The Absentee Part 21

'Ay did he; and said, "Mrs. Raffarty," says he, "it's all your own fault; you're an extravagant fool, and ever was, and I wash my hands of you;"

that was the word he spoke; and she answered, and said, "And mayn't I send the beds and blankets," said she, "and what I can, by the cars, out of the way of the creditors, to Clonbrony Castle; and won't you let me hide there from the shame, till the bustle's over?"--"You may do that," says he, "for what I care; but remember," says he, "that I've the first claim to them goods;" and that's all he would grant. So they are coming down all o' Monday--them are her bandboxes and all to settle it; and faith it was a pity of her! to hear her sobbing, and to see her own brother speak and look so hard! and she a lady.'

'Sure she's not a lady born, no more than himself,' said Larry; 'but that's no excuse for him. His heart's as hard as that stone,' said Larry; 'and my own people knew that long ago, and now his own know it; and what right have we to complain, since he's as bad to his own flesh and blood as to us?'

With this consolation, and with a 'G.o.d speed you,' given to the carman, Larry was driving off; but the carman called to him, and pointed to a house, at the corner of which, on a high pole, was swinging an iron sign of three horse-shoes, set in a crooked frame, and at the window hung an empty bottle, proclaiming whisky within.

'Well, I don't care if I do,' said Larry; 'for I've no other comfort left me in life now. I beg your honour's pardon, sir, for a minute,'

added he, throwing the reins into the carriage to Lord Colambre, as he leaped down. All remonstrance and power of lungs to reclaim him vain!

He darted into the whisky-house with the carman--reappeared before Lord Colambre could accomplish getting out, remounted his seat, and, taking the reins, 'I thank your honour,' said he; 'and I'll bring you into Clonbrony before it's pitch-dark yet, though it's nightfall, and that's four good miles, but "a spur in the head is worth two in the heel."'

Larry, to demonstrate the truth of his favourite axiom, drove off at such a furious rate over great stones left in the middle of the road by carmen, who had been driving in the gudgeons of their axle-trees to hinder them from lacing, [Opening; perhaps from LACHER, to loosen.] that Lord Colambre thought life and limb in imminent danger; and feeling that at all events the jolting and b.u.mping was past endurance, he had recourse to Larry's shoulder, and shook and pulled, and called to him to go slower, but in vain; at last the wheel struck full against a heap of stones at a turn of the road, the wooden linch-pin came off, and the chaise was overset: Lord Colambre was a little bruised, but glad to escape without fractured bones.

'I beg your honour's pardon,' said Larry, completely sobered; 'I'm as glad as the best pair of boots ever I see, to see your honour nothing the worse for it. It was the linch-pin, and them barrows of loose stones, that ought to be fined anyway, if there was any justice in the country.'

'The pole is broke; how are we to get on?' said Lord Colambre.

'Murder! murder!--and no smith nearer than Clonbrony; nor rope even.

It's a folly to talk, we can't get to Clonbrony, nor stir a step backward or forward the night.'

'What, then, do you mean to leave me all night in the middle of the road?' cried Lord Colambre, quite exasperated.

'Is it me! please your honour? I would not use any jantleman so ill, BARRING I could do no other,' replied the postillion, coolly; then, leaping across the ditch, or, as he called it, the GRIPE of the ditch, he scrambled up, and while he was scrambling, said, 'If your honour will lend me your hand till I pull you up the back of the ditch, the horses will stand while we go. I'll find you as pretty a lodging for the night, with a widow of a brother of my s.h.i.+ster's husband that was, as ever you slept in your life; for old Nick or St. Dennis has not found 'em out yet; and your honour will be, no compare, snugger than the inn at Clonbrony, which has no roof, the devil a stick. But where will I get your honour's hand; for it's coming on so dark, I can't see rightly.

There, you're up now safe. Yonder candle's the house.'

'Go and ask whether they can give us a night's lodging.'

