The Chronicles of Castle Cloyne; or, Pictures of the Munster people

Chapter I. Pat Flanagan Beings Home The News

" Sir, you have wrestled well, and overthrown more thau your enemies." Shakespeaee. As soon as the slips of printed paper announcing the resignation of Mr. Egglestone had been issued from the press, Mr. Pat Flanagan, taking care to provide himself with one of those precious documents, left the town without any further delay. He walked, or rather ran — and Pat was reckoned to have the fleetest foot in Castle Cloyne — for about a mile until he came to the house of his cousin, where he had slept since leaving home, and where he had left his master's horse. He had his own motive for making such haste out of the town — a great piece of self-denial on his part, for it was expected that great fun and amusement would take place there VOL. II. b THE CHBONICLES OF CASTLE CLOYNE. 2 in the evening. He was resolved on being the first person who should announce the good news of his triumphant return to Mr. Dillon, and he hoped that on this account he would be forgiven for his gross disobedience.

Not only had he gone to the election without leave, but he did so in defiance of his master's positive commands to the contrary, and by way of still more aggravating his offence, he had taken with him the very best horse in the stables. There were twelve Irish miles to be got over before he could reach Castle Cloyne, but he knew Tearaway well, and what he was capable of doing when put upon his mettle. Twelve miles would be a trifle to the good steed that had often carried his master forty miles without food or drink. When he came to his cousin's house, he found no one there but an old woman and some children, for all the rest of the family had gone to town for the fun of the election, and had not yet returned. " Did Tearaway get a feed ov oats to-day ? " he asked the old woman, as he was putting on saddle and bridle.

" Throth, an' he did so. The little gossoon gave it to him no more than a couple ov hours ago. It was the last word his father said to him lavin' out the house this mornin', to be sure to give Tearaway a good feed ov oats in the middle ov the day, for that you'd go home airly." " That's all right. Now, Tearaway, 'a coppal dheelish* you must show me that that feed ov oats wasn't put into a bad skin. Your grandam did a good turn onct for my father an' mother, an' you must folly her example to-day an' do a good turn for me." " "Won't you ate a bit, Pat, before you go?" said the woman, on hospitable thoughts intent, laying her hand on his shoulder. "The praties are bilin' on the fire widin, an' we'll have the dinner while a cat would be washin' her 'air. Be sed by me an' take share ov what's goin'."

" No, thank you, Biddy ; I couldn't stop if it was the best roast an' biled that was ever laid on the table in the parlour of Castle Cloyne, an' I needn't go beyant that. I'm obleeged to you all the same; but if I'm not the first to bring the good news to the ould masther, I may as well look out for another place. Begor, 'tis my walkin' paper I'll get in wan hand, an' what wages is comin' to me in the other. I'm tellin' you the thruth, the same as if I had my hand on the blessed vestments." * 'A coppal dheelish — My darling horse. B THE CHRONICLES OF CASTLE CLOYNE. "ALUloo! Is that the way ov it? Faix then, I'd be long sorry to say a word that would delay you. But sure, though you can't wait for the dinner, you can take a glass ov sperits. That won't take long." She ran back to the house, and brought out a small bottle of whiskey and a wine-glass, the shank of which had been broken off.

Pat drank the whiskey she poured out for him in one gulp, touched the horse lightly with the butt-end of his whip, and calling out " good-bye " to the woman, he set off at a rattling pace. " Good-bye an' good luck ! " she bawled out after him ; but Pat was already almost out of hearing. The good horse did not disappoint the expectations of his rider, or give the lie to his own name, for he tore away at a speed that soon left the farmer's house far behind. He was fresh after a few days' idleness, and, fortified by the good feed of oats, he stretched himself to his task willingly and bravely. He flew past one milestone after another, with the speed of an animal well accustomed to the hunting field. Pat got quite exhflarated, partly from the glass of whiskey and partly from the quick motion, and his courage rose as he approached home, remembering the good news of which he was the bearer.

Sometimes he passed a person, or group of persons, who cried out to him eagerly : " Welcome home, Pat ! What news from the election ? " To which he would reply with a shout of joy : " Good news ! good news ! The ould stock for ever ! " or some such cheery and triumphant answer. But he never drew bridle or slackened his speed until he found himself at the gate of Castle Cloyne. Here he found Tony Fitz gerald lingering about to try if he could see anyone returning from the town, who could tell him how the election had gone. As soon as Pat saw him he sprang from his horse, and, throwing him the bridle, told him with a great air of patronage " to walk Tearaway up an' down gintly for a start, before he was brought into the stable, for that he was in a great hate intirely." "Faix, you may sing that same if you have the air ov it," replied the old groom.

