av the sup he tuk, an’ he cudn’t stir more nor his
arms; but the ould mare wasn’t goin’ for to be done out av her jaunt in
that way, so she cum over, an’ sazin’ him—savin’ yer presence, miss—be
the sate av his small-clothes, riz him to his feet, an’, wud a cupple
av twists, dhruv him betune the shafts av the car, an’ in a brace av
shakes had him harnessed like a racer.
“‘I’m reddy now, ma’am,’ sez Murty, mighty polite, for he seen the whip
in one av her forepaws—‘I’m reddy now, ma’am; so up wud ye, an’ I’ll go
bail we’ll not be long coverin’ the road betune this an’ the Cock an’
Blackberry.’
“Well, miss, th’ ould mare mounted the car, an’ Murty started aff as
well as he cud; but he was bet up afther runnin’ a few yards, an’ he
dhropped into a walk, but no sooner he done it than he got a welt av
the whip that med him hop.
“‘What are ye doin?’ sez he, an’ down cums the lash agin be way av an
answer.
“‘How dare ye raise yer hand to a Christian?’ sez he. A cupple av welts
follied this.
“‘I’ll not stan’ it!’ he bawled; but the more he roared an’ bawled the
heavier th’ ould mare welted, an’ he might as well be spakin’ to the
Rock o’ Cashel.
“‘Hould yer hand!’ he roared, thryin to soothe her—‘hould yer hand, an’
ye’ll have a bellyful av the finest oats in the barony—ould Tim
Collins’ best crap. Dhrop the whip, an’ sorra a taste av work ye’ll do
till next Michaelmas. I can’t thravel faster, Moria, be raisin av a
corn,’ and the like; but the mare had him, an’ she ped off ould scores,
an’ be the time they kem to the Cock an’ Blackberry poor Murty was bet
like an ould carpet, an’ he wasn’t fit for to frighten the crows out av
an oat-field. An’ that’s how it all happened, miss.”
“And did he give Moria the drink?” asked Miss Hawthorne.
“He sez he did,” replied Peter, with a peculiar grin; “but the people
that owns the public-house sez that he niver darkened their doore, an’
that he was found lying undher the yoke near the crass-roads, wud th’
ould mare grazin’ about a half a mile down the road. But it’s a thrue
story,” he added with somewhat of solemn emphasis.
“_Si non e vero e ben trovato_,” laughed our guest, as she waved us a
graceful adieu.
It was one of those lovely mornings nowhere to be found but in Ireland:
the dim, half-gray light, the heavily-perfumed air, the stillness that
imparted a sort of sad solemnity to the scene, the glorious tints of
green on hill and hollow that mellowed themselves with the sombre sky,
a something that inspires a silence that is at once a resource and a
regret. I became wrapped up in my own thoughts—so much so that,
although I held the “ribbons” I was scarcely aware of the fact, and it
was only the exclamation from Peter: “Blur an’ ages! Masther Fred, luk
out for the brudge”—a narrow structure, across which it was possible to
pass without grazing the parapet walls, and nothing more—that brought
me to my senses. My guest, in spite of the earnest instructions of
Peter, was clinging frantically to the rails at either end of the seat,
and, instead of allowing his body to swing with the motion of the
vehicle, was endeavoring to sit bolt upright, as though he were in the
House of Commons and in anxious expectation of catching the Speaker’s
eye. Upon arriving at the foot of Ballymacrow hill Peter sprang to the
ground—an example followed by myself; but Mr. Hawthorne retained his
seat, as there was plenty of walking in store for him, and my horse
could well endure the weight of one, when the weight of three would
make a very essential difference in so steep a climb.
Peter, reins in hand, walked beside the “mimber,” and in a few minutes
was engaged in “discoorsin’” him.
“Home Rule? Sorra a wan o’ me cares a thraneen for it, thin.”
“What is a thraneen?” asked Mr. Hawthorne, eager for information all
along the line.
“A thraneen is what the boys reddies their dhudeens wud,” was the
response to the query.
“I am still in ignorance.”
“Wisha, wisha! an’ this is a mimber av Parliamint,” muttered Peter,
“an’ he doesn’t know what a thraneen manes, an’ the littlest gossoon
out av Father Finnerty’s school beyant cud tell him”; adding aloud: “A
thraneen is a blade av grass that sheeps nor cows won’t ait, an’ it
sticks up in a field; there’s wan,” suiting the action to the word,
plucking it from a bank on the side of the road, and presenting it to
the member for Doodleshire.
