The Nun's Curse. A novel

Front matter

LONDON : ROBSON AND SONS, LIMITED, PRINTERS, PANCRAS ROAD, N.W. % iofael BY MES. J. H. EIDDLvLL^ AUTHOR OF "GEORGE GE1TE," "TEE SENIOR PARTNER," " J1ISS CASCOIGNE," ETC. IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. I. LONDON : WARD AND DOWNEY, 12 YORK STREET, COVEXT GARDEN. 1888. [AU rights reserved.] TO DR. AND MRS. GEORGE HARLEY, WITH THE AFFECTIONATE REGARDS OF THEIR FRIEND SIje gadbor. CONTENTS OF VOL. I. CHAP. PAGE i. A dead Lion ...... i ii. In the Heart of Donegal .... 23 in. Cold Comfort . . . . . -39 iv. A Guardian Angel . . . . -58 v. Mrs. Barry as Adviser . . . 75 vi. The Nun's Curse ..... 90 vii. Mr. McKye's Opinions . . . .109 viii. Mr. Malet advises . . . . .127 ix. Aileen . . . • . . .144 x. Sir Henry speaks . . . . -165 xi. Philippa's Answer . . . . .186 xii. Mr. Mark Barry . . . . -205 xm. The very Man . . . . . .221 xiv. Mr. Benaron . . . . . .237 xv. Dallying . . . . . . -251 xvi. Welcome Home 26S xvii. "What are we to Do's" ....

Chapter I

A DEAD LION. Thirty-four years ago there was joy in Donegal — joy too deep to find expression in jesting and laughter ; which was felt rather than spoken ; which could be traced in looks and tones, in the way men went about their daily work and exchanged greetings with one another. Did they but remark, " It is a rough day, or a ' saft ' day, or a wild day," the melodies of hope and thankfulness ran through the words ; when they bade their horses "ga-an," a geniality underlay the command that form of address often lacked ; while those natives of Donegal who had been absent for a short time from the country could tell by a sort of VOL. I. B stir in the air, like the rising of the sap in spring, that something unusual had occurred. "Any news going?" was the question put by one such returned traveller to his neighbour.

" ISIot much — only old Duke Conway is gone at last-" " No ! Is he, now ?" "He is so. They say he was a week dying; his was a fearsome death-bed." " Well, he had more nor eighty years of life." " He had that." And then both went on their way, content because one man had passed to his long account. There was joy in Donegal, deep joy and no sorrow. From Derry to Donegal Bay, from Malin Head to Fermanagh, there prevailed but one feeling — thankfulness. Not a voice was raised in lamen tation ; not a mourner cried, "Ah, my brother, or my master, or my friend!" He had been powerful, and he used his power to oppress ; he had been rich, and he used his wealth to scourge ; and now he was dead, and the people were glad. The sky, and the ocean, and the stern mountains, and the stony unfruitful land all looked to them different ; all bore a softer and lovelier aspect because Marmaduke Conway was sleeping that sleep which knows no waking ; but they did not talk much about him or what had happened.

Even to this present day they are a reticent race that dwell in Donegal among such fastnesses as the English mind can scarcely conceive — self-contained, chary of speech, not to be lightly inveigled into conversation by friend or foe. Have they not the great hills, and fearful ravines and defiles which make a stranger shudder, and dreadful headlands, and sunlit bays, and darksome lakes hidden away like secret treasure under the shadow of the mountains, to exchange deep thoughts with, to take into their very souls and feed upon ? To the core of their being they are super stitious also — how, dwelling in such a land, could they be otherwise ? — and to them Duke Conway had ever seemed more a demon than a man. Times there were when, in their desperation at some act of harder tyranny than any which had preceded it, they turned to the wild hills or to the raging sea, and mutely asked if the God who planted the one and set bounds to the other was still powerful to save, and if His hand were indeed not shortened why He failed to send an avenging angel to succour His down-trodden people and destroy their oppressor ; and now it seemed too much to believe that at last — at last the tyrant was dead, that he lay with less power for harm than a child just born, that the meanest peasant was of more account than he, and that, crowning miracle of all, he had actually died in his bed after a painful and lingering malady instead of on some lonely road, or barren heath, murdered.

