"Them's beautiful streets, any how!" said Mike, "av they wasn't kept so
dirty, and the houses so dark, and the pavement bad. That's Mr. Beamish's,
that fine house there with the brass rapper and the green lamp beside it;
and there's the hospital. Faix, and there's the place we beat the police
when I was here before; and the house with the sign of the Highlander is
thrown down; and what's the big building with the stone posts at the door?"

"The bank, sir," said the postilion, with a most deferential air as Mike
addressed him. "What bank, acushla?"

"Not a one of me knows, sir; but they call it the bank, though it's only an
empty house."

"Cary and Moore's bank, perhaps?" said I, having heard that in days long
past some such names had failed in Cork for a large amount.

"So it is; your honor's right," cried the postilion; while Mike, standing
up on the box, and menacing the house with his clinched fist, shouted out
at the very top of his voice:

"Oh, bad luck to your cobwebbed windows and iron railings! Sure, it's my
father's son ought to hate the sight of you."

"I hope, Mike, your father never trusted his property in such hands?"

"I don't suspect he did, your honor. He never put much belief in the banks;
but the house cost him dear enough without that."

As I could not help feeling some curiosity in this matter, I pressed Mickey
for an explanation.

"But maybe it's not Cary and Moore's, after all; and I may be cursing
dacent people."

Having reassured his mind by telling him that the reservation he made by
the doubt would tell in their favor should he prove mistaken, he afforded
me the following information:--

"When my father--the heavens be his bed!--was in the 'Cork,' they put him
one night on guard at that same big house you just passed, av it was the
same; but if it wasn't that, it was another. And it was a beautiful fine
night in August and the moon up, and plenty of people walking about,
and all kinds of fun and devilment going on,--drinking and dancing and
everything.

"Well, my father was stuck up there with his musket, to walk up and down,
and not say, 'God save you kindly,' or the time of day or anything, but
just march as if he was in the barrack-yard; and by reason of his being the
man he was he didn't like it half, but kept cursing and swearing to himself
like mad when he saw pleasant fellows and pretty girls going by, laughing
and joking.

"'Good-evening, Mickey,' says one. 'Fine sport ye have all to yourself,
with your long feather in your cap.'

"'Arrah, look how proud he is,' says another, 'with his head up as if he
didn't see a body.'

"'Shoulder, hoo!' cried a drunken chap, with a shovel in his hand. Then
they all began laughing away at my father.

"'Let the dacent man alone,' said an ould fellow in a wig. 'Isn't he
guarding the bank, wid all the money in it?'

"'Faix, he isn't,' says another; 'for there's none left.'

"'What's that you're saying?' says my father.

"'Just that the bank's broke; devil a more!' says he.

"'And there's no goold in it?' says my father.

'"Divil a guinea.'

"'Nor silver?'

"'No, nor silver; nor as much as sixpence, either.'

"'Didn't ye hear that all day yesterday when the people was coming in with
their notes, the chaps there were heating the guineas in a frying-pan,
pretending that they were making them as fast as they could; and sure, when
they had a batch red-hot they spread them out to cool; and what betune the
hating and the cooling, and the burning the fingers counting them, they
kept the bank open to three o'clock, and then they ran away.'

"'Is it truth yer telling?' says my father.

"'Sorra word o' lie in it! Myself had two-and-fourpence of their notes.'

"'And so they're broke,' says my father, 'and nothing left?'

"'Not a brass farden.'

"'And what am I staying here for, I wonder, if there's nothing to guard?'

"'Faix, if it isn't for the pride of the thing--'

"'Oh, sorra taste!'

"'Well, may be for divarsion.'

"'Nor that either.'

"'Faix, then you're a droll man, to spend the evening that way,' says he;
and all the crowd--for there was a crowd--said the same. So with that my
father unscrewed his bayonet, and put his piece on his shoulder, and walked
off to his bed in the barrack as peaceable as need be. But well, when they
came to relieve him, wasn't there a raal commotion? And faith, you see, it
went mighty hard with my father the next morning; for the bank was open
just as usual, and my father was sintinced to fifty lashes, but got
off with a week in prison, and three more rowling a big stone in the
barrack-yard."

