“To bore, is it? — Well, don’t bore me about it. I can’t give you any answer now, my good friend; I am engaged.”
Out he strutted. “Stick to him up the town, if you have a mind to get your answer,” whispered the woman. Lord Colambre followed, for he wished to see the end of this scene.
“Well, sir, what are you following and sticking to me, like my shadow, for?” said Mr. Dennis, turning suddenly upon Lord Colambre.
His lordship bowed low. “Waiting for my answer, sir, when you are at leisure. Or, may I call upon you to-morrow?”
“You seem to be a civil kind of fellow; but, as to boring, I don’t know — if you undertake it at your own expense. I dare say there may be minerals in the ground. Well, you may call at the castle to-morrow, and when my brother has done with the tenantry, I’ll speak to him for you, and we’ll consult together, and see what we think. It’s too late to-night. In Ireland, nobody speaks to a gentleman about business after dinner, — your servant, sir; any body can show you the way to the castle in the morning.” And, pushing by his lordship, he called to a man on the other side of the street, who had obviously been waiting for him; he went under a gateway with this man, and gave him a bag of guineas. He then called for his horse, which was brought to him by a man whom Lord Colambre had heard declaring that he would bid for the land that was advertised; whilst another, who had the same intentions, most respectfully held his stirrup, whilst he mounted without thanking either of these men. St. Dennis clapped spurs to his steed, and rode away. No thanks, indeed, were deserved; for the moment he was out of hearing, both cursed him after the manner of their country.
“Bad luck go with you, then! — And may you break your neck before you get home, if it was not for the lase I’m to get, and that’s paid for.”
Lord Colambre followed the crowd into a public-house, where a new scene presented itself to his view.
The man to whom St. Dennis gave the bag of gold was now selling this very gold to the tenants, who were to pay their rent next day at the castle.
The agent would take nothing but gold. The same guineas were bought and sold several times over, to the great profit of the agent and loss of the poor tenants; for as the rents were paid, the guineas were resold to another set: and the remittances made through bankers to the landlord, who, as the poor man that explained the transaction to Lord Colambre expressed it, “gained nothing by the business, bad or good, but the ill-will of the tenantry.”
The higgling for the price of the gold; the time lost in disputing about the goodness of the notes, among some poor tenants, who could not read or write, and who were at the mercy of the man with the bag in his hand; the vexation, the useless harassing of all who were obliged to submit ultimately — Lord Colambre saw: and all this time he endured the smell of tobacco and whiskey, and the sound of various brogues, the din of men wrangling, brawling, threatening, whining, drawling, cajoling, cursing, and every variety of wretchedness.
“And is this my father’s town of Clonbrony?” thought Lord Colambre. “Is this Ireland? No, it is not Ireland. Let me not, like most of those who forsake their native country, traduce it. Let me not, even to my own mind, commit the injustice of taking a speck for the whole. What I have just seen is the picture only of that to which an Irish estate and Irish tenantry may be degraded in the absence of those whose duty and interest it is to reside in Ireland, to uphold justice by example and authority; but who, neglecting this duty, commit power to bad hands and bad hearts — abandon their tenantry to oppression, and their property to ruin.”
It was now fine moonlight, and Lord Colambre met with a boy, who said he could show him a short way across the fields to the widow O’Neil’s cottage.
CHAPTER XII.
All were asleep at the cottage, when Lord Colambre arrived, except the widow, who was sitting up, waiting for him; and who had brought her dog into the house, that he might not fly at him, or bark at his return. She had a roast chicken ready for her guest, and it was — but this she never told him — the only chicken she had left; all the others had been sent with the duty fowl, as a present to the under-agent’s lady. While he was eating his supper, which he ate with the better appetite, as he had had no dinner, the good woman took down from the shelf a pocket-book, which she gave him: “Is not that your book?” said she. “My boy Brian found it after you in the potatoe furrow, where you dropped it.”
“Thank you,” said Lord Colambre; “there are bank notes in it, which I could not afford to lose.”
“Are there?” said she: “he never opened it — nor I.”
