Roland Cashel Volume I Part 26

"Have you anything for Mr. Corrigan this morning, ma'am?"

"Yes; there are two letters and a newspaper," replied a sharp voice from within. "One-and-fourpence to pay."

"She did n't give me any money, ma'am, but Miss Mary said--"

"You can take them," interrupted the post-mistress, hastily handing them out, and slamming the little window to at the same instant.

"There's more of it!" muttered Tom; "and if it was for _me_ the letters was, I might sell my cow before I 'd get trust for the price of them!"

And with this reflection he plodded moodily homeward. Scarcely, however, had he entered the thick plantation than he seated himself beneath a tree, and proceeded to take a careful and strict scrutiny of the two letters; carefully spelling over each address, and poising them in his hands, as if the weight could a.s.sist his guesses as to the contents.

"That's Mr. Kennyf.e.c.k's big seal. I know it well," said he, gazing on the pretentious coat-of-arms which emblazoned the attorney's letter.

"I can make nothing of the other at all. 'Cornelius Corrigan, Esq., Tubber-beg, Derraheeny,'--sorra more!" It was in vain that he held it open, lozenge fas.h.i.+on, to peep within; but one page only was written, and he could not see that. Kennyf.e.c.k's letter was enclosed in an envelope, so that here, too, he was balked, and at last was fain to slip the newspaper from its cover,--a last resource to learn something underhand! The newspaper did not contain anything peculiarly interesting, save in a single paragraph, which announced the intention of Roland Cashel, Esq., of Tubbermore Castle, to contest the county at the approaching general election. "We are informed," said the writer, "on competent authority, that this gentleman intends to make the ancestral seat his chief residence in future, and that already preparations are making to render this princely mansion in every respect worthy of the vast fortune of its proprietor."

"Faith, and the 'princely mansion' requires a thing or two to make it all perfect," said Tom, with a sardonic laugh; while in a lower tone he muttered,--"maybe, for all the time he 'll stay there, it's not worth his while to spend the money on it." Having re-read the paragraph, he carefully replaced the paper in its cover, and continued his way, not, however, towards his own home, but entering a little woodland path that led direct towards the Shannon. After pa.s.sing a short distance, he came to a little low edge of beech and birch, through which a neat rustic gate led and opened upon a closely shaven lawn. The neatly gravelled walk, the flower-beds, the delicious perfume that was diffused on every side, the occasional peeps at the eddying river, and the cottage itself seen at intervals between the evergreens that studded the lawn, were wide contrasts to the ruinous desolation of the "Great House;" and as if unwilling to feel their influence, Tom pulled his hat deeper over his brows, and never looked at either side as he advanced. The part of the cottage towards which he was approaching contained a long veranda, supported by pillars of rustic-work, within which, opening by three large windows, was the princ.i.p.al drawing-room. Here, now, at a small writing-table, sat a young girl, whose white dress admirably set off the graceful outline of her figure, seen within the half-darkened room; her features were pale, but beautifully regular, and the ma.s.ses of her hair, black as night, which she wore twisted on the back of the head, like a cameo, gave a character of cla.s.sic elegance and simplicity to the whole.

[Ill.u.s.tration: 181]

Without, and under the veranda, an old man, tall, and slightly bowed in the shoulders, walked slowly up and down. It needed not the careful nicety of his long queue., the spotless whiteness of his cambric s.h.i.+rt and vest, nor the perfection of his nicely fitting nankeen pantaloons, to bespeak him a gentleman of the past day. There was a certain _suave_ gentleness in his bland look, an air of easy courtesy in his every motion, a kind of well-bred mannerism in the very carriage of his gold-headed cane, that told of a time when the graces of deportment were a study, and when our modern careless freedom had been deemed the very acme of rudeness. He was dictating, as was his wont each morning, some reminiscence of his early life, when he had served in the Body-Guard of Louis XVI., and where he had borne his part in the stormy scenes of that eventful era. The memory of that most benevolent monarch, the fascinations of that queen whom to serve was to idolize, had sufficed to soften the hards.h.i.+ps of a life which, from year to year, pressed more heavily, and were at last, after many a straggle, impressing their lines upon a brow where age alone had never written grief.