Thus chatting away, the time passed over, until we arrived at Fermoy.
Here there was some little delay in procuring horses; and during the
negotiation, Mike, who usually made himself master of the circumstances of
every place through which he passed, discovered that the grocer's shop of
the village was kept by a namesake, and possibly a relation of his own.

"I always had a notion, Mister Charles, that I came from a good stock; and
sure enough, here's 'Mary Free' over the door there, and a beautiful place
inside; full of tay and sugar and gingerbread and glue and coffee and bran,
pickled herrings, soap, and many other commodities."

"Perhaps you'd like to claim kindred, Mike," said I, interrupting; "I'm
sure she'd feel flattered to discover a relative in a Peninsular hero."

"It's just what I'm thinking; av we were going to pass the evening here,
I'd try if I couldn't make her out a second cousin at least."

Fortune, upon this occasion, seconded Mike's wishes, for when the horses
made their appearance, I learned, to my surprise, that the near side one
would not bear a saddle, and the off-sider could only run on his own
side. In this conjuncture, the postilion was obliged to drive from what,
_Hibernice_ speaking, is called the perch,--no ill-applied denomination to
a piece of wood which, about the thickness of one's arm, is hung between
the two fore-springs, and serves as a resting-place in which the luckless
wight, weary of the saddle, is not sorry to repose himself.

"What's to be done?" cried I. "There's no room within; my traps barely
leave space for myself among them."

"Sure, sir," said the postilion, "the other gentleman can follow in the
morning coach; and if any accident happens to yourself on the road, by
reason of a break-down, he'll be there as soon as yourself."

This, at least, was an agreeable suggestion, and as I saw it chimed with
Mike's notions, I acceded at once; he came running up at the moment.

"I had a peep at her through the window, Mister Charles, and, faix, she has
a great look of the family."

"Well, Mickey, I'll leave you twenty-four hours to cultivate the
acquaintance; and to a man like you the time, I know, is ample. Follow me
by the morning's coach. Till then, good-by."

Away we rattled once more, and soon left the town behind us. The wild
mountain tract which stretched on either side of the road presented one
bleak and brown surface, unrelieved by any trace of tillage or habitation;
an apparently endless succession of fern-clad hills lay on every side;
above, the gloomy sky of leaden, lowering aspect, frowned darkly; the sad
and wailing cry of the pewet or the plover was the only sound that broke
the stillness, and far as the eye could reach, a dreary waste extended.
The air, too, was cold and chilly; it was one of those days which, in our
springs, seemed to cast a retrospective glance towards the winter they have
left behind them. The prospect was no cheering one; from heaven above or
earth below there came no sight nor sound of gladness. The rich glow of the
Peninsular landscape was still fresh in my memory,--the luxurious verdure;
the olive, the citron, and the vine; the fair valleys teeming with
abundance; the mountains terraced with their vineyards; the blue
transparent sky spreading o'er all; while the very air was rife with the
cheering song of birds that peopled every grove. What a contrast was here!
We travelled on for miles, but no village nor one human face did we see.
Far in the distance a thin wreath of smoke curled upward; but it came from
no hearth; it arose from one of those field-fires by which spendthrift
husbandry cultivates the ground. It was, indeed, sad; and yet, I know not
how, it spoke more home to my heart than all the brilliant display and all
the voluptuous splendor I had witnessed in London. By degrees some traces
of wood made their appearance, and as we descended the mountain towards
Cahir, the country assumed a more cultivated and cheerful look,--patches of
corn or of meadow-land stretched on either side, and the voice of children
and the lowing of oxen mingled with the cawing of the rooks, as in dense
clouds they followed the ploughman's track. The changed features of the
prospect resembled the alternate phases of temperament of the dweller on
the soil,--the gloomy determination; the smiling carelessness; the dark
spirit of boding; the reckless jollity; the almost savage ferocity of
purpose, followed by a child-like docility and a womanly softness; the
grave, the gay, the resolute, the fickle; the firm, the yielding, the
unsparing, and the tender-hearted,--blending their contrarieties into one
nature, of whose capabilities one cannot predicate the bounds, but to whom,
by some luckless fatality of fortune, the great rewards of life have been
generally withheld until one begins to feel that the curse of Swift was
less the sarcasm wrung from indignant failures than the cold and stern
prophecy of the moralist.

