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This text has been proofread but is not guaranteed to be free from errors. Corrections to the original text have been left in place.
Title: The Nun's Curse, an electronic edition
Author: Riddell, J.H., Mrs., 1832-1906
Publisher: Ward and Downey
Place published: London
Date: [189-]
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THE NUN'S CURSE.THE NUN'S CURSEA NovelBYMRS. J. H. RIDDELLAUTHOR
OF"GEORGE GEITH," "MISS GASCOIGNE," ETC.NEW EDITION.LONDON:WARD AND DOWNEY, 12 YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN.[All rights reserved.]TODR. AND MRS. GEORGE HARLEY,WITH THE AFFECTIONATE
REGARDS OF THEIR FRIENDThe Author.Table of contents for Riddell's The Nun's
Curse.Table of contents for Riddell's The Nun's
Curse.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 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."Not 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 fear-some 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 lamentation; 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 superstitious also—how, dwelling in such a land, could they be otherwise?—and to them Duke Conway had ever seemed more a demon than a manTimes 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 lastߞ at last the tyrant was dead, that he lay with less power for harm than the 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 wickedness, went on day after day and year after year adding to the awful sum of his transgressions against his 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 of the 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 Bellymena, 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 tremendous question how Duke Conway met the end."He suffered cruel," said Ann; "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 awesome 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 company at the last.From out the from across the ocean, from lowly graves on the lonely mountain sides they may have 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 people 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 visitation 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 awhile; 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 newspapers. When his death was announced, simultaneously also there appeared leaders upon the man who had lived through many reigns and seen such a number of political surprises. Some, recollecting the rarely acted-on proverb, "De mortuis nil nisi bonum," merely mentioned his ancient lineage, his vast estates, his great age, his varied experiences; but others were not so considerate: all his sins of omission and commission, all his superhuman cruelty and well-nigh incredible callousness, 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, the 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 causeFrom all parts of the country his equals came flocking. It was accounted a great burying, even in a 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 road, 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 Poetically 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 of the 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 spectators—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 Conways lay.Even now men will tell how they "mind when they were no higher than a ' turf ' seeing old Marmaduke'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*At Malin Head the wash of the Atlantic resembles the roar of cannon for twenty-four hours before a storm. all the previous night, so they heard, and they remembered 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, 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, "I am 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 himself?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 Conway "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 service read over our "dear brother departed," who had "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 Conway 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 was 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, of the whole even of his personality, to his young kinsman.There were several among his connections who 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 bequeath large sums to many an attached relative, and still not unduly cripple the next owner of Calgarry."Most probably," remarked one sapient gentleman, "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 comprehensive glance round the room and began.A pin might have been heard fall; a silence as great as that in which they had left Marmaduke Conway was broken only by the sound of Mr. Twysden'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 testator had to dispose of was willed to his "beloved kinsman and godson, Marmaduke Frederick Conway." Not a penny to any other relative or connection; 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 valueless 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 suggested. "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.""I am 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, swooping 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 encounter, 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 bearings, 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 glimmer 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 plunging 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."It's a rough night," observed he who seemed to know that country."Very, and it is going to be worse. I fear it will be a bad night at sea.""It will that. I wouldn't care to be outside the Horn just now. They are shaking the stone at Tory, I'm thinking."If the speaker expected his companion to ask what stone, and who the "they" were that employ themselves shaking it in such weather, he was disappointed. The man who did not wear heavy shoes either knew all about the stone, or