" Wisha, bad luck to your brazen impidince ; see what a lather ov foam you brought home the crayther in. Oh, tare an* 'oun's ! what a state you have him in, you rale limb ov the divel ! an' that's the only name that's fit for you." "Oh, Tony, there's no harm done, an' the horse will be all right in a couple ov hours' time. As soon as ever I see the masther, I'll come back straight, an* THE CHBONICLES OF CASTLE CLOYNE. spind the whole night rubbin' him down," said Pat, now a good deal frightened by the old man's manner. " Begor, thin, you have no bisniss in life facin' him, an' I wouldn't adwise you to do it. He was just like a mad bull when he hard you went off, an' brought the horse wid you ; an' what'll it be now, when he sees the state you brought him back in ? Oh, the sorra dhrop will be left in your carkiss !

Oh, you mis fortunate boy, bad as you are, I can't help feelin' pity for you ! " " Erra, lay me alone, Tony Whigarald," cried Pat, trying to pluck up courage, and put a bold face on the matter. " Lay me alone, I tell you. 'Tisn't anything you say that's giving me any throuble at the present, for I have very weighty things on my mind. Where's the masther ? " " If you're adwised by me, honest boy, you won't go next nor nigh him. Anyway, wait till Masther Hy'cinth an' Misther Macnamara come home; they may beg you off, an' 'pon my conscience they'll have enough to do. Tell me your news, an' I'll bring it to him." "An' who'll be the fool thin, Tony ? I tell you that cock won't fight. Where is he, I say ? " " Oh, have it your own way, thin. He's below on the lake wid Miss Granua, an' you may go to him av PAT FLANAGAN BBINGS HOME THE NEWS. 7 you like, an' see the sort ov welcome he'll give you.

But don't go an' say that I didn't give you fair warnin'. That I may never die in sin ! but he's gone afther all that I said to him, the born divel that he is ! Fake an' sure, he's his father's son, every rope's length ov him ! " ejaculated the old man in the greatest amazement. Undeterred by Tony's gloomy prognostics, Pat rushed past him, and ran as fast as he could down the path that led to the lake. Mr. Dillon and his daughter were in a little boat that she had learned to manage with no little skill, and to paddle about the lake in it on fine evenings was one of her chief pleasures. Now, when she saw a person flying to wards them at full speed, she knew that whoever it was, he must have come with decisive news of the election, so she pulled her little skiff in towards the bank, so that they might the sooner hear the news.

When Pat arrived at the side of the lake he never even stopped, but half-mad with joy and excitement he dashed into the water headlong, and flinging his strong young arms round Mr. Dillon, raised him from the bench where he sat, and carried him to the shore as easily as if he were only a child. When he set the bewildered old gentleman on his feet, he began THE CHRONICLES OF CASTLE CLOYNE. 8 dancing and capering around him as if he had suddenly gone mad. "Your honour can stand on your own ground agin, sir, an' walk the counthry in the face ov day," he burst out, " without as much as ' by your lave ' to the Sheriff or the bailiffs — the divel's luck to the whole blasted crew ov 'em ! " "What is the meaning of this disgraceful, out rageous conduct ? " exclaimed Mr. Dillon. " Quit my presence, you rascal !

How dare you show your impudent face where I am ? " " It manes, Mr. Dillon, sir, that you're the mimber for the county, an' no thanks to any wan for that," snapping his fingers. " Sure the spinnin' man gave in whin he found the day was goin' agin him intirely, an' that he hadn't as much as a leg to stand on. Begor, 'twas himself that was well bate, an' why shouldn't he ? Sure he never had the ghost ov a chance agin your honour an' Masther Hy'cinth, to say nothing at all of Father John an' Mistier Mac namara. 'Tis the thruth I'm tellin' you, sir, an' sure if you won't b'lieve myself, you'll b'lieve that bit ov paper that was wrote with the High Sheriff's own hand, an' printed o' purpose to sind to you, sir. Masther Hy'cinth gev it to me himself. ' Pat,' ses he, ' ride for your life, an' bring that slip ov paper home to my father,' ses he, 'an' don't let the grass grow undher your feet. 'Tis very well that you thought ov bringin' Tearaway wid you here,' ses he, 'for there isn't another horse in Ireland ground that could carry you aiquil to him,' ses he. ' I'm sure my father is a thrifle displased wid you for comin' here without lave,' ses he, ' but tell him wid my love an' duty, that I hope he'll overlook this little faut for the sake ov the good news I'm sindin' you wid.