“And so you are not a Home-Ruler, my man?”
“Sorra a bit, sir.”
“Then what are you?”
“I am a repayler. I’m for teetotal separation; that’s what Dan
O’Connell sed to Drizzlyeye.”
“What did Mr. O’Connell say to Mr. Disraeli?” asked my guest in very
Parliamentary phraseology.
“I’ll tell ye. ‘What is it yez want at all, at all, over beyant in
Hibernium?’ sez Drizzlyeye. ‘Yez are always wantin’ somethin,’ sez he,
‘an’ what the dickens do yez want now?’
“‘I’ll tell ye what we want,’ says Dan, as bould as a ram.
“‘What is it, Dan?’ sez Drizzlyeye.
“‘We want teetotal separation,’ sez Dan.
“‘Arrah, ge lang ou’ a that,’ sez Drizzlyeye. ‘Yez cudn’t get along
wudout us,’ sez he.
“‘Cudn’t we?’ sez Dan. ‘Thry us, Drizzlyeye,’ sez he. ‘How did we get
on afore?’
“‘Bad enuff,’ sez Drizzlyeye—‘bad enuff, Dan. Yez were always batin’
aich other and divartin’ yerselves, and, barrin’ the weltin’ Brian Boru
gev the Danes at Clontarf, bad cess to the haporth yez ever done, Dan.
England is yer best frind. We always play fair,’ sez he.
“‘How dar ye say that to me?’ sez Dan, takin’ the Traity av Limerick
out av his pocketbuke. ‘Luk at that documint,’ sez he, firin’ up;
‘there’s some av yer dirty work; an’ I ax ye square an’ fair,’ sez Dan,
in a hait, for he was riz, ‘if the brakin’ av that wasn’t as bad as
anything yer notorious ancesthor ever done?’ alludin’ to Drizzlyeye’s
ancesthor, the impenitint thief.
“‘That’s none of my doin’, Dan,’ sez Drizzlyeye, turnin’ white as a
banshee.
“‘I know it’s not,’ sez Dan; ‘but ye’d do it to-morrow mornin’,’ sez
he, ‘an’ that’s why I demand the repale an’ a teetotal separation.’
“‘Begorra, but I think yer right, Dan,’ sez Drizzlyeye.”
“Such an interview could not possibly have occurred,” observed the
practical Englishman.
“Cudn’t it?” with an indignant toss of the head. “I had it from
Lanty Finnegan, who heerd it from the bishop’s own body-man.” And
Peter, giving the horse a lash of the whip, dashed into the
laurestine-bordered avenue leading up to the cosey cottage wherein
resided the “darlintest priest outside av Room,” Father Myles
O’Dowd.
Father O’Dowd’s residence was a long, single-storied house, whitewashed
to a dazzling whiteness, and thatched with straw the color of the amber
wept by the sorrowing seabird. A border of blood-red geraniums ran
along the entire _façade_, and the gable ends were embowered in
honeysuckle and clematis. A rustic porch entwined with Virginia creeper
jealously guarded the entrance, boldly backed up by the “iligantest
ratter in the barony” in the shape of a bandy-legged terrier, who
winked a sort of facetious welcome at Peter and bestowed a cough-like
bark of recognition upon me. The parlor was a genuine snuggery,
“papered with books,” all of which, from St. Thomas of Aquinas to
Father Perrone, were of the rarest and choicest theological reading.
Nor were the secular authors left out in the cold, to which the
well-thumbed volumes of the Waverley Novels and the immortal _facetiæ_
of Dickens bore ample testimony. A charming copy of Raphael’s
masterpiece stood opposite the door, the glorious eyes of the Virgin
Mother lighting the apartment with a soft and holy radiance, while the
fresh and rosy flesh-tints of the divine Infant bespoke the workmanship
as being that of a _maestro_. A portrait of Henry Grattan hung over the
chimney-piece, and facing it, between the windows, a print of the
review of the volunteers in College Green, while some dozen valuable
engravings, all of a sacred character, adorned the walls in graceful
profusion. A statuette of the Holy Father occupied a niche specially
prepared for it, and an old brass-bound rosewood bureau, black as ebony
from age, sternly asserted itself in defiance of a hustling crowd of
horse-hair-seated chairs; a shining sofa a little the worse for the
wear, and presenting a series of comfortless ridges to the unwary
sitter, and a genuine Domingo mahogany table bearing an honest corned
beef and cabbage and “boiled leg with” completed a picture that was at
once refreshing and invigorating to behold.