But how have I fallen into this strain! Let me rather turn my eyes forward
towards my home. How shall I find all there? Have his altered fortunes
damped the warm ardor of my poor uncle's heart? Is his smile sicklied over
by sorrow; or shall I hear his merry laugh and his cheerful voice as in
days of yore? How I longed to take my place beside that hearth, and in the
same oak-chair where I have sat telling the bold adventures of a fox-chase
or some long day upon the moors, speak of the scenes of my campaigning
life, and make known to him those gallant fellows by whose side I have
charged in battle, or sat in the bivouac! How will he glory in the
soldier-like spirit and daring energy of Fred Power! How will he chuckle
over the blundering earnestness and Irish warmth of O'Shaughnessy! How will
he laugh at the quaint stories and quainter jests of Maurice Quill! And how
often will he wish once more to be young in hand as in heart to mingle with
such gay fellows, with no other care, no other sorrow, to depress him, save
the passing fortune of a soldier's life!




CHAPTER XLII.


THE RETURN.

A rude shock awoke me as I lay asleep in the corner of the chaise; a shout
followed, and the next moment the door was torn open, and I heard the
postilion's voice crying to me:--

"Spring out! Jump out quickly, sir!"

A whole battery of kicks upon the front panel drowned the rest of his
speech; but before I could obey his injunction, he was pitched upon the
road, the chaise rolled over and the pole snapped short in the middle,
while the two horses belabored the carriage and each other with all their
might. Managing, as well as I was able, to extricate myself, I leaped out
upon the road, and by the aid of a knife, and at the cost of some bruises,
succeeded in freeing the horses from their tackle. The postboy, who had
escaped without any serious injury, labored manfully to aid me, blubbering
the whole time upon the consequences his misfortune would bring down upon
his head.

"Bad luck to ye!" cried he, apostrophizing the off-horse, a tall, raw-boned
beast, with a Roman nose, a dipped back, and a tail ragged and jagged like
a hand-saw,--"bad luck to ye! there never was a good one of your color!"

This, for the information of the "unjockeyed," I may add, was a species of
brindled gray.

"How did it happen, Patsey; how did it happen, my lad?"

"It was the heap o' stones they left in the road since last autumn; and
though I riz him at it fairly, he dragged the ould mare over it and broke
the pole. Oh, wirra, wirra!" cried he, wringing his hands in an agony of
grief, "sure there's neither luck nor grace to be had with ye since the day
ye drew the judge down to the last assizes!"

"Well, what's to be done?"

"Sorra a bit o' me knows; the shay's ruined intirely, and the ould divil
there knows he's conquered us. Look at him there, listening to every word
we're saying! You eternal thief, may be its ploughing you'd like better!"

"Come, come," said I, "this will never get us forward. What part of the
country are we in?"

"We left Banagher about four miles behind us; that's Killimur you see with
the smoke there in the hollow."

Now, although I did not see Killimur (for the gray mist of the morning
prevented me recognizing any object a few hundred yards distant), yet from
the direction in which he pointed, and from the course of the Shannon,
which I could trace indistinctly, I obtained a pretty accurate notion of
where we were.

"Then we are not very far from Portumna?"

"Just a pleasant walk before your breakfast."

"And is there not a short cut to O'Malley Castle over that mountain?"

"Faix, and so there is; and ye can be no stranger to these parts if ye know
that."