I'd go home an' tell it all myself to him,' ses he, ' only that I must stay here to-night to be discoorsin', an' makin' manners, for the gintlemin that backed us up, an' wor good frinds to us,' ses he." During this harangue, delivered with great volu bility and gesticulation, Mr. Dillon's anger had been gradually melting away, as Pat very well knew it would. " Pat Flanagan, you are a desperate liar," he said, trying hard to look very grave and stern, while a smile was breaking over his face ; " every word you have said now is a deliberate falsehood." " Sorra word ov falsehood in it," replied the un abashed serving-man ; " I could swear to every word ov it, on all the books in Ireland. Sure your honour can ax Masther Hy'cinth when he comes back, an' if you won't b'lieve him or me, you can't but b'lieve the paper that's in your hand."

THE CHBONICLES OF CASTLE CLOYNE. The "paper" was there, sure enough, and its contents were too plain and positive to permit of any doubt. "You must forgive Pat this time, father," said Grace from the boat. " He is very sorry, I am sure, for having displeased you, and remember, he is the first to bring you the good news." " Sonuher to you, Miss Grace darlin', what you'll be sure to get, wid the blessin' ov God. You're always to the fore to put in a good word for any poor crayther in throuble." " And, Pat, you're streaming with water, and wdl get a bad cold, if you don't go at once and put on dry clothes." " Sure enough, miss, I am a thrifle wet," said Pat, looking down at his legs and feet, " but when I saw the masther, sure I couldn't stop myself, nor wait for the little coble to pull in to the shore.

Any wan that didn't know me might say I was hearty, but that would be a great lie, for all the licker that passed my lips this blessed day, since I had a bowl ov tay for breakfast, was wan glass ov sperrits I took at my cousin's before I started for home ; that surely wouldn't make a man hearty, an' be this cross " — and here he laid one forefinger across the other — " that's all I had in the way ov licker this day." "I suppose you brought my horse back to me nearly dead ? " said Mr. Dillon. "Arrah, what was to kill him? Sure it isn't a dozen miles ov a gallop in the cool ov the evenin', wid myself on his back, that he's used to, an' that knew how to manage him. Sure yourself often rode him at a hunt for three times as far without ever pullin' bridle, and brought him home aftherwards as fresh as a daisy.

Wisha, sir, I'm surprised at you to be talkin' that a way, ov a horse that hasn't his aiquil betune thi3 an' Galway." "Well, be off with you, and let me have no more of your tricks. Tell Tony Fitzgerald to look after Tearaway, and go change your clothes, and have your dinner, for I suppose you have had no food since morning." " Thrue for you, sir, I had not. Eyeh ! 'twasn't mate or dhrink I was thinkin' ov." "Well, Pat, though you're one of the greatest rascals alive, you deserve something for bringing home the good news so quickly, and you must have it too," and Mr. Dillon put a half-sovereign into Pat's hand. " Long life to your honour, sir, an' long may you reign over Castle Cloyne ! " cried Pat, as he pocketed the gold piece. " Be off now, and remember I shall go to the stables after dinner to see Tearaway, and if he is a hair the worse for being in your hands, you will have to go."

" Never fear, sir. I'll give you hand an' word, that when you see the horse in the coorse ov the evenin', his coat will be as smooth an' shinin' as Miss Grace's hair. Now, what more can I say than that ? " Mr. Dillon only laughed at this sally, and went to assist his daughter out of the boat, and Pat scampered off to change his trousers, and get his dinner. When those necessary operations had been performed, he went off to the stables, where, in company with Tony Fitzgerald, he was to make Tearaway fit for his master's inspection. They worked so well, that when Mr. Dillon came in the course of the evening, he professed himself to be quite satisfied with the appearance of his favourite hunter, saying to Tony privately that though Pat Flanagan was cracked — as it was only natural his father's son should be — yet he knew a good horse when he saw him, and had some notion of how he should be treated.

In another week Mr. Dillon, now fully recovered from his recent attack of gout, went off to London to take his seat in Parliament, and, as a matter of course, his son went with him. His daughter pre ferred remaining at Castle Cloyne, for, shy and sensitive, and in failing health, she shrank from the noise and turmoil of the great city, for which she knew she was totally unfit. However, she was not alone altogether, for Terry Macnamara, who loved her as if she were his own child, left his lodgings in the village, and came with his carpet-bag and fish ing-rod to occupy Mr. Dillon's room during his absence, and be a suitable protector to his daughter. He was not much indoors during the day, but always punctually returned to dinner, and sat with Grace in the drawing-room for the rest of the evening.