That was the end every one had expected must come ; yet no one had raised his hand against the shrivelled, puny old man, who, out of pure wicked ness, went on day after day and year after year adding to the awful sum of his transgressions againsthis fellows. Innocent were those creatures for the most part : they had done him no harm, they were flesh and blood, they toiled hard for their scanty bite and sup, they rose early, they crept weary to rest ; in the main they were honest, faithful, patient under privation, long-suffering of wrong; but had they been the vilest scum of towns vile as the Cities ofthe Plain, he could not have hated them worse or wreaked a heavier vengeance upon them. And yet he had died in his bed, well nursed to the last, doctors coming and going, the "clergy" — by which phrase was meant Mr. Malet, the Vicar of Calgarry — "praying constant," the lawyer to put a last codicil to his will, everything quite correct.

He had gone just like any other of the " quality," and the people did not know what to make of it. If any one had told them he was carried off wrapped in sheets of blue flame the hour before dawn, just when night is coldest, they would have seen a fitness in his exit which the actual manner of his departure failed to fulfil. Yet who could tell what sights and sounds he saw during that final week, while life still held and death struggled for him ? Ann Patterson, who was possessed " of that strong a heart she wasn't feared to watch her lone beside the old man night after night," never saw fit to enlighten Donegal with any detailed account of aught which occurred during those vigils. She came from Kilrea, which, being but thirteen miles from Ballymena, may be considered quite in the world when compared with Donegal ; but she had not spent forty years amongst a strange people without acquiring somewhat of their ways, and in any case she was loyal to the house she served, and of the passage of that sin-burdened soul from time to eternity no one heard from her.

What she did say were merely " words of course," and let in only a glimmer of light on the tremen dous question how Duke Conway met the end. "He suffered cruel," said Anne ; "for an old man he was wonderful strong, and kept a powerful grip of life to the very last." "He held to this world in a surprising manner considering all he had gone through." " No, I never heard him make any complaint, though his pain must have been often hard to thole." " Yes, it was an awe some death-bed." And that was all she could or would say on the subject. If she did not speak, however, there were those who, equally silent, let their imaginations run riot over the old man's death-bed : down the long avenue, across the wide lawns, up the great staircase, into the very room where he lay, it was believed there hurried a ghostly throng to keep him dreadful com pany at the last.

From out the sea, from across the ocean, from lowly graves on the lonely mountain-sides they may have come swiftly to remind him of the past : starving mothers holding dying babies in their skeleton arms ; old men and women, youths and maidens, driven forth in the bitter winter weather, when it only needed a few pounds to save them from starvation and death ; little children wasting day by day, till they grew too weak to cry for the food their parents could not give them. During all the famine-time, when the most selfish were moved to compassion, the meanest untied their purse-strings, he remained adamant. He saw droves of the peo ple wending their way like cattle along the roads to the nearest port, and smiled. He beheld the strength and backbone of the country leaving it, and rejoiced. He turned men gaunt with hunger from his doors ; during the whole of that never-to-be-forgotten visi tation he did not give a shilling of money or a pound of meal in help ; no, though he had great possessions.

Surely, to speak of nothing which had gone before the famine, he must have found ghosts and to spare appearing to appal him as he lay never to rise again. And there had been much before. He was of those against whose name a black mark stood for having sold their country. He was young in years then, but little over thirty-one, yet old in political as well as in every other sin. At the Court of the First Gentleman in Europe he out-heroded Herod in wickedness. It was a gay life he led there, a life of which he liked well to talk, when times changed, and he found it expedient to retire into private life. Thrice married, his last wife did not complacently die and leave him to look out a fourth bride. Neither did she divorce him, which she could have done : she left him without sound of legal trumpet or beat of judicial drum, and told such stories about her wedded life as virtually settled Mr. Conway's social career.

He tried residing abroad for a while ; but finding that younger generations were pressing unpleasantly close to his heels, he decided on taking up his abode where he could be sole lord of all he surveyed. He had played for high stakes twice, and been beaten : once when the Irish Parliament was closed, and once when Catholic Emancipation came on the carpet. Each time he expected to be made a peer, and each time he was disappointed. All which things were remembered. If the peasantry were silent about many like incidents in an eventful career, not so the news papers. When his death was announced, simul taneously also there appeared leaders upon the man who had lived through many reigns and seen such a number of political surprises. Some, recollect ing the rarely acted-on proverb, " De mortuis nil nisi bonum," merely mentioned his ancient lineage, his vast estates, his great age, his varied ex periences ; but others were not so considerate : all his sins of omission and commission, all his superhuman cruelty and well-nigh incredible callous ness, all his private affairs and public doings were dragged forth from dingy closets with the dust of half a century upon them, and descanted on in the light of day.