'Is it ASK? when I see the light!--Sure they'd be proud to give the traveller all the beds in the house, let alone one. Take care of the potato furrows, that's all, and follow me straight. I'll go on to meet the dog, who knows me and might be strange to your honour.'

'Kindly welcome,' were the first words Lord Colambre heard when he approached the cottage; and 'kindly welcome' was in the sound of the voice and in the countenance of the old woman who came out, shading her rush-candle from the wind, and holding it so as to light the path. When he entered the cottage, he saw a cheerful fire and a neat pretty young woman making it blaze: she curtsied, put her spinning-wheel out of the way, set a stool by the fire for the stranger, and repeating, in a very low tone of voice, 'Kindly welcome, retired.

'Put down some eggs, dear, there's plenty in the bowl,' said the old woman, calling to her; 'I'll do the bacon. Was not we lucky to be up--The boy's gone to bed, but waken him,' said she, turning to the postillion; 'and he'll help you with the chay, and put your horses in the bier for the night.'

No; Larry chose to go on to Clonbrony with the horses, that he might get the chaise mended betimes for his honour. The table was set; clean trenchers, hot potatoes, milk, eggs, bacon, and 'kindly welcome to all.'

'Set the salt, dear; and the b.u.t.ter, love; where's your head, Grace, dear!'

'Grace!' repeated Lord Colambre, looking up; and, to apologise for his involuntary exclamation, he added, 'Is Grace a common name in Ireland?'

'I can't say, plase your honour, but it was give her by Lady Clonbrony, from a niece of her own that was her foster-sister, G.o.d bless her! and a very kind lady she was to us and to all when she was living in it; but those times are gone past,' said the old woman, with a sigh. The young woman sighed too; and, sitting down by the fire, began to count the notches in a little bit of stick, which she held in her hand; and, after she had counted them, sighed again.

'But don't be sighing, Grace, now,' said the old woman; 'sighs is bad sauce for the traveller's supper; and we won't be troubling him with more,' added she, turning to Lord Colambre with a smile.

'Is your egg done to your liking?'

'Perfectly, thank you.'

'Then I wish it was a chicken for your sake, which it should have been, and roast too, had we time. I wish I could see you eat another egg.'

'No more, thank you, my good lady; I never ate a better supper, nor received a more hospitable welcome.'

'Oh, the welcome is all we have to offer.'

'May I ask what that is?' said Lord Colambre, looking at the notched stick, which the young woman held in her hand, and on which her eyes were still fixed.

It's a TALLY, plase your honour. Oh, you're a foreigner;--it's the way the labourers do keep the account of the day's work with the overseer, the bailiff; a notch for every day the bailiff makes on his stick, and the labourer the like on his stick, to tally; and when we come to make up the account, it's by the notches we go. And there's been a mistake, and is a dispute here between our boy and the overseer; and she was counting the boy's tally, that's in bed, tired, for in troth he's overworked.'

'Would you want anything more from me, mother?' said the girl, rising and turning her head away.

'No, child; get away, for your heart's full.'

She went instantly.

'Is the boy her brother?' said Lord Colambre.

'No; he's her bachelor,' said the old woman, lowering her voice.

'Her bachelor?'

'That is, her sweetheart: for she is not my daughter, though you heard her call me mother. The boy's my son; but I am afeard they must give it up; for they're too poor, and the times is hard, and the agent's harder than the times; there's two of them, the under and the upper; and they grind the substance of one between them, and then blow one away like chaff: but we'll not be talking of that to spoil your honour's night's rest. The room's ready, and here's the rushlight.'

She showed him into a very small but neat room. 'What a comfortable-looking bed!' said Lord Colambre.

'Ah, these red check curtains,' said she, letting them down; 'these have lasted well; they were give me by a good friend, now far away, over the seas--my Lady Clonbrony; and made by the prettiest hands ever you see, her niece's, Miss Grace Nugent's, and she a little child that time; sweet love! all gone!'

The old woman wiped a tear from her eye, and Lord Colambre did what he could to appear indifferent. She set down the candle, and left the room; Lord Colambre went to bed, but he lay awake, 'revolving sweet and bitter thoughts.'