"I have travelled it before now. Just tell me, is the wooden bridge
standing over the little stream? It used to be carried away every winter in
my time."

"It's just the same now. You'll have to pass by the upper ford; but it
comes to the same, for that will bring you to the back gate of the demesne,
and one way is just as short as the other."

"I know it, I know it; so now, do you follow me with my luggage to the
castle, and I'll set out on foot."

So saying, I threw off my cloak, and prepared myself for a sharp walk of
some eight miles over the mountain. As I reached the little knoll of land
which, overlooking the Shannon, affords a view of several miles in every
direction, I stopped to gaze upon the scene where every object around was
familiar to me from infancy: the broad, majestic river, sweeping in bold
curves between the wild mountains of Connaught and the wooded hills and
cultivated slopes of the more fertile Munster, the tall chimneys of many a
house rose above the dense woods where in my boyhood I had spent hours and
days of happiness. One last look I turned towards the scene of my late
catastrophe ere I began to descend the mountain. The postboy, with the
happy fatalism of his country, and a firm trust in the future, had
established himself in the interior of the chaise, from which a blue curl
of smoke wreathed upward from his pipe; the horses grazed contentedly by
the roadside; and were I to judge from the evidence before me, I should say
that I was the only member of the party inconvenienced by the accident. A
thin sleeting of rain began to fall; the wind blew sharply in my face, and
the dark clouds, collecting in masses above, seemed to threaten a storm.
Without stopping for even a passing look at the many well-known spots
about, I pressed rapidly on. My old experience upon the moors had taught
me that sling trot in which jumping from hillock to hillock over the
boggy surface, you succeed in accomplishing your journey not only with
considerable speed, but perfectly dryshod.

By the lonely path which I travelled, it was unlikely I should meet any
one. It was rarely traversed except by the foot of the sportsman, or some
stray messenger from the castle to the town of Banagher. Its solitude,
however, was in no wise distasteful to me; my heart was full to bursting.
Each moment as I walked some new feature of my home presented itself
before me. Now it was all happiness and comfort; the scene of its ancient
hospitable board, its warm hearth, its happy faces, and its ready welcome
were all before me, and I increased my speed to the utmost, when suddenly a
sense of sad and sorrowing foreboding would draw around me, and the image
of my uncle's sick-bed, his worn features, his pallid look, his broken
voice would strike upon my heart, and all the changes that poverty,
desertion, and decay can bring to pass would fall upon my heart, and weak
and trembling I would stand for some moments unable to proceed.

Oh, how many a reproachful thought came home to me at what I scrupled
not to call to myself the desertion of my home! Oh, how many a prayer I
uttered, in all the fervor of devotion, that my selfish waywardness and
my yearning for ambition might not bring upon me, in after-life, years
of unavailing regret! As I thought thus, I reached the brow of a little
mountain ridge, beneath which, at a distance of scarcely more than a mile,
the dark woods of O'Malley Castle stretched, before me. The house itself
was not visible, for it was situated in a valley beside the river. But
there lay the whole scene of my boyhood: there the little creek where my
boat was kept, and where I landed on the morning after my duel with Bodkin;
there stretched for many a mile the large, callow meadows, where I trained
my horses, and schooled them for the coming season; and far in the
distance, the brown and rugged peak of old Scariff was lost in the clouds.
The rain by this time had ceased, the wind had fallen, and an almost
unnatural stillness prevailed around; but yet the heavy masses of vapor
frowned ominously, and the leaden hue of land and water wore a gloomy and
depressing aspect. My impatience to get on increased every moment, and
descending the mountain at the top of my speed, I at length reached the
little oak paling that skirted the wood, opened the little wicket, and
entered the path. It was the self-same one I had trod in revery and
meditation the night before I left my home. I remember, too, sitting down
beside the little well which, enclosed in a frame of rock, ran trickling
across the path to be lost among the gnarled roots and fallen leaves
around. Yes, this was the very spot.

