It is a high testimony to that order of architecture which we call
castle-building, that no man ever lived in a house so fine he could not
build one more stately still out of his imagination. Nor is it only to
grandeur and splendor this superiority extends, but it can invest lowly
situations and homely places with a charm which, alas! no reality can
rival.
Conyers was a fortunate fellow in a number of ways; he was young,
good-looking, healthy, and rich. Fate had made place for him on the very
sunniest side of the causeway, and, with all that, he was happier on
that day, through the mere play of his fancy, than all his wealth could
have made him. He had fashioned out a life for himself in that cottage,
very charming, and very enjoyable in its way. He would make it such a
spot that it would have resources for him on every hand, and he hugged
himself in the thought of coming down here with a friend, or, perhaps,
two friends, to pass days of that luxurious indolence so fascinating to
those who are, or fancy they are, wearied of life's pomps and vanities.
Now there are no such scoffers at the frivolity and emptiness of human
wishes as the well-to-do young fellows of two or three-and-twenty.
They know the “whole thing,” and its utter rottenness. They smile
compassionately at the eagerness of all around them; they look with
bland pity at the race, and contemptuously ask, of what value the prize
when it is won? They do their very best to be gloomy moralists, but they
cannot. They might as well try to shiver when they sit in the sunshine.
The vigorous beat of young hearts, and the full tide of young pulses,
will tell against all the mock misanthropy that ever was fabricated! It
would not be exactly fair to rank Conyers in this school, and yet he was
not totally exempt from some of its teachings. Who knows if these little
imaginary glooms, these brain-created miseries, are not a kind of
moral “alterative” which, though depressing at the instant, render the
constitution only more vigorous after?
At all events, he had resolved to have the cottage, and, going
practically to work, he called Darby to his counsels to tell him the
extent of the place, its boundaries, and whatever information he could
afford as to the tenure and its rent.
“You 'd be for buying it, your honor!” said Darby, with the keen
quick-sightedness of his order.
“Perhaps I had some thoughts of the kind; and, if so, I should keep you
on.”
Darby bowed his gratitude very respectfully. It was too long a vista
for him to strain his eyes at, and so he made no profuse display of
thankfulness. With all their imaginative tendencies, the lower Irish are
a very bird-in-the-hand sort of people.
“Not more than seventeen acres!” cried Conyers, in astonishment. “Why, I
should have guessed about forty, at least. Isn't that wood there part of
it?”
“Yes, but it's only a strip, and the trees that you see yonder is in
Carriclough; and them two meadows below the salmon weir is n't ours at
all; and the island itself we have only a lease of it.”
“It's all in capital repair, well kept, well looked after?”
“Well, it is, and isn't!” said he, with a look of disagreement. “He'd
have one thing, and she'd have another; _he_ 'd spend every shilling he
could get on the place, and _she_ 'd grudge a brush of paint, or a coat
of whitewash, just to keep things together.”
“I see nothing amiss here,” said Conyers, looking around him. “Nobody
could ask or wish a cottage to be neater, better furnished, or more
comfortable. I confess I do not perceive anything wanting.”
“Oh, to be sure, it's very nate, as your honor says; but then--” And he
scratched his head, and looked confused.
“But then, what--out with it?”
“The earwigs is dreadful; wherever there 's roses and sweetbrier there's
no livin' with them. Open the window and the place is full of them.”
Mistaking the surprise he saw depicted in his hearer's face for terror,
Darby launched forth into a description of insect and reptile tortures
that might have suited the tropics; to hear him, all the stories of the
white ant of India, or the gallinipper of Demerara, were nothing to the
destructive powers of the Irish earwig. The place was known for them all
over the country, and it was years and years lying empty, “by rayson of
thim plagues.”
Now, if Conyers was not intimidated to the full extent Darby intended by
this account, he was just as far from guessing the secret cause of
this representation, which was simply a long-settled plan of succeeding
himself to the ownership of the “Fisherman's Home,” when, either from
the course of nature or an accident, a vacancy would occur. It was the
grand dream of Darby's life, the island of his Government, his seat in
the Cabinet, his Judgeship, his Garter, his everything, in short, that
makes human ambition like a cup brimful and overflowing; and what a
terrible reverse would it be if all these hopes were to be dashed just
to gratify the passing caprice of a mere traveller!
“I don't suppose your honor cares for money, and, maybe, you 'd as soon
pay twice over the worth of anything; but here, between our two selves,
I can tell you, you 'd buy an estate in the county cheaper than this
little place. They think, because they planted most of the trees and
made the fences themselves, that it's like the King's Park. It's a fancy
spot, and a fancy price, they'll ask for it But I know of another worth
ten of it,--a real, elegant place; to be sure, it's a trifle out of
repair, for the ould naygur that has it won't lay out a sixpence, but
there 's every con-vaniency in life about it. There's the finest cup
potatoes, the biggest turnips ever I see on it, and fish jumpin' into
the parlor-window, and hares runnin' about like rats.”
