Luttrell Of Arran Part 49

"No, no; not if I must part with you," said she, sobbing; "but you will write to me, my own darling Kate? We shall write to each other continually till we meet again?"

"If I may. If I be permitted," said Kate, gravely.

"What do you--what can you mean?" cried Ada, wildly. "You speak as though some secret enemy were at work to injure you here, where you have found none but friends who love you."

"Don't you know, my dear Ada, that love, like money, has a graduated coinage, and that what would be a trifle to the rich man, would make the wealth of a poor one? The love your friends bear me is meted out by station; mind, dearest, I'm not complaining of this. Let us talk of Italy, rather; how happy you ought to be there!"

"If I but had you, my own dearest----"

"There, I hear Mademoiselle coming. Bathe your eyes, dear Ada; or, better still, run away before she sees you."

Ada took this last counsel; but scarcely had she left by one door, than Mademoiselle entered by another.

CHAPTER x.x.xI. DERRYVARAGH

A dreary day of December it was, and the rain was pouring heavily, pitilessly down in the dark gorge of Derryvaragh. The roar of mountain rivulets, swollen to torrents, filled the air, and the cras.h.i.+ng sounds of falling timber blended with the noise of troubled waters. Beautiful as that landscape would be on a day of bright suns.h.i.+ne, it seemed now the dreariest scene the eye could rest on. The clouds lay low on the mountain-sides, thickening the gloom that spread around, while yellow currents of water crossed and re-crossed on every side, rending the earth, and laying bare the roots of tall trees.

From a window in O'Rorke's inn, O'Rorke himself and old Malone watched the devastation and ruin of the flood; for even there, in that wild region forgotten of men, there were little patches of cultivation--potato-gardens and small fields of oats or rye--but through which now the turbid water tore madly, not leaving a trace of vegetation as it went.

"And so you saw the last of it?" said O'Rorke, as he lit his pipe and sat down at the window.

"I did; there wasn't one stone on another as I came by. The walls were shaky enough before, and all the mortar washed out of them, so that when the stream came down in force, all fell down with a crash like thunder; and when I turned round, there was nothing standing as high as your knee, and in five minutes even that was swept away, and now it's as bare as this floore."

"Now, mind my words, Peter Malone; as sure as you stand there, all the newspapers will be full of 'Another Outrage--More Irish Barbarism and Stupidity.' That will be the heading in big letters; and then underneath it will go on: 'The beautiful Lodge that Sir Gervais Vyner had recently built in the Gap of Derryvaragh was last night razed to the ground by a party of people who seem determined that Ireland should never rise out of the misery into which the ignorance of her natives have placed her.'

That's what they'll say, and then the _Times_ will take it up, and we'll have the old story about benefactor on one side, and brutality on the other; and how, for five hundred years' and more, England was trying to civilise us, and that we're as great savages now--ay, or worse--than at first."

Malone clasped his worn hands together, and muttered a deep curse in Irish below his breath.

"And all our own fault," continued O'Rorke, oratorically. "'Who would be free, themselves must strike the blow.' I said that on Ess.e.x Bridge to the Lord-Lieutenant himself; and look at me now--is it here, or is it this way, a patriot ought to be?"

"Isn't it the same with us all?" said Malone, sternly. "Didn't they take my grandchild away from me--the light of my eyes--and then desart her?"

"No such thing--she's better off than ever she was. She's living with a man that never was in Ireland, and, mind what I say, Peter Malone, them's the only kind of English you ever get any good out of."

"What do you mane?"

"I mane that when one or two of us go over there, we're sure to be thought cute and intelligint; and the Saxon says, 'Isn't it wonderful what a clever people they are?' But if he comes here himself, and sees nothing but misery and starvation, he cries ont, 'They're hopeless craytures--they live with the pig.'"

"And why wouldn't we, if we had one?"

"Well, well, well," muttered the other, who never minded nor heeded the interruption, "maybe the time is coming, maybe the great day is near.

Don't you know the song of the 'Shamroge in my Hat?'"

"I ne'er heerd it."

"The little I care for Emanc.i.p.ation, The little I want such laws as that; What I ask is, Ould Ireland to be a nation, And myself with a shamroge in my hat."

"I wonder will the letter come to-day," said the old man, with a weary sigh; "my heart is heavy waiting for it."

"If she sent you a ten-pound note, Peter Malone, whenever she wrote, there would be some sense and reason in your wis.h.i.+ng for a letter; but, so well as I remember the one sc.r.a.p of a letter she sent you, there was neither money nor money's worth in it."

"It was betther than goold to my heart," said Malone, with a deep feeling in his voice and look.

"Well, there, it's coming now; there's Patsey holding up a letter in his hand. Do you see him at the ford, there?"

"I don't see him, my eyes are so weak; but are ye sure of it, Tim O'Rorke? Don't decave me, for the love of the blessed Virgin."

"I'm not deceiving you; there's the boy coming along as fast as he can."

"Ay, but the letter?"

"He flourished it a minute ago, this way, for he saw me at the window."

"Open the window and maybe, he'd show it again," said the old man, trembling with eagerness.

"Faix! I'll not let the rain in! It's a nice day to have the windows open. You're eaten up with your selfishness, Peter Malone!"

"Maybe I am, maybe I am," muttered the old peasant, as he sat down, and hid his face between his hands.

"And who knows where the letter will be from? Maybe its Vyner is going to turn you out of your holding."

"So he may," sighed the other, meekly.

"Maybe it's the agents callin' on you to pay up for the time you were in it. Do you think that would be convanient, eh?"

"I don't care, if they did."

"I wouldn't wonder if it was trouble you were getting in about throwing down the walls of the Lodge. The police, they say, made a report about it."

"So they may; let them do their worst."

"Go round to the back. Do you think I'll open the front doore of a day like this?" screamed out O'Rorke to the messenger, who now stood without.

While he went to unbar the door, Old Malone dropped on his knees, and with clasped hands and uplifted eyes muttered a few words of prayer; they were in Irish, but their intense pa.s.sion and fervour were but increased by the strong-sounding syllables of that strange tongue.

"There it is--from herself," said O'Rorke, throwing down the letter on the table. "Her own handwriting; 'Mr. Peter Malone, to the care of Mr.

O'Rorke, Vinegar Hill, Cush-ma-greena, Ireland.'"

"The heavens be your bed, for the good news, Tim O'Rorke! May the Virgin watch over you for the glad heart you've given me this day."

"Wait till we see the inside of it, first. Give it to me till I open it." But the old man could not part with it so easily, but held it pressed hard to his lips.

"Give it here," said the other, s.n.a.t.c.hing it rudely; "maybe you'll not be so fond of it, when you know the contents."

The old man rocked to and fro in his agitation as O'Rorke broke the seal; the very sound of the wax, as it smashed, seemed to send a pang through him, as he saw the rough, unfeeling way the other handled that precious thing.