Overcome for the instant by my exertion and by my emotion, I sat down upon
the stone, and taking off my cap, bathed my heated and throbbing temples in
the cold spring, Refreshed at once, I was about to rise and press onward,
when suddenly my attention was caught by a sound which, faint from
distance, scarce struck upon my ear. I listened again; but all was still
and silent, the dull splash of the river as it broke upon the reedy shore
was the only sound I heard. Thinking it probably some mere delusion of my
heated imagination, I rose to push forward; but at the moment a slight
breeze stirred in the leaves around me, the light branches rustled and bent
beneath it, and a low moaning sound swelled upward, increasing each instant
as it came; like the distant roar of some mighty torrent it grew louder as
the wind bore it towards me, and now falling, now swelling, it burst
forth into one loud, prolonged cry of agony and grief. O God! it was the
death-wail! I fell upon my knees, my hands clasped in agony; the sweat
of misery dropped off my brow, and with a heart bleeding and breaking I
prayed--I know not what. Again the terrible cry smote upon my ear, and I
could mark the horrible cadences of the death-song, as the voices of the
mourners joined in chorus.

My suspense became too great to bear. I dashed madly forward, one sound
still ringing in my ears, one horrid image before my eyes. I reached the
garden wall; I cleared the little rivulet beside the flower-garden; I
traversed its beds (neglected and decayed); I gained the avenue, taking
no heed of the crowds before me,--some on foot, some on horseback, others
mounted upon the low country car, many seated in groups upon the grass,
their heads bowed upon their bosoms, silent and speechless. As I neared the
house the whole approach was crowded with carriages and horsemen. At the
foot of the large flight of steps stood the black and mournful hearse,
its plumes nodding in the breeze. With the speed of madness and the
recklessness of despair I tore my way through the thickly standing groups
upon the steps; I could not speak, I could not utter. Once more the
frightful cry swelled upward, and in its wild notes seemed to paralyze me;
for with my hands upon my temples, I stood motionless and still. A heavy
footfall as of persons marching in procession came nearer and nearer, and
as the sounds without sank into sobs of bitterness and woe, the black pall
of a coffin, borne on men's shoulders, appeared at the door, and an old man
whose gray hair floated in the breeze, and across whose stern features a
struggle for self-mastery--a kind of spasmodic effort--was playing, held
out his hand to enforce silence. His eye, lack-lustre and dimmed with age,
roved over the assembled multitude, but there was no recognition in his
look until at last he turned it on me. A slight hectic flush colored his
pale cheek, his lip trembled, he essayed to speak, but could not. I sprang
towards him, but choked by agony, I could not utter; my look, however,
spoke what my tongue could not. He threw his arms around me, and muttering
the words, "Poor Godfrey!" pointed to the coffin.




CHAPTER XLIII.


HOME.

Many, many years have passed away since the time I am now about to speak
of, and yet I cannot revert, even for a moment, to the period without a sad
and depressing feeling at my heart. The wreck of fortune, the thwarting of
ambition, the failure in enterprise, great though they be, are endurable
evils. The never-dying hope that youth is blessed with will find its
resting-place still within the breast, and the baffled and beaten will
struggle on unconquered; but for the death of friends, for the loss of
those in whom our dearest affections were centred, there is no solace,--the
terrible "never" of the grave knows no remorse, and even memory, that in
our saddest hours can bring bright images and smiling faces before us,
calls up here only the departed shade of happiness, a passing look at that
Eden of our joys from which we are separated forever. And the desolation of
the heart is never perfect till it has felt the echoes of a last farewell
on earth reverberating within it.