He was not a very congenial companion for a young girl, but there was a sense of rest and security in his presence and protection, that made her feel greatly at her ease. Being a near relative, he was always quite at home at Castle Cloyne, and in Mr. Dillon's absence acted as its master. The tenants, workmen, and servants were so much accustomed to see him there, that it never occurred to any of them to ques tion his authority, or disobey his commands. He was no restraint on Grace, who always treated him as a member of the family, and made no difference in her occupations or pursuits on his account ; and he, on his part, never intruded on her from breakfast until they met again at dinner, unless when he knew she particularly wished for him. But even with the sense of security given by the protection of the old man in the house, and frequent visits from Father O'Rafferty, who came to see her as often as he could spare time, Grace Dillon felt very lonely in the absence of her father and brother.

She was by no means in robust health, but as she never complained, no one appeared to notice it, but if anyone did, it was put down to the low spirits generated by solitude, and the weary, dull monotony of her life at Castle Cloyne. She had few acquaintances, and only one friend of her own sex — Miss Wilson, her brother's betrothed wife. But Caroline could hardly be called a friend, in the sense in which we understand friendship. She was too lively, and vain, and fond of amusement, to find congenial companionship in the pale, lonely girl, who was often ailing, and always grave and thoughtful. There was nothing whatever in common between the two, except that they were both young, of the same sex, and at no distant time would be connected by a nearer and more affectionate tie. However, the prospect of that connection was not looked upon by either with very pleasurable feelin ga or anticipations, for each knew that "she was in all respects unlike the other, and consequently that there never could be much real confidence between them.

There are many women like Grace Dillon. They are not beautiful in person, nor brilliant in conversation, nor attractive in manner, and those negative qualities are all cardinal sins in the opinion of the world, and for which they must suffer a heavy and life-long punishment. It seems unjust, but it is nevertheless the universal law, to which the only exception is the possession of either rank or wealth. These two are the great beautifiers, and like charity they cover a multitude of sins, not only of the negative kind, but also of those that are more positive and pronounced. But our kind mother Nature has many compensations in her gift, and if she is niggardly of outward favours, she gives the inward ones with a free and generous hand. Very often the plain face covers a heart that contains a world of love — dormant, it may be, because no one has ever taken the trouble to waken it into life — under the shy, unattractive manner is hidden a sensibility so keen that it vibrates, to the mere sound of a loving word, quivers to the touch of injustice, and is for ever yearning for affection, and grateful for the few crumbs of kindness that so rarely fall to its lot.

It is not surprising that such natures are reticent and shy. With hands stretched out, and hearts full of love, they are repelled at all points, their feelings wounded in the cruellest manner, and invariably obliged to give place to those who, in all things except good looks or showy manners, are vastly their inferiors. Their claims to any consideration are ignored with a hard coarseness, and they are perpetually reminded, either by words, or by a contemptuous silence that can be made as galling and insulting as any words, of their real or apparent inferiority. No wonder that such women are shy, and nervous, and silent. They have no barrier wherewith to protect themselves from the cruel injustice of which they are the victims, but the veil of proud reserve which they wrap round their wounded feelings and bleeding hearts.

Woe to such as these who live in this hard world; but a double woe to them, if in it they must eat the bread of dependence — a bread that, even under the most favourable conditions, must be always unspeakably bitter ! I doubt if, after all, Nature's compensations are the wisest and the best. Why should an affectionate nature be given to a woman, who must live and die without love? Why is she to be endowed with sensibility, when her feelings are to be so often outraged ? Why should neglect, or injustice, or simple toleration at best, be her portion, because she is neither beautiful, nor brilliant, nor rich ? It is a problem hard to solve, and never likely to be solved anywhere but in the Land " where all the hills shall be brought low, and all the crooked paths be made straight." There are Cordelias in common life, as well as in that enchanted land in which the divine Shakespeare reigned supreme.

Never did the great master show his marvellous knowledge of human nature so much, as when he painted the exquisite picture of the misunderstood and disinherited daughter of the short sighted, mad old king. □ VOL.

Chapter II. Oonagh Gets An Offer Of Marriage

Oh, weary heart ! that must within itself Close all its deepest leaves. L. E. L. During the first days of her bereavement, Oonagh was so stunned by her great sorrow, and so bewildered by the weight of care and responsibility thrown on her by her father's death, that she felt as if she were in a trance, without the power of thinking or acting for herself. But with one so happily con stituted as to possess a sensible, well-balanced mind in a body of the most perfect health, such an abnormal state of existence could not long continue. One of the best and most valuable possessions of youth, is its marvellous elasticity. It may bend to the very earth under the force of the storm, yet it cannot remain very long prostrate, but will spring up again fresh and buoyant as before. The heart and the hope of youth — provided always that they are bucklered by a conscience free from all grievous sin — are equal to face any storm, and gifted with a vitality so intense that it can hardly be destroyed, or even subdued.