did not care to hear. On the whole, there did not seem much chance of friendly conversation."You'll be stopping at Maclean's?" hazarded the individual who was going most of the way to Dunfanaghy, after a few minutes' silence."No, I am not staying there.""I thought you might. A heap of the quality has been in the house this week. I never mind it so thronged. They have been put to it to find beds. That's a real comfortable hotel.""So I am told."Was there ever such a provoking companion on a wild night in January, particularly when a man, having taken a little whisky—not much, but enough to unloose his tongue—wanted somebody to talk to? Nothing venture, however, nothing have. He would try again."You had lost your way, I am thinking?" he said."Yes; I lost my way. I took the wrong road out of Dunfanaghy, and have been walking since six o'clock.""See that, now! And you might have walked further if I had not chanced to be coming along; and it's not a pleasant country this to lose yourself in. You are English, by your tongue?""No: I have been a good deal in England; but I am Irish, like yourself.""I shouldn't have thought it, now.""It is the fact, nevertheless."Certainly this was not a genial person with whom to travel the miles that lay long between the travellers and Dunfanaghy, nevertheless he was better than nobody. There were but two classes of strangers, as the man knew well, likely to be journeying through Donegal at that time of the year—commercial men and sportsmen.No bagman in his senses was likely to be found "walking loose " about the country after dark. Moreover, some instinct told him, that whatever else his companion had to do with, it was not trade; accordingly Mr. Donelly—for such chanced to be the name of the heavily-shod individual—tried the reserved man beside him "on sport" He talked about shooting and fishing, about golden plovers and sea-birds, about the trout in the lake above Dunfanaghy, and the salmon in the Claddy and the Garry.He talked about whales, and sharks, and seals, and otter, about deep-sea fishing and wild-duck shooting, about grouse and the red-legged partridge, about choughs and gulls, hawks and penguins, and he might as well have held his tongue. The young man—for young he was, as Mr. Donelly knew, both by his voice and his walk, and also by " a squint he got at him once when the moon lifted herself a bit "℄seemed to know as much concerning game, and tackle, and dogs, and guns as anybody, and care nothing for any of them."Blest," thought Mr. Donelly, "if I can make out what I are at all at all! You are a queer one, though, wherever come from;" and, fairly at his wit's end, he walked on a short way without speaking.But he could not keep silent long. Either the whisky was too potent or his curiosity too great for him to abstain from speech. He began whistling a tuneless air, and then, stopping in the middle of a bar, said,"I'd never have taken you to be Irish.""No?""Be shot if I would! I'd as soon have taken myself to be English.""You are not a Donegal man, though.""No, I'm not; but how you guessed that beats me. I'm from Down.""Then how does it happen that you are here?""Just by the height of bad luck. I'd a bit of a shop and a trifle of land, out of which I was making what kept us, and more, when I got a letter from a far-off cousin of my wife's that her husband was going to America, and they had a good farm here I might have for the taking—a hundred acres, no less, and turf for the cutting. They had done well on the land, they said, till the famine year; but with so big a family they thought they had best go to America, as they'd the chance. All they wanted was a matter of ten pounds for a harrow and a plough, and a horse and a cow and calf, and twenty cocks and hens, and the chairs and tables, and suchlike. The house wasn't, to speak the truth, grandly furnished, but it had all we could need; only I must make up my mind at once, because they were keeping an offer of eight pounds open till they knew if I would rise the other two. A man in Letterkenny wrote all this for David, who was no scholar himself, and well it was put together."I had just been having a fall out with my own landlord, and when David's letter came my wife made sure it was predestined for us to go to Donegal; and so, to make a long story short, I sent the ten pounds, sold my shop, auctioned off my stock, and started here, where I had sent our eldest son to take possession. O dear! O dear! it was a possession! I'll never forget the day I first set eyes on that hundred acres—never to my dying day. I walked over the bog, for it was nothing better, with Phil—that's my son—and I saw the stock I wouldn't have bid ten shillings for, let alone pounds, and the cabin not fit to put a pig in, to say nothing of a Christian, and I went out and sat down on a big flat stone. If it hadn't been for shame, I could have cried like a child, and, faith, with reason, too.""But I hope your venture has not turned so badly after all?""It couldn't have turned out much worse,"was the answer."You might as well try to raise crops off the foundations of the earth as Donegal. What isn't peat is stone, and if by chance an ear of corn does spring up, the wind cuts it off clean as a razor. I've lost all I brought with me here. It is like flinging money into a moss-hole to lay it out on such a soil as this.""But it is not all bad land, surely?""So some says; but I don't see much difference myself, and I don't believe there is any—Man, but this is going to be an awful night," he broke off to say, as a gust of wind nearly carried away his hat. "I wonder if the old fellow up yonder is sleeping through it?"His companion did not inquire who the old fellow might be, for again he had relapsed into silence, so Mr. Donelly proceeded:"I don't know if you heard tell of the grand funeral we had here