On the morning in question, instead of rapidly pouring forth his recollections, which usually came in groups, pressing one upon the other, he hesitated often, sometimes forgetting "where he was," in his narrative, and more than once ceasing to speak altogether; he walked in revery, and seeming deeply preoccupied.

His granddaughter had noticed this change; but cautiously abstaining from anything that might betray her consciousness, she sat, pen in hand, waiting, her l.u.s.trous eyes watching each gesture with an intensity of interest that amounted to actual suffering.

"I fear, Mary," said he, with an effort to smile, "we must give it up for to-day. The present is too strong for the past, just as sorrow is always an overmatch for joy. Watching for the post has routed all my thoughts, and I can think of nothing but what tidings may reach me from Dublin."

"You have no fears, sir," said she, rising, and drawing her arm within his, "that your application could be rejected. You ask nothing unusual or unreasonable,--a brief renewal of a lease where you have expended a fortune."

"True, true, dear child. Let us, however, not look on the case with our eyes alone, but see it as others may.. But here comes Tom.--Well, what news, Tom; are there letters?"

"Yes, sir, here's two; there's one-and-fourpence to be paid."

"Let me see them," cried the old man, impatiently, as he s.n.a.t.c.hed them, and hastily re-entered the house.

"Is Cathleen better to-day?" said the young lady, addressing the peasant.

"Yes, miss, glory be to G.o.d, she's betther. Thanks to yourself and Him.

Oh, then, it's of yer beautiful face she does be dramin' every night.

Says she, 'It's Miss Mary, I think, is singing to me, when I hear the birds in my sleep.'"

"Poor child, give her this little book for me, and say I 'll come up and see her this evening, if I can. Mrs. Moore will send her the broth; I hope she 'll soon be able to eat something. Good-bye, Tom."

A deep-drawn heavy sigh from within the cottage here made her abruptly conclude the interview and hasten in. The door of her grandfather's little dressing-room was, however, locked; and after a noiseless effort to turn the handle, she withdrew to the drawing-room to wait in deep anxiety for his coming.

The old man sat with his head supported on both hands, gazing steadfastly at two open letters which lay on the table before him; had they contained a sentence of death, his aspect could scarce have been more sad and sorrow-struck. One was from Mr. Kennyf.e.c.k, and ran thus:

Dear Mr. Corrigan,--I have had a brief conversation with Mr.

Roland Cashel on the subject of your renewal, and I am grieved to say that he does not seem disposed to accede to your wishes. Entertaining, as he does, the intention to make Tubbermore his chief residence in Ireland, his desire is, I believe, to connect the farm in your holding with the demesne. This will at once explain that it is not a question of demanding a higher rent from you, but simply of carrying out a plan for the enlargement and improvement of the grounds pertaining to the "Hall."

The matter, is, however, by no means decided upon; nor will it be, in all probability, before you have an opportunity of meeting Mr. Cashel personally. His present intention is to visit your neighborhood next week.

I am, dear sir, truly yours,

M. Kennyf.e.c.k. Cornelius Corrigan, Esq., Tubber-beg Cottage.

The second letter was as follows:--

"Simpkins and Green have the honor to forward for acceptance the enclosed bill for two hundred and seventeen pounds, at three months, Mr. Heneage Leicester, of New Orleans, on Mr. Corrigan.

"They are authorized also to state that Mr. Leicester's affairs have suffered considerably from the consequence of the commercial distress at N. O., and his personal property has been totally lost by the earthquake which took place on the 11th and 12th ultimo. He therefore trusts to Mr. C------ 's efforts to contribute to his aid by a greater exertion than usual, and will draw upon him for two sums of one hundred, at dates of six and nine months, which he hopes may suit his convenience, and be duly honored. Mr. Leicester continues to hope that he may be able to visit Europe in the spring, where his great anxiety to see his daughter will call him."

"The ruin is now complete," said the old man. "I have struggled for years with poverty and privation to ward off this hour; but, like destiny, it will not be averted! Despoiled of fortune; turned from the home where I have lived from my childhood; bereft of all! I could bear up still if she were left to me; but now, he threatens to take _her_, my child, my hope, my life! And the world will stand by him, and say, 'He is her father!' He, that broke the mother's heart,--my own darling girl!--and now comes to rob me--a poor helpless old man--of all my companions.h.i.+p and my pride. Alas, alas! the pride, perhaps, deserves the chastis.e.m.e.nt. Poor Mary, how will she ever learn to look on him with a daughter's affection?--What a life will hers be! and this deception,--how will it, how can it ever be explained? I have always said that he was dead."