Only for this glorious dower, how could youth encounter the hard, pitiless world that lies on before it; how endure the trials and the sorrows that are sure to mark its course through life with the regularity of milestones ? It is a dower that is, thank God ! freely and impartially given, for the heart of the youthful peasant in the mud cabin is as elastic and hopeful as that of the heir to wealth and rank. It costs nothing, and it buys everything. It is a fount of unfailing refresh ment, a heaven of perpetual sunshine. It is inde structible, immortal, for as long as youth exists upon the earth, the elastic heart that is an integral part of it can never die. The buoyant spirit of youth is Youth itself ! Take that away from it, and it becomes age, but with none of the attractions of age. It is age with a smooth brow and bright eyes, but a withered and weary heart ; age without its wise experience, its indulgent toleration, its serene and dignified calm.

When the first bitterness of her grief had gone c by, and that she could think of anything outside her great loss, the poor girl's thoughts naturally turned to her lover. She began to wonder why he had never come to show sympathy for her sorrow, or renew his suit, as one who was " hands asted " with her was bound to do. While her father lived, she knew that John Molloy could not come to Ballycross, for the old man had forbidden him to do so in the most peremptory manner. But now, that obstacle existed no longer; she was her own mistress, and accountable to no human being for her actions, and yet "Pleasant John" avoided her as if she lived in a pest-house, and left her, without a word of comfort and sympathy, to her loneliness and sorrow. At first, though surprised and deeply grieved, she was very patient, and in her heart made many excuses for him.

She remembered that he had come in for the possession of his brother's farm, and must have many things to take up his time and attention so completely, that he could not manage to make her even one hurried visit. But though love made this excuse, common sense — of which Oonagh possessed no small share — whispered that even if he could not come, he might have written, or sent her a kind, lovino message to bid her be of good cheer, for that he had not forgotten her. Neither letter nor message came, and her heart, in addition to all her other troubles, was sick with the great anguish of hope deferred. He was in good health, for she had heard that he was seen very much about lately ; from one, that he had been at such a fair, and from another, that he was flirting away with every girl who was supposed to have a good fortune, either in money or land.

But it was never told her, that he was seen dangling after a poor girl, no matter how good or handsome she might be. Shawn Sugagh was now a rich man, and they who knew him best all agreed in thinking that in choosing a wife, he would require to get " penny for penny." Not for a moment did Oonagh believe a word of this gossip, for her faith in her lover was very great. Still she could not help thinking that it was very strange he never came near her now, never even inquired for her, that she could hear of. What could it possibly mean ? But at last it began to dawn upon her mind — slowly at first, indeed — that he shunned her of set purpose, with a view to get out of the solemn en gagement into which he had entered with her. The embarrassed state in which her father had left his affairs was by this time tolerably well known.

In fact it could no longer be concealed, and Mrs. Clancy in her anger had done nothing but tell it to all her friends, who in their turn made it public enough. Oonagh herself — as true and open as the day — never denied that she owed a year's rent, which, without stock on the land, or any capital to draw upon, she could hardly hope to pay. On the other hand, John Molloy had got rich in the same proportion as she had got poor, and evidently he did not care to marry a girl whose small inheritance, deeply encumbered as it was, was not now of much value in his eyes. He would not come courting her any more ; that was plain. There was no fear that he would not get a wife, and a rich one too ; and she on whom his choice would fall, would no doubt esteem herself, and be esteemed by all other women, as most fortunate and happy.

A woman can forgive every sin in her lover except meanness. He may be wayward, passionate, exacting, and she will bear with it all; he may be even un faithful, and that too she will forgive, though her heart be sorely wounded, if he will only return to her, and profess repentance for his disloyalty. But meanness, no true woman either will or can forget. Love will struggle on through a long course of unkindness, neglect, and brutality, but meanness kills it with one blow. " My father was wiser than me, an' he knew John OONAGH GETS AN OFFER OF MABBIAGE. 23 better, an' he warned me agin him, many and many a time," said the poor girl to herself. " He often told me that if I married that man he'd break my heart before long, an' I'm thinkin' 'twas thrue for him. I loved him dearly, an' I love him still, foreer !