“I don't care for all that; this cottage and these grounds here have
taken my fancy.”
“And why would n't the other, when you seen it? The ould Major that
lives there wants to sell it, and you 'd get it a raal bargain. Let me
row your honor up there this evening. It's not two miles off, and the
river beautiful all the way.”
Conyers rejected the proposal abruptly, haughtily. Darby had dared to
throw down a very imposing card-edifice, and for the moment the fellow
was odious to him. All the golden visions of his early morning, that
poetized life he was to lead, that elegant pastoralism, which was to
blend the splendor of Lucullus with the simplicity of a Tityrus, all
rent, torn, and scattered by a vile hind, who had not even a conception
of the ruin he had caused.
And yet Darby had a misty consciousness of some success. He did not,
indeed, know that his shell had exploded in a magazine; but he saw,
from the confusion in the garrison, that his shot had told severely
somewhere.
“Maybe your honor would rather go to-morrow? or maybe you 'd like the
Major to come up here himself, and speak to you?”
“Once for all, I tell you, No! Is that plain? No! And I may add, my good
fellow, that if you knew me a little better, you 'd not tender me any
advice I did not ask for.”
“And why would I? Would n't I be a baste if I did?”
“I think so,” said Conyers, dryly, and turned away. He was out of temper
with everything and everybody,--the doctor, and his abject manner;
Tom, and his roughness; Darby, and his roguish air of self-satisfied
craftiness; all, for the moment, displeased and offended him. “I 'll
leave the place to-morrow; I 'm not sure I shall not go to-night D'ye
hear?”
Darby bowed respectfully.
“I suppose I can reach some spot, by boat, where a carriage can be had?”
“By coorse, your honor. At Hunt's Mills, or Shibna-brack, you 'll get
a car easy enough. I won't say it will be an elegant convaniency, but a
good horse will rowl you along into Thomastown, where you can change for
a shay.”
Strange enough, this very facility of escape annoyed him. Had Darby
only told him that there were all manner of difficulties to getting
away,--that there were shallows in the river, or a landslip across the
road,--he would have addressed himself to overcome the obstacles like a
man; but to hear that the course was open, that any one might take it,
was intolerable.
“I suppose, your honor, I 'd better get the boat ready, at all events?”
“Yes, certainly,--that is, not till I give further orders. I 'm the
only stranger here, and I can't imagine there can be much difficulty in
having a boat at any hour. Leave me, my good fellow; you only worry me.
Go!”
And Darby moved away, revolving within himself the curious problem, that
if, having plenty of money enlarged a man's means of enjoyment, it was
strange how little effect it produced upon his manners. As for Conyers,
he stood moodily gazing on the river, over whose placid surface a few
heavy raindrops were just falling; great clouds, too, rolled heavily
over the hillsides, and gathered into ominous-looking masses over the
stream, while a low moaning sound of very far-off thunder foretold a
storm.
Here, at least, was a good tangible grievance, and he hugged it to his
heart. He was weather-bound! The tree-tops were already shaking wildly,
and dark scuds flying fast over the mottled sky. It was clear that a
severe storm was near. “No help for it now,” muttered he, “if I must
remain here till to-morrow.” And hobbling as well as he could into
the house, he seated himself at the window to watch the hurricane. Too
closely pent up between the steep sides of the river for anything like
destructive power, the wind only shook the trees violently, or swept
along the stream with tiny waves, which warred against the current; but
even these were soon beaten down by the rain,--that heavy, swooping,
splashing rain, that seems to come from the overflowing of a lake in the
clouds. Darker and darker grew the atmosphere as it fell, till the banks
of the opposite side were gradually lost to view, while the river itself
became a yellow flood, surging up amongst the willows that lined the
banks. It was not one of those storms whose grand effects of lightning,
aided by pealing thunder, create a sense of sublime terror, that has its
own ecstasy; but it was one of those dreary evenings when the dull sky
shows no streak of light, and when the moist earth gives up no perfume,
when foliage and hillside and rock and stream are leaden-colored and
sad, and one wishes for winter, to close the shutter and draw the
curtain, and creep close to the chimney-corner as to a refuge.
Oh, what comfortless things are these summer storms! They come upon us
like some dire disaster in a time of festivity. They swoop down upon our
days of sunshine like a pestilence, and turn our joy into gloom, and
all our gladness to despondency, bringing back to our minds memories of
comfortless journeys, weariful ploddings, long nights of suffering.