Then, in answer to his inquiries about Grace and the young man, the widow answered, “They are all in heart now, I thank ye kindly, sir, for asking; they’ll sleep easy to-night, any way, and I’m in great spirits for them and myself — for all’s smooth now. After we parted you, Brian saw Mr. Dennis himself about the lase and memorandum, which he never denied, but knew nothing about. ‘But, be that as it may,’ says he, ‘you’re improving tenants, and I’m confident my brother will consider ye; so what you’ll do is, you’ll give up the possession to-morrow to myself, that will call for it by cock-crow, just for form’s sake; and then go up to the castle with the new lase ready drawn, in your hand, and if all’s paid off clear of the rent, and all that’s due, you’ll get the new lase signed: I’ll promise you this upon the word and honour of a gentleman.’ And there’s no going beyond that, you know, sir. So my boy came home as light as a feather, and as gay as a lark, to bring us the good news; only he was afraid we might not make up the rent, guineas and all; and because he could not get paid for the work he done, on account of the mistake in the overseer’s tally, I sold the cow to a neighbour, dog-cheap; but needs must, as they say, when Old Nick drives,” said the widow, smiling. “Well, still it was but paper we got for the cow; then that must be gold before the agent would take or touch it — so I was laying out to sell the dresser, and had taken the plates and cups, and little things off it, and my boy was lifting it out with Andy the carpenter, that was agreeing for it, when in comes Grace, all rosy and out of breath — it’s a wonder I never minded her run out, nor ever missed her. ‘Mother,’ says she, ‘here’s the gold for you; don’t be stirring your dresser.’—’And where’s your gown and cloak, Grace?’ says I. But, I beg your pardon, sir; may be, I’m tiring you?”
Lord Colambre encouraged her to go on.
“‘Where’s your gown and cloak, Grace?’ says I. ‘Gone,’ says she. ‘The cloak was too warm and heavy, and I don’ doubt, mother, but it was that helped to make me faint this morning. And as to the gown, sure I’ve a very nice one here, that you spun for me yourself, mother; and that I prize above all the gowns ever came out of a loom; and that Brian said become me to his fancy above any gown ever he see me wear; and what could I wish for more?’ Now I’d a mind to scold her for going to sell the gown unknown’st to me, but I don’t know how it was, I couldn’t scold her just then, so kissed her, and Brian the same, and that was what no man ever did before. And she had a mind to be angry with him, but could not, nor ought not, says I, ‘for he’s as good as your husband now, Grace; and no man can part yees now,’ says I, putting their hands together. Well, I never saw her look so pretty; nor there was not a happier boy that minute on God’s earth than my son, nor a happier mother than myself; and I thanked God, that had given them to me; and down they both fell on their knees for my blessing, little worth as it was; and my heart’s blessing they had, and I laid my hands upon them. ‘It’s the priest you must get to do this for you to-morrow,’ says I. And Brian just held up the ring, to show me all was ready on his part, but could not speak. ‘Then there’s no America between us any more!’ said Grace, low to me, and her heart was on her lips; but the colour came and went, and I was afeard she’d have swooned again, but not for sorrow, so I carried her off. Well, if she was not my own — but she is not my own born, so I may say it — there never was a better girl, not a more kind-hearted, nor generous; never thinking any thing she could do, or give, too much f
or them she loved, and any thing at all would do for herself; the sweetest natured and tempered both, and always was, from this high; the bond that held all together, and joy of the house.”
“Just like her namesake,” cried Lord Colambre.
“Plase your honour!”
“Is not it late?” said Lord Colambre, stretching himself and gaping; “I’ve walked a great way to-day.”
The old woman lighted his rushlight, showed him to his red check bed, and wished him a very good night; not without some slight sentiment of displeasure at his gaping thus at the panegyric on her darling Grace. Before she left the room, however, her short-lived resentment vanished, upon his saying, that he hoped, with her permission, to be present at the wedding of the young couple.