"At that bar," said one eloquent gentleman, in concluding a leading article, " where all men are judged by their works, Marmaduke Conway, tho traitor, the turncoat, and the tyrant, now stands, with the snows of eighty-three sinful years heavy on his head. Many talents were given to him, which through life he employed exclusively in causing misery. Great will be his punishment !" There never surely was such homage paid to pure wickedness as at the funeral. Had Marmaduke Conway been a good man sinking to his rest, surrounded by children's children and a crowd of attached tenants and devoted retainers, he might have gone to the grave and been laid in it without any extraordinary fuss. But this man had for so long held himself aloof from his fellows in a sort of isolated state, that the news of his death fell with a thunderclap on society; more, perhaps, because it reminded it he was, till a day previously, still living than for any other cause.

From all parts of the country his equals came flocking. It was accounted a great burying, even in the land where large funerals are the rule. The day was bitter; a high, cutting wind, accompanied by driving sleet, made the long slow drive from Calgarry to the lonely graveyard lying under the shadow of Muckish a terrible undertaking even for those who occupied their own or hired carriages. Behind the carriages followed the tenants on the Calgarry estate, all with white hat-bands and white scarfs, in which were fastened shoulder-knots of black ribbon, as is the fashion of the country. They walked two and two up the steep roads, men of grave mien and hard features ; but they exchanged no word about the dead. There were some who scarcely believed he was dead, and, at all events, they had proved practically that Solomon was right when he said, " Curse not the rich in thy bedchamber ; for a bird of the air shall carry the voice, and that which hath wings shall tell the matter."

Often it had seemed to those who bowed under his yoke that Duke Conway was able to read what was passing in their minds, and knew the words they muttered over their peat fires, with closed doors and no living creature within a mile of them ; and though he was now dead, and they following him to his long rest, who could measure the power of a bad man even in the next world ? Besides which, there were other rich people and powerful people left, and it was hard to guess the sort of landlord who would come after him. Young Terence was reported well of; but there had never been a good landlord ofthe name at Calgarry yet, and it seemed unlikely there ever would be. For which reason and many more the tenantry and peasantry trudged in well-nigh utter silence up the road that wound through desolate bogs stretching to right and left as far as the eye could see.

It was a solemn and imposing procession that, all in the bleak January weather, accompanied the dead man to his long home. There were no specta tors — only a few women looked from the doors of their cabins and watched the long cavalcade go by ; while their children, barefooted, barelegged, and only partially clothed as regarded their lithe, active young bodies, stood open-mouthed as the black coach drawn by four horses, and the long line of carriages, and the longer line of human beings toiled on to the lonely graveyard where so many Con ways lay. Even now men will tell how they " mind when they were no higher than a ' turf ' seeing old Mar maduke's funeral. It was a piercing day, their fathers said, with the wind gathering up for a storm blowing straight in off the Atlantic; the cannon were firing at Malin* all the previous night, so they heard, and they remember that the horses' manes were fluttering in the gale like ribbons."

Up at the graveyard, a few sheep that had been driven out of " God's acre " stood huddled together under the lee of a rough stone wall falling to ruin ; for a while they watched the strange cavalcade, the like of which had not come that way before for best part of a century, and then, suddenly taking alarm, fled with the speed of deer to the hills. Once upon a time there had been a church in the middle of the graves, but it was now roofless, * At Malin Head the wash of the Atlantic resembles the roar of cannon for twenty-four hours before a storm. and stood the mere shell of a building, with skeleton windows reflecting their tracery against the sky. Into what had been the chancel the coffin was borne, preceded by Archdeacon Conway, who, looking up at the stormy sky, at the gray wild hurrying clouds, declared, in tones that seemed to be echoed from the great mountains which towered sternly above, "lam the Resurrection and the Life, saith the Lord : he that believeth in Me, though he were dead, yet shall he live."

But, alas ! in whom had the dead man trusted his life • long but him self ? It was a strange thing to see that roofless church, situated in the midst of desolation, usually lonely with a loneliness well-nigh inconceivable, filled full of living men, who stood bareheaded in the bitter blast while the service proceeded. All present were men save one ; and it may safely be said that most eyes in the assemblage were turned upon her, not merely because it was unusual to see a woman of any degree at a funeral, but also because she was something very well worth looking at. She had come from Calgarry House in the same carriage with her uncle, General Sir Henry Beecham, renowned for having helped Wellington to beat Boney ; and common report stated that Duke Con way " favoured " a match between her and young Terence, his heir.