“Shure he’s only acrass the bog, Masther Fred,” exclaimed Biddy
Finnegan, the housekeeper, with a joyous smile illuminating the very
frills of her old-world white cap, “an’ I’ll send wan av the boys for
him. He’d be sore an’ sorry for to miss ye, sir. An’ how’s the
misthress—God be good to her!—an’ the major, whin ye heerd av him? It’s
himself that’s kindly and dhroll.” And Biddy, dusting the sofa,
requested the member for Doodleshire to take a “sate.”
“Won’t ye have a sup o’ somethin’ afther yer jaunt, Masther Fred, or
this gintleman? Och! but here’s himself now.”
Father O’Dowd had been attached to Imogeela since his ordination—a
period of thirty years, during twenty-five of which he was its devoted
parish priest. Respectfully declining the promotion in the church which
his piety, erudition, and talents claimed for him as their natural
heritage, he clung with paternal fondness to his little parish,
ministering to the spiritual wants of his flock with an earnest and
holy watchfulness that was repaid to the uttermost by a childlike and
truthful obedience. To his parishioners he was all, everything—guide,
philosopher, friend. He shared their joys and their sorrows, their
hopes and their fears. He whispered hope when the sky was overcast,
urging moderation when the sun was at its brightest. He had christened
every child and married every adult in the parish; and those, alas! so
many, lying beneath the green grass in the churchyard of Imogeela had
been soothed to their long, long rest by the words of heavenly
consolation from his pious lips. Ever at his post, the cold, bleak
nights of winter would find him wending his way through rugged
mountain-passes, fording swollen streams, or wading treacherous bogs to
attend to the wants of the sick and dying, while a granite boulder or
the stump of a felled tree, the blue canopy of heaven overhead, has
upon many memorable occasions constituted his confessional. A profound
scholar, a finished gentleman, and, despite his surroundings, a good
deal a man of the world, I was proud, exceedingly proud, to be enabled
to present to Mr. Hawthorne so true a specimen of that order which Lord
John Russell had been pleased to describe as “surpliced ruffians.”
The priest entered, a smile illuminating his expressive face like a ray
of sunlight. Stretching forth both hands, he bade me welcome,
exclaiming: “Ah! you have made your pilgrimage at last; you come, as
old Horace hath it, _inter silvas Academi quærere verum_. How is your
excellent mother? I received your joint epistle, and I hope you got my
promissory note, due almost at sight.”
Father O’Dowd was about fifty-five or fifty-six; hale, handsome, and
muscular; his silken, snow-white hair and ruddy complexion, with his
lustrous, dark blue eyes and glittering teeth, giving him an air of
genial cordiality pronounceable at a single glance. Tall, sunburnt, and
powerfully built, he carried that solidity of gesture and firmness of
tread sometimes so marked in muscular Christianity. I saw with feelings
of intense pleasure that my guest was both pleased and impressed—an
impression strengthened by the cordial greeting which the worthy priest
extended to him.
“Welcome to Ireland, Mr. Hawthorne. It’s about the best thing Strongbow
ever did for me—the pleasure of seeing a friend of my dear young
friend’s here. Collectively you Saxons hate us; individually you find
us not quite the lawless savages the _Pall Mall Gazette_ and
_Spectator_ would make us.”
“We want to know you better,” said the M.P.
“Ah! that’s the rub. You don’t know us, and never will know us; but
_we_ know _you_. Englishmen come over to Ireland, believing that a real
knowledge of the country is not to be acquired from newspapers, but
that a man must see Ireland for himself. They come; they go; and all
they pick up is a little of our brogue. We never can hope for much more
than what Lucan calls _concordia discors_.”
“I believe if Ireland were to take the same stand as Scotland—”
“Scotland me no Scotland,” laughed Father O’Dowd.
“Scotland is contented and thrifty.”