Early in the morning Brian went to the priest, to ask his reverence when it would be convenient to marry him; and whilst he was gone, Mr. Dennis Garraghty came to the cottage, to receive the rent and possession. The rent was ready, in gold, and counted into his hand.
“No occasion for a receipt; for a new lase is a receipt in full for every thing.”
“Very well, sir,” said the widow; “I know nothing of law. You know best — whatever you direct — for you are acting as a friend to us now. My son got the attorney to draw the pair of new lases yesterday, and here they are ready, all to signing.”
Mr. Dennis said, his brother must settle that part of the business, and that they must carry them up to the castle; “but first give me the possession.”
Then, as he instructed her, she gave up the key of the door to him, and a bit of the thatch of the house; and he raked out the fire, and said every living creature must go out. “It’s only form of law,” said he.
“And must my lodger get up, and turn out, sir?” said she.
“He must turn out, to be sure — not a living soul must he left in it, or it’s no legal possession, properly. Who is your lodger?”
On Lord Colambre’s appearing, Mr. Dennis showed some surprise, and said, “I thought you were lodging at Brannagan’s; are not you the man who spoke to me at his house about the gold mines?”
“No, sir, he never lodged at Brannagan’s,” said the widow.
“Yes, sir, I am the person who spoke to you about the gold mines at Brannagan’s; but I did not like to lodge—”
“Well, no matter where you liked to lodge; you must walk out of this lodging now, if you please, my good friend.”
So Mr. Dennis pushed his lordship out by the shoulders, repeating, as the widow turned back, and looked with some surprise and alarm, “only for form sake, only for form sake!” then locking the door, took the key, and put it into his pocket. The widow held out her hand for it: “The form’s gone through now, sir; is not it? Be plased to let us in again.”
“When the new lease is signed, I’ll give you possession again; but not till then — for that’s the law. So make away with you to the castle; and mind,” added he, winking slily, “mind you take sealing-money with you, and something to buy gloves.”
“Oh, where will I find all that?” said the widow.
“I have it, mother; don’t fret,” said Grace. “I have it — the price of — what I can want. So let us go off to the castle without delay. Brian will meet us on the road, you know.”
[Footnote 1: What I can do without.]
They set off for Clonbrony Castle, Lord Colambre accompanying them. Brian met them on the road. “Father Tom is ready, dear mother; bring her in, and he’ll marry us. I’m not my own man till she’s mine. Who knows what may happen?”
“Who knows? that’s true,” said the widow.
“Better go to the castle first,” said Grace.
“And keep the priest waiting! You can’t use his reverence so,” said Brian.
So she let him lead her into the priest’s house, and she did not make any of the awkward draggings back, or ridiculous scenes of grimace sometimes exhibited on these occasions; but blushing rosy red, yet with more self-possession than could have been expected from her timid nature, she gave her hand to the man she loved, and listened with attentive devotion to the holy ceremony.
“Ah!” thought Lord Colambre, whilst he congratulated the bride, “shall I ever be as happy as these poor people are at this moment?” He longed to make them some little present, but all he could venture at this moment was to pay the priest’s dues.
The priest positively refused to take any thing.
“They are the best couple in my parish,” said he; “and I’ll take nothing, sir, from you, a stranger and my guest.”
“Now, come what will, I’m a match for it. No trouble can touch me,” said Brian.
“Oh, don’t be bragging,” said the widow.
“Whatever trouble God sends, he has given one now will help to bear it, and sure I may be thankful,” said Grace.
“Such good hearts must be happy, — shall be happy!” said Lord Colambre.
“Oh, you’re very kind,” said the widow, smiling; “and I wouldn’t doubt you, if you had the power. I hope, then, the agent will give you encouragement about them mines, that we may keep you among us.”
“I am determined to settle among you, warm-hearted, generous people!” cried Lord Colambre; “whether the agent gives me encouragement or not,” added he.