She was English, enormously rich, and young — all good reasons for staring at her ; but her rare beauty proved a better reason still. She was pale as a living and healthy woman could well be ; her hair was gold, not light and dull, but warm with the glow of the sunset colour ; her eyes were dark gray, with black lashes and eyebrows ; and her features might have been cut by a sculptor, so perfect was each separate detail, and so harmonious the whole. Tall and slight, the long black cloak she wore made her look even taller and slighter than was actually the case. Her crape bonnet, from which the veil was thrown back, intensified her pallor, till her face looked more like something carved in pure white marble than flesh and blood ; and she was calm and almost motionless as a statue the while she stood beside the coffin, listening with bent head and devout attention to the glorious ser vice read over " our dear brother departed," who hal " brought nothing into the world," and had certainly " carried nothing out."

She bowed herself reverently whenever the name of our Lord was mentioned, and her soft amen was heard at intervals clear above all other responses ; also she repeated with the clerk the few sentences that are ordered to be " said or sung " while the corpse is being made ready to be laid into the earth, and generally amazed the tenantry, who had never before witnessed such "religion " in a Protestant. " She might be a saint come down from the old chapel at Shanalore," said one man to his fellow ; " did you ever see such holiness in one so young ?" "No, nor in one old," was the answer. By this time they had placed Marmaduke Con way in the family vault, which was quarried out of solid rock, among his ancestors, a goodly company. There were plenty of them, " all bad," observed the gravedigger to the clerk when the great company had departed, " but this last was the worst of all."

" He is gone," said the clerk, in a tone of reproof. "And a good job too," retorted the gravedigger, who had partaken of that which renders the wisest foolish. " They are going back faster than they came," remarked the clerk, wishing to change the conversation to some topic less personal to the dead. " They are leaving the one behind that didn't care to travel fast, at least not here," answered the other with a grin ; " besides, they want to hear the will read." " I wonder who'll get his money?" " It wouldn't be easy to say. Neither of us has a chance, I'm afraid," and the man laughed again. He wa3 quite right — all Mr. Conway's relations were most anxious to hear his will read. Calgarry, they knew, must go to Terence, the last of the entail, but it was notorious that the old man had always hated his heir-apparent for the time being, whoever that heir might be ; and no one imagined he would leave his freehold property in England, or the whole even of his personalty, to his young kinsman.

There were several among his connections who VOL. I. c would value large legacies, and who were entitled to be remembered. No one except the lawyers knew exactly how rich Marmaduke Conway had been, but everybody entertained a shrewd guess he left enough money to be queath large sums to many an attached relative, and still not unduly cripple the next owner of Calgarry. "Most probably," remarked one sapient gentle man, " he will leave a large sum in settlement for Miss Dutton and her children." " He may," was the doubtful reply. " He always spoke as if he wished the marriage." " He did — but I don't think that proves much. However, we shall soon know all about it." The horses were trotting hard downhill, as though they too hoped the dead man had left them a competency. Hot iron never touched their hoofs, and no mountain-goat was surer-footed than they.

The roads were like granite, their blood was up, and they turned into the Queen's highway and then dashed along the Calgarry avenue at a pace which was scarcely seemly, considering the nature of the ceremony just performed. But none of the mourners gave a thought to the rate at which they were being driven. What every one wanted to know was how old Conway had left his money ; they were so anxious to have this point settled, that wonderful unanimity prevailed as to the expediency of getting the legal business over as soon as possible. One and all had the most pressing reason for wishing to leave Calgarry with speed. They could not wait for luncheon — they must get off; and so it was settled that the will should take precedence even of a biscuit and glass of wine. "Though it will not require long to read," said the lawyer, untying the document and laying it flat on the table before him.

Then he swept a compre hensive glance round the room and began. A pin might have been heard to fall ; a silence as great as that in which they had left Mamaduke Conway was broken only by the sound of Mr. Twys den's voice, which proved to most present the very knell of hope. For, saving a few small legacies which were left in various codicils, the entire wealth which the tes tator had to dispose of was willed to his " beloved kinsman and godson, Marmaduke Frederick Con way." Not a penny to any other relative or con nection ; not a shilling to Terence Conway ; the very furniture in Calgarry House belonged to Captain Marmaduke Conway ; and the proprietor of hundreds of thousands of acres of land, rendered almost value less and tenantless by the action of the dead man, did not even own the chair he sat on in his own mansion.