Oh, with what tortures of self-reproach we think of all former intercourse
with him that is gone! How would we wish to live our lives once more,
correcting each passage of unkindness or neglect! How deeply do we blame
ourselves for occasions of benefit lost, and opportunities unprofited by;
and how unceasingly, through after-life, the memory of the departed recurs
to us! In all the ties which affection and kindred weave around us, one
vacant spot is there, unseen and unknown by others, which no blandishments
of love, no caresses of friendship can fill up; although the rank grass
and the tall weeds of the churchyard may close around the humble tomb,
the cemetery of the heart is holy and sacred, pure from all the troubled
thoughts and daily cares of the busy world. To that hallowed spot do we
retire as into our chamber, and when unrewarded efforts bring discomfiture
and misery to our minds, when friends are false, and cherished hopes are
blasted, we think on those who never ceased to love till they had ceased to
live; and in the lonely solitude of our affliction we call upon those who
hear not, and may never return.


Mine was a desolate hearth. I sat moodily down in the old oak parlor, my
heart bowed down with grief. The noiseless steps, the mourning garments of
the old servants; the unnatural silence of those walls within which from
my infancy the sounds of merriment and mirth had been familiar; the large
old-fashioned chair where he was wont to sit, now placed against the
wall,--all spoke of the sad past. Yet, when some footsteps would draw near,
and the door would open, I could not repress a thrill of hope that he was
coming; more than once I rushed to the window and looked out; I could have
sworn I heard his voice.

The old cob pony he used to ride was grazing peacefully before the door;
poor Carlo, his favorite spaniel, lay stretched upon the terrace, turning
ever and anon a look towards the window, and then, as if wearied of
watching for him who came not, he would utter a long, low, wailing cry, and
lie down again to sleep. The rich lawn, decked with field flowers of many
a hue, stretched away towards the river, upon whose calm surface the
white-sailed lugger scarce seemed to move; the sounds of a well-known Irish
air came, softened by distance, as some poor fisherman sat mending his net
upon the bank, and the laugh of children floated on the breeze. Yes, they
were happy.

Two months had elapsed since my return home; how passed by me I know not; a
lethargic stupor had settled upon me. Whole days long I sat at the window,
looking listlessly at the tranquil river, and watching the white foam as,
borne down from the rapids, it floated lazily along. The count had left me
soon, being called up to Dublin by some business, and I was utterly alone.
The different families about called frequently to ask after me, and would,
doubtless, have done all in their power to alleviate my sorrow, and lighten
the load of my affliction; but with a morbid fear, I avoided every one, and
rarely left the house except at night-fall, and then only to stroll by some
lonely and deserted path.

Life had lost its charm for me; my gratified ambition had ended in the
blackest disappointment, and all for which I had labored and longed was
only attained that I might feel it valueless.

Of my circumstances as to fortune I knew nothing, and cared not more;
poverty and riches could matter little now; all my day dreams were
dissipated now, and I only waited for Considine's return to leave Ireland
forever. I had made up my mind, if by any unexpected turn of fate the war
should cease in the Peninsula, to exchange into an Indian regiment. The
daily association with objects which recalled but one image to my brain,
and that ever accompanied by remorse of conscience, gave me not a moment's
peace. My every thought of happiness was mixed up with scenes which now
presented nothing but the evidences of blighted hope; to remain, then,
where I was, would be to sink into the heartless misanthropist, and I
resolved that with my sword I would carve out a soldier's fortune and a
soldier's grave.

Considine came at last. I was sitting alone, at my usual post beside the
window, when the chaise rattled up to the door; for an instant I started to
my legs; a vague sense of something like hope shot through me, the whole
might be a dream, and _he_--The next moment I became cold and sick, a
faintish giddiness obscured my sight, and though I felt his grasp as he
took my hand, I saw him not. An indistinct impression still dwells upon my
mind of his chiding me for my weakness in thus giving way; of his calling
upon me to assert my position, and discharge the duties of him whose
successor I now was. I heard him in silence; and when he concluded, faintly
pledging myself to obey him, I hurried to my room, and throwing myself upon
my bed burst into an agony of tears. Hitherto my pent up sorrow had wasted
me day by day; but the rock was now smote, and in that gush of misery my
heart found relief.