to-day?""Do you mean Mr. Conway's?""Ay; strangers do call him that, but the people here-abouts never spoke of him except as the Duke, or the old Duke.""Were you at the funeral?""Troth, no; I had to go to the burying of a sort of relation of my own, or I'd been proud to see the last of the old villain.""What do you mean by using such an expression?""What do I mean, is it? Just what I say. He was an old villain—the worst of villains.""Did you hold under him?""No; things are bad enough with me, but they'd have been worse if I'd been unfortunate enough to own him for landlord.""Why do you speak of the dead man, then, in that way, if you had nothing to do with him?""Because it is the truth, and there is not a man, woman,
or child in the country wouldn't tell you the same if they weren't afraid. My landlord! My conscience! he'd never
have seen his eighty-third birthday if he had served me the way he served others. No, I'd have swung cheerfully for him. Look you here, sir, I don't mind telling you because I see You're a gentleman, and maybe never heard much about the old heathen; but he was a divil—that is what he was, a divil—I can't put it stronger nor that, can I?""It is strong enough—too strong, indeed.""Too strong! No, that it's not, I'll swear. If I began on the first day of the year and went on to the last, I still wouldn't be able to tell half nor a quarter of his wickedness. But there! many a one says he couldn't help it—that a power beyond himself was ever and always spurring him on to evil. There was a spell over him; let him do what he would he couldn't pet rid of the Nun's Curse, and I'm afraid it's lying heavy on him where he is now.""The Nun's Curse!" repeated the other, and his voice sounded like one who has taken a sudden chill; "what was it?""Did you never hear of the Nun's Curse? Think of that, now! It was a mark set on every Conway that came to own Calgarry; and it has stuck to them—ay, for hundreds of years. Why, the very children knew the old Duke was under a curse.""I have heard of the Curse, but what was the cause of it?""Now, that I can't exactly tell you; they're a queer people hereabouts, and even though they know a thing right well, they let on they are ignorant of it as a new-born baby. All I have ever been able to put together is that long, and long, and long ago, when the nuns were driven out of their house on the mountain side—where the ruins are, a bit beyond Shanalore—one of them fell to cursing, and laid a ban on the Conways of Calgarry, and it has stuck to them ever since.""But that must be nonsense.""I am not prepared myself to say so. For one thing, the estate has never passed from father to son; and for another, no man that owned it—no matter how rich or how grand—found happiness like anybody else. I don't hold with nuns and monks, and can't see why their prayers should be granted when better people have to shift without what they ask for; but whatever the reason, you may depend the Conways are marked. They make trouble for themselves, and, what is worse, for every soul they come across. And talking of that, I wonder where old Duke's sinful soul is to-night? Wouldn't you think, to listen to the storm, the devils were making merry over him? Maybe they'll not let him rest in his grave.""Whatever he was," said the other hoarsely, "and God knows I never heard much good of him, let us talk no more about his faults. He is gone where I hope he will be judged mercifully.""He won't, sir, if there is justice in Heaven," replied Donelly with dogged conviction."This is the Dunfanaghy road, isn't it?" said the younger man. "O! I know now where we are; my way lies in the other direction. I am much obliged. Won't you get yourself a glass of something?" he added with a natural hesitation, for it seemed to him that Mr. Donelly had already partaken of more glasses than were beneficial."Not at all, sir. What! just for telling you your road? and I am sure it was a real pleasure to have company on such a night. Well, if I must—thank you; I'll drink to your good health, and good luck to you.""Thank you;" and the stranger turned and walked away.For a moment Donelly stood still; then getting to the lee of a stone wall, he struck a match and looked at the coin in his hand."My faith!" he exclaimed; then cautiously followed after his late companion, who, stopping at the gate leading to Calgarry House, rang the bell. There was a delay while the lodge-keeper, roused from sleep, put on some clothing, and made his way, lantern in hand, to the wicket, which he unlocked to give ingress to the late visitor, after whom he looked intently.As he was turning away he heard some one entreating him to stop."Peter, Peter dear, wait, for any sake, man! It's me, John Donelly: you know me, don't you?""What do you want?" asked Peter surlily. He had been wakened up out of his first sleep, and wished old Duke back again."Not much," answered Mr. Donelly; "only come here a minute. Who was that you just let through?""Who?" grumbled Peter; "who would it be but the new master, young Terence?" and he passed into the lodge, slamming his door after him."I am afraid, John Donelly," said that individual, standing out all alone in the weather, and haranguing his respected self—" I am afraid you have made a mistake this night, for once in your life, and let your tongue outrun your wit."CHAPTER III.COLD COMFORT."THAT'S a rough night you've brought home with you, Mr. Terence," said Ann Patterson, as sh; helped the "new master" off with his top-coat. "God help all poor fellows on the sea!"The owner of Calgarry stood for a second as if he scarcely understood the gist of her remark; but then he gloomily answered,"I hope God will help all poor fellows on land, too.""Amen to that, sir, for there are heaps of sore and sorrowful and sinful hearts every night in the year; and where would they get comfort if it wasn't from their Maker?"Apparently Mr. Terence Conway was too much engrossed in the consideration of his own troubles to care to enter into the wide