The horses in the stable, the wine in the cellar, the carpets under his feet, and the pictures on the wall, belonged to a man he had never imagined to be even in the running. " That is all, gentlemen," said Mr. Twysden, when he had finished the last paragraph. No one knew what to answer ; no one was equal to the occasion except Sir Henry Beecham, who, having fought Boney, even old Duke Conway could not surprise. " Had we not better go to luncheon ?" he sug gested. " I think there is ample time for every one to have some slight refreshment." Like one stunned, Terence rose to do the honours of his house, but Captain Conway laid a hand on his arm. " Sir Henry will attend to that," he said ; " and I want to speak to you." "Did you know — was this news to you ?" asked Terence, when they were alone.

His lips were so parched, he had to moisten them before he could frame any articulate sound. " I did not know, I was led to believe ; but then, one never could tell." " No, one never could tell," Terence repeated mechanically. " It is very hard on you, I feel." " It is very hard." "lam stopping at Dunfanaghy, but must leave to-morrow morning early. Suppose you come back with me after these people are gone, and let us talk matters over ?" "What is the use of talking matters over? No talking can make me anything but a beggar." " Come, come ! a man can't be a beggar who owns such a property as this." " What is the use of owning property if you have not a penny to keep it up with ?" " At all events, let us discuss the position ; we may yet find a way out of the difficulty." " That is so very likely," said the younger man bitterly; but he consented to go to Dunfanaghy nevertheless — perhaps because he felt anything was better than staying in Calgarry House.

Chapter II. In The Heart Of Donegal

Even at high noon on a summer's day that person must indeed be hard to satisfy who would desire to see a more lonely stretch of country than is to be found among the fastnesses of the most northerly county in Ireland ; while, given a wild winter's night, when the storm spirits are abroad, howling among the hills and shrieking out at sea, the land seems one abandoned by its Maker, and given over to utter desolation and destruction. Such a night succeeded to the boisterous day on which Marmaduke Conway was carried to his grave. Straight from the North Pole a cutting wind blew direct on the giant headlands that guard, and up the many bays which indent, the coast of Donegal. Out in the Atlantic the white ocean-horses were running mad races with none to see, dashing against Tory Island and the Horn, swyooping round Malin, tearing into Lough Swilly, and flinging themselves over sunken rocks into every little treacherous harbour that lends a fresh danger to that perilous shore.

There was a storm brewing, but it might still be hours before it broke in its full strength over Donegal. Meanwhile, vessels were giving the land a clear berth, and making as well and fast as they could for some place of safety ; in the east, a faint sickly moon was trying to rise above a bank of dense black cloud. By the time she had succeeded, and was sailing westward, Heaven only could tell on what scenes of struggle and misery she might not have looked. Not a night to be abroad if one could help it, though there may be worse things to en counter, even when snugly housed and warmly sheltered, than a cutting wind on the wild coast or in the lonely passes of Donegal. Walking along a boreen, over which distant but ubiquitous Muckish frowned heavily, was a man, who, though he did not seem to care much for the weather, appeared anxious with regard to his bear ings, for he paused from time to time, and looked around as if in search of some landmark or dwelling where he might make inquiry.

Not even a glim mer of light, however, rewarded his scrutiny. If there were cottages it was too dark to see them ; and reflecting that probably there were no cottages, he trudged resolutely on till he came to a point where the boreen was intersected by a more beaten road. Here he paused. He had his choice of three ways, two of which must probably be wrong. If he went straight on, he would be but pursuing the boreen, along which he had for some miles been painfully ploughing his way. If he turned to his right, he believed he should only be plung ing further among the hills. He inclined to go to the left, but he felt weary, and wanted to be sure ; so, for a minute, he stood still, peering through the darkness, trying to discover whether there were not on this fresh thoroughfare, lonely and deserted though it seemed, some sign of life.

There was not a sign — the roaring of the wind over the waste of rock and turf, the dash of water not far distant, were the only sounds that met his ear — and he was about to make the best of a bad business, when he caught the faint echo of footsteps coming down the old coach-road. At times they were lost, swept inland by the wind, but in the lulls of the gale he could hear them approaching nearer and nearer, heavy nailed shoes striking hard against the metal of the highway. " Which is the road to Dunfanaghy ?" he asked, as the man came abreast of him. There was not light enough for either clearly to distinguish the other, yet the wearer of those heavy shoes answered, "I am going most of the way to Dunfanaghy myself, sir, and can show you the road if you like." " Thank you," said the traveller who had lost his bearings; and they walked on side by side.