When I appeared the following morning, the count was struck with my altered
looks; a settled sorrow could not conceal the changes which time and
manhood had made upon me; and as from a kind of fear of showing how deeply
I grieved, I endeavored to conceal it, by degrees I was enabled to converse
calmly and dispassionately upon my fortunes.

"Poor Godfrey," said he, "appointed me his sole executor a few days before
it happened; he knew the time was drawing near, and strange enough,
Charley, though he heard of your return to England, he would not let us
write. The papers spoke of you as being at Carlton House almost daily; your
name appeared at every great festival; and while his heart warmed at your
brilliant success, he absolutely dreaded your coming home. 'Poor
fellow,' he would say, 'what a change for him, to leave the splendor
and magnificence of his Prince's board for our meagre fare and altered
fortunes! And then,' he added, 'as for me--God forgive me!--I can go now;
but how should I bear to part with him if he comes back to me.' And now,"
said the count, when he had concluded a detailed history of my dear uncle's
last illness,--"and now, Charley, what are your plans?"

Briefly, and in a few words, I stated to him my intentions. Without placing
much stress upon the strongest of my reasons--my distaste to what had once
been home--I avowed my wish to join my regiment at once.

He heard me with evident impatience, and as I finished, seized my arm
in his strong grasp. "No, no, boy, none of this; your tone of assumed
composure cannot impose on Bill Considine. You must not return to the
Peninsula--at least not yet awhile; the disgust of life may be strong at
twenty, but it's not lasting; besides, Charley," here his voice faltered
slightly, "_his_ wishes you'll not treat lightly. Read this."

As he spoke, he took a blotted and ill-written letter from his
breast-pocket, and handed it to me. It was in my poor uncle's hand, and
dated the very morning of his death. It ran thus:--

Dear Bill,--Charley must never part with the old house,
come what will; I leave too many ties behind for a stranger's heritage;
he must live among my old friends, and watch, protect
and comfort them. He has done enough for fame; let him now
do something for affection. We have none of us been over good
to these poor people; one of the name must try and save our
credit. God bless you both! It is, perhaps, the last time I shall
utter it.

G. O'M.


I read these few and, to me, affecting lines over and over, forgetful of
all save of him who penned them; when Considine, who supposed that my
silence was attributable to doubt and hesitation, called out:--

"Well, what now?"

"I remain," said I, briefly.

He seized me in his arms with transport, as he said:--

"I knew it, boy, I knew it. They told me you were spoiled by flattery, and
your head turned by fortune; they said that home and country would weigh
lightly in the balance against fame and glory; but I said no, I knew you
better. I told them indignantly that I had nursed you on my knee; that I
watched you from infancy to boyhood, from boy to man; that he of whose
stock you came had one feeling paramount to all, his love of his own
fatherland, and that you would not disgrace him. Besides, Charley, there's
not an humble hearth for many a long mile around us, where, amidst the
winter's blast, tempered not excluded, by frail walls and poverty,--there's
not one such but where poor Godfrey's name rises each night in prayer, and
blessings are invoked on him by those who never felt them themselves."

"I'll not desert them."

"I know you'll not, boy, I know you'll not. Now for the means."

Here he entered into a long and complicated exposure of my dear uncle's
many difficulties, by which it appeared that, in order to leave the estate
free of debt to me, he had for years past undergone severe privations.
These, however,--such is the misfortune of an unguided effort,--had but
ill succeeded, and there was scarcely a farm on the property without its
mortgage. Upon the house and demesne a bond for three thousand pounds still
remained; and to pay off this, Considine advised my selling a portion of
the property.

"It's old Blake lent the money; and only a week before your uncle died,
he served a notice for repayment. I never told Godfrey; it was no use. It
could only embitter his last few hours; and, besides, we had six months to
think of it. The half of that time has now elapsed, however; we must see to
this."

"And did Blake really make this demand, knowing my poor uncle's
difficulties?"