I am but telling what Conyers felt at this sudden change of weather. You
and I, my good reader, know better. We feel how gladly the parched earth
drinks up the refreshing draught, how the seared grass bends gratefully
to the skimming rain, and the fresh buds open with joy to catch the
pearly drops. We know, too, how the atmosphere, long imprisoned, bursts
forth into a joyous freedom, and comes back to us fresh from the sea and
the mountain rich in odor and redolent of health, making the very air
breathe an exquisite luxury. We know all this, and much more that he did
not care for.
Now Conyers was only “bored,” as if anything could be much worse; that
is to say, he was in that state of mind in which resources yield no
distraction, and nothing is invested with an interest sufficient to make
it even passingly amusing. He wanted to do something, though the precise
something did not occur to him. Had he been well, and in full enjoyment
of his strength, he 'd have sallied out into the storm and walked off
his ennui by a wetting. Even a cold would be a good exchange for the
dreary blue-devilism of his depression; but this escape was denied
him, and he was left to fret, and chafe, and fever himself, moving from
window to chimney-corner, and from chimney-corner to sofa, till at last,
baited by self-tormentings, he opened his door and sallied forth to
wander through the rooms, taking his chance where his steps might lead
him.
Between the gloomy influences of the storm and the shadows of a
declining day he could mark but indistinctly the details of the rooms
he was exploring. They presented little that was remarkable; they were
modestly furnished, nothing costly nor expensive anywhere, but a degree
of homely comfort rare to find in an inn. They had, above all, that
habitable look which so seldom pertains to a house of entertainment,
and, in the loosely scattered books, prints, and maps showed a sort of
flattering trustfulness in the stranger who might sojourn there. His
wanderings led him, at length, into a somewhat more pretentious room,
with a piano and a harp, at one angle of which a little octangular
tower opened, with windows in every face, and the spaces between them
completely covered by miniatures in oil, or small cabinet pictures. A
small table with a chess-board stood here, and an unfinished game yet
remained on the board. As Conyers bent over to look, he perceived that a
book, whose leaves were held open by a smelling-bottle, lay on the chair
next the table. He took this up, and saw that it was a little volume
treating of the game, and that the pieces on the board represented a
problem. With the eagerness of a man thirsting for some occupation, he
seated himself at the table, and set to work at the question. “A Mate in
Six Moves” it was headed, but the pieces had been already disturbed by
some one attempting the solution. He replaced them by the directions of
the volume, and devoted himself earnestly to the task. He was not a good
player, and the problem posed him. He tried it again and again, but ever
unsuccessfully. He fancied that up to a certain point he had followed
the right track, and repeated the same opening moves each time.
Meanwhile the evening was fast closing in, and it was only with
difficulty he could see the pieces on the board.
[Illustration: 126]
Bending low over the table, he was straining his eyes at the game, when
a low, gentle voice from behind his chair said, “Would you not wish
candles, sir? It is too dark to see here.”
Conyers turned hastily, and as hastily recognized that the person who
addressed him was a gentlewoman. He arose at once, and made a sort of
apology for his intruding.
“Had I known you were a chess-player, sir,” said she, with the demure
gravity of a composed manner, “I believe I should have sent you a
challenge; for my brother, who is my usual adversary, is from home.”
“If I should prove a very unworthy enemy, madam, you will find me a very
grateful one, for I am sorely tired of my own company.”
“In that case, sir, I beg to offer you mine, and a cup of tea along with
it.”
[Illustration: 126]
Conyers accepted the invitation joyfully, and followed Miss Barrington
to a small but most comfortable little room, where a tea equipage of
exquisite old china was already prepared.
“I see you are in admiration of my teacups; they are the rare Canton
blue, for we tea-drinkers have as much epicurism in the form and color
of a cup as wine-bibbers profess to have in a hock or a claret glass.
Pray take the sofa; you will find it more comfortable than a chair. I am
aware you have had an accident.”
Very few and simple as were her words, she threw into her manner a
degree of courtesy that seemed actual kindness; and coming, as this did,
after his late solitude and gloom, no wonder was it that Conyers was
charmed with it. There was, besides, a quaint formality--a sort of
old-world politeness in her breeding--which relieved the interview of
awkwardness by taking it out of the common category of such events.
When tea was over, they sat down to chess, at which Conyers had merely
proficiency enough to be worth beating. Perhaps the quality stood him
in good stead; perhaps certain others, such as his good looks and his
pleasing manners, were even better aids to him; but certain it is, Miss
Barrington liked her guest, and when, on arising to say good-night, he
made a bungling attempt to apologize for having prolonged his stay at
the cottage beyond the period which suited their plans, she stopped
him by saying, with much courtesy, “It is true, sir, we are about to
relinquish the inn, but pray do not deprive us of the great pleasure
we should feel in associating its last day or two with a most agreeable
guest. I hope you will remain till my brother comes back and makes your
acquaintance.”
Conyers very cordially accepted the proposal, and went off to his bed
far better pleased with himself and with all the world than he well
believed it possible he could be a couple of hours before.