CHAPTER XI

The kettle was on the fire, tea-things set, everything prepared for her guest by the hospitable hostess, who, thinking the gentleman would take tea to his breakfast, had sent off a GOSSOON by the FIRST LIGHT to Clonbrony, for an ounce of tea, a QUARTER OF SUGAR, and a loaf of white bread; and there was on the little table good cream, milk, b.u.t.ter, eggs--all the promise of an excellent breakfast. It was a FRESH morning, and there was a pleasant fire on the hearth, neatly swept up. The old woman was sitting in her chimney corner, behind a little skreen of whitewashed wall, built out into the room, for the purpose of keeping those who sat at the fire from the BLAST OF THE DOOR. There was a loophole in this wall, to let the light in, just at the height of a person's head, who was sitting near the chimney. The rays of the morning sun now came through it, s.h.i.+ning across the face of the old woman, as she sat knitting; Lord Colambre thought he had seldom seen a more agreeable countenance, intelligent eyes, benevolent smile, a natural expression of cheerfulness, subdued by age and misfortune.

'A good-morrow to you kindly, sir, and I hope you got the night well?--A fine day for us this Sunday morning; my Grace is gone to early prayers, so your honour will be content with an old woman to make your breakfast.

Oh, let me put in plenty, or it will never be good; and if your honour takes stir-about, an old hand will engage to make that to your liking, anyway; for, by great happiness, we have what will just answer for you of the nicest meal the miller made my Grace a compliment of, last time she went to the mill.'

Lord Colambre observed, that this miller had good taste; and his lords.h.i.+p paid some compliment to Grace's beauty, which the old woman received with a smile, but turned off the conversation. 'Then,' said she, looking out of the window, 'is not that there a nice little garden the boy dug for her and me, at his breakfast and dinner hours? Ah! he's a good boy, and a good warrant to work; and the good son DESARVES the good wife, and it's he that will make the good husband; and with my goodwill he, and no other, shall get her, and with her goodwill the same; and I bid 'em keep up their heart, and hope the best, for there's no use in fearing the worst till it comes.'

Lord Colambre wished very much to know the worst.

'If you would not think a stranger impertinent for asking,' said he, 'and if it would not be painful to you to explain.'

'Oh, impertinent, your honour! it's very kind--and, sure, none's a stranger to one's heart, that feels for one. And for myself, I can talk.

of my troubles without thinking of them. So, I'll tell you all--if the worst comes to the worst--all that is, is, that we must quit, and give up this little snug place, and house, and farm, and all, to the agent--which would be hard on us, and me a widow, when my husband did all that is done to the land; and if your honour was a judge, you could see, if you stepped out, there has been a deal done, and built the house, and all--but it plased Heaven to take him. Well, he was too good for this world, and I'm satisfied--I'm not saying a word again' that--I trust we shall meet in heaven, and be happy, surely. And, meantime, here's my boy, that will make me as happy as ever widow was on earth--if the agent will let him. And I can't think the agent, though they that know him best call him old Nick, would be so wicked to take from us that which he never gave us. The good lord himself granted us the LASE; the life's dropped, and the years is out; but we had a promise of renewal in writing from the landlord. G.o.d bless him! if he was not away, he'd be a good gentleman, and we'd be happy and safe.'

'But if you have a promise in writing of a renewal, surely you are safe, whether your landlord is absent or present?'

'Ah, no I that makes a great DIFFER, when there's no eye or hand over the agent. I would not wish to speak or think ill of him or any man; but was he an angel, he could not know to do the tenantry justice, the way he is living always in Dublin, and coming down to the country only the receiving days, to make a sweep among us, and gather up the rents in a hurry, and he in such haste back to town--can just stay to count over our money, and give the receipts. Happy for us, if we get that same!--but can't expect he should have time to see or hear us, or mind our improvements, any more than listen to our complaints! Oh, there's great excuse for the gentleman, if that was any comfort for us,' added she, smiling.