Such, in broken half-sentences, were the words he spoke, while thick-coming sobs almost choked his utterance.

"This cannot be helped," said he, taking up the pen and writing his name across the bill. "So much I can meet by selling our little furniture here; we shall need it no more, for we have no longer a home. Where to, then?"

He shook his hands in mournful despair, and walked towards the window.

Mary was standing outside, in the little flower-garden, a.s.sisting the old gardener to fasten some stray tendrils of a j.a.ponica between two trees.

"We must try and shelter this window, Ned," said she, "from the morning sun. It comes in too strongly here in papa's library. By next summer, I hope to see a thick trellis of leaves across the whole cas.e.m.e.nt."

"By next summer," repeated the old man, from within, with a trembling voice; "and who will be here to see it?"

"This little hedge, too, must be overgrown with that creeping plant we got from America, the white liana. I want the beech to be completely hid beneath the blossoms, and they come out in May."

"In May!" said the poor old man, with an accent of inexpressible sadness, as though the very promise of spring had unfolded a deep vista of years of suffering. "But why care for the home, if she, who made its suns.h.i.+ne, is taken from me? What matters it where I linger on, or how, the last few hours of a life, bereft of its only enjoyment,--she, that in my old age renewed all the memories of my early and my happy days."

He sat down and covered his face with his hands; and when he withdrew them, the whole character and expression of the countenance had changed: a dull, meaningless look had replaced the mild and cheerful beam of his soft blue eyes; the cheeks were flattened, and the mouth, so ready with its gentle smile, now remained partly open, and slightly drawn to one side. He made an effort to speak, but a thickened guttural utterance rendered the words scarcely intelligible. He approached the window and beckoned with his hand. The next instant, pale with terror, but still composed and seeming calm, Mary was beside him.

"You are not well, dear papa," she said, with a great effort to appear at ease. "You must lie down--here will do--on this sofa; I 'll close the curtain, and send over for Tiernay,--he said he should be back from Limerick this morning."

A gentle pressure of her hand to his lips, and a faint smile, seemed to a.s.sent.

She opened the window, and whispered a few words to the gardener; and then, closing it noiselessly, drew the curtain, and sat down on a low stool beside the sofa where he lay.

So still and motionless did he remain that she thought he slept,--indeed, the long-drawn breathing, and the repose of his att.i.tude, betokened sleep.

Mary did not venture to move, but sat, one hand clasped in his, the other resting on his forehead, still and silent.

The darkened room, the unbroken silence, the figure of him in whom was centred her every thought and hope, lying sick before her, sank with a dreary weight upon her heart; and in the gloom of her sorrow dark foreboding of future evil arose, vague terrors of trials, new and hard to bear! That strange prescience, which never is wanting in great afflictions, and seems itself a Heaven-sent warning to prepare for the coming blow, revealed a time of sore trouble and calamity before her.

"Let him be but spared to me," she cried, in her heart-uttered prayer, "and let me be so fas.h.i.+oned in spirit and temper that I may minister to him through every hour,--cheering, consoling, and encouraging; giving of _my_ youth its gift of hopefulness and trust, and borrowing of _his_ age its serenity and resignation. But oh that I may not be left solitary and alone, unfriended and unsupported!" A gush of tears, the first she shed, here burst forth, and, in the transport of her grief, brought calm to her mind once more.

A low tap at the window, and a voice in whisper aroused her. "It is the doctor, miss,--Dr. Tiernay," said the gardener.

A motion to admit him was all her reply, and with noiseless step the physician entered and approached the sofa. He felt the pulse, and listened to the respiration of the sick man; and then, withdrawing the curtain so as to let the light fall upon his features, steadily contemplated their expression. As he looked, his own countenance grew graver and sadder; and it was with an air of deep solemnity that he took Mary's hand and led her from the room.

With a weight like lead upon her heart Mary moved away. "When did it happen?" whispered he, when he had closed the door behind them.

"Happen!" gasped she, in agony; "what do you mean?"