It was a long walk to Clonbrony Castle; the old woman, as she said herself, would not have been able for it, but for a lift given to her by a friendly carman, whom she overtook on the road with an empty car. This carman was Finnucan, who dissipated Lord Colambre’s fears of meeting and being recognized by Mrs. Raffarty; for he, in answer to the question of “Who is at the castle?” replied, “Mrs. Raffarty will be in it afore night; but she’s on the road still. There’s none but Old Nick in it yet; and he’s more of a neger than ever; for think, that he would not pay me a farthing for the carriage of his shister’s boxes and band-boxes down. If you’re going to have any dealings with him, God grant ye a safe deliverance!”
“Amen!” said the widow, and her son and daughter.
Lord Colambre’s attention was now engaged by the view of the castle and park of Clonbrony. He had not seen it since he was six years old. Some faint reminiscence from his childhood made him feel or fancy that he knew the place. It was a fine castle, spacious park; but all about it, from the broken piers at the great entrance, to the mossy gravel and loose steps at the hall-door, had an air of desertion and melancholy. Walks overgrown, shrubberies wild, plantations run up into bare poles; fine trees cut down, and lying on the ground in lots to be sold. A hill that had been covered with an oak wood, where in his childhood our hero used to play, and which he called the black forest, was gone; nothing to be seen but the white stumps of the trees, for it had been freshly cut down, to make up the last remittances.—”And how it went, when sold! — but no matter,” said Finnucan; “it’s all alike. — It’s the back way into the yard, I’ll take you, I suppose.”
“And such a yard! but it’s no matter,” repeated Lord Colambre to himself; “it’s all alike.”
In the kitchen, a great dinner was dressing for Mr. Garraghty’s friends, who were to make merry with him when the business of the day was over.
“Where’s the keys of the cellar, till I get out the claret for after dinner,” says one; “and the wine for the cook — sure there’s venison,” cries another.—”Venison! — That’s the way my lord’s deer goes,” says a third, laughing.—”Ay, sure! and very proper, when he’s not here to eat ‘em.”—”Keep your nose out of the kitchen, young man, if you plase,” said the agent’s cook, shutting the door in Lord Colambre’s face. “There’s the way to the office, if you’ve money to pay, up the back stairs.”
“No; up the grand staircase they must, — Mr. Garraghty ordered,” said the footman; “because the office is damp for him, and it’s not there he’ll see any body to-day; but in my lady’s dressing-room.”
So up the grand staircase they went, and through the magnificent apartments, hung with pictures of great value, spoiling
with damp.
“Then, isn’t it a pity to see them? There’s my lady, and all spoiling,” said the widow.
Lord Colambre stopped before a portrait of Miss Nugent—”Shamefully damaged!” cried he.
“Pass on, or let me pass, if you plase,” said one of the tenants; “and don’t be stopping the door-way.”
“I have business more nor you with the agent,” said the surveyor; “where is he?”
“In the presence-chamber,” replied another: “Where should the viceroy be but in the presence-chamber?”
There was a full levee, and fine smell of great coats.—”Oh! would you put your hats on the silk cushions?” said the widow to some men in the doorway, who were throwing off their greasy hats on a damask sofa.
“Why not? where else?”
“If the lady was in it, you wouldn’t,” said she, sighing.
“No, to be sure, I wouldn’t: great news! would I make no differ in the presence of Old Nick and my lady?” said he, in Irish. “Have I no sense or manners, good woman, think ye?” added he, as he shook the ink out of the pen on the Wilton carpet, when he had finished signing his name to a paper on his knee.
“You may wait long before you get to the speech of the great man,” said another, who was working his way through numbers.
They continued pushing forward, till they came within sight of Mr. Nicholas Garraghty, seated in state; and a worse countenance, or a more perfect picture of an insolent, petty tyrant in office, Lord Colambre had never beheld.
We forbear all further detail of this levee. “It’s all the same!” as Lord Colambre repeated to himself, on every fresh instance of roguery or oppression to which he was witness; and having completely made up his mind on the subject, he sat down quietly in the back-ground, waiting till it should come to the widow’s turn to be dealt with, for he was now interested only to see how she would be treated. The room gradually thinned I Mr. Dennis Garraghty came in, and sat down at the table, to help his brother to count the heaps of gold.
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