"Why, I half think he did not; for Godfrey was too fine a fellow ever to
acknowledge anything of the sort. He had twelve sheep killed for the poor
in Scariff, at a time when not a servant of the house tasted meat for
months; ay, and our own table, too, none of the most abundant, I assure
you."

What a picture was this, and how forcibly did it remind me of what I had
witnessed in times past. Thus meditating, we returned to the house; and
Considine, whose activity never slumbered, sat down to con over the
rent-roll with old Maguire the steward.

When I joined the count in the evening, I found him surrounded by maps,
rent-rolls, surveys, and leases. He had been poring over these various
documents, to ascertain from which portion of the property we could best
recruit our failing finances. To judge from the embarrassed look and manner
with which he met me, the matter was one of no small difficulty. The
encumbrances upon the estate had been incurred with an unsparing hand; and
except where some irreclaimable tract of bog or mountain rendered a loan
impracticable, each portion of the property had its share of debt.

"You can't sell Killantry, for Basset has above six thousand pounds on it
already. To be sure, there's the Priest's Meadows,--fine land and in good
heart; but Malony was an old tenant of the family, and I cannot recommend
your turning him over to a stranger. The widow M'Bride's farm is perhaps
the best, after all, and it would certainly bring the sum we want; still,
poor Mary was your nurse, Charley, and it would break her heart to do it."

Thus, wherever we turned, some obstacle presented itself, if not from
moneyed causes, at least from those ties and associations which, in an
attached and faithful tenantry, are sure to grow up between them and the
owner of the soil.

Feeling how all-important these things were--endeavoring as I was to fulfil
the will and work out the intentions of my uncle--I saw at once that to
sell any portion of the property must separate me, to a certain extent,
from those who long looked up to our house, and who, in the feudalism of
the west, could ill withdraw their allegiance from their own chief to swear
fealty to a stranger. The richer tenants were those whose industry and
habits rendered them objects of worth and attachment; to the poorer ones,
to whose improvidence and whose follies (if you will) their poverty was
owing, I was bound by those ties which the ancient habit of my house had
contracted for centuries. The bond of benefit conferred can be stronger
than the debt of gratitude itself. What was I then to do? My income would
certainly permit of my paying the interest upon my several mortgages, and
still retaining wherewithal to live; the payment of Blake's bond was my
only difficulty, and small as it was, it was still a difficulty.

"I have it, Charley!" said Considine; "I've found out the way of doing it.
Blake will have no objection, I'm sure, to take the widow's farm in payment
of his debt, giving you a power of redemption within five years. In that
time, what with economy, some management, perhaps," added he, smiling
slightly,--"perhaps a wife with money may relieve all your embarrassments
at once. Well, well, I know you are not thinking of that just now; but
come, what say you to my plan?"

"I know not well what to say. It seems to be the best; but still I have my
misgivings."

"Of course you have, my boy; nor could I love you if you'd part with an old
and faithful follower without them. But, after all, she is only a hostage
to the enemy; we'll win her back, Charley."

"If you think so--"

"I do. I know it."

"Well, then, be it so; only one thing I bargain,--she must herself consent
to this change of masters. It will seem to her a harsh measure that the
child she had nursed and fondled in her arms should live to disunite her
from those her oldest attachments upon earth. We must take care, sir, that
Blake cannot dispossess her; this would be too hard."

"No, no; that we'll guard against. And now, Charley, with prudence and
caution, we'll clear off every encumbrance, and O'Malley Castle shall yet
be what it was in days of yore. Ay, boy, with the descendant of the old
house for its master, and not that general--how do you call him?--that came
down here to contest the county, who with his offer of thirty thousand
pounds thought to uproot the oldest family of the west. Did I ever show you
the letter we wrote him?"

"No, sir," replied I, trembling with agitation as I spoke; "you merely
alluded to it in one of yours."

"Look here, lad!" said he, drawing it from the recesses of a black leather
pocket-book. "I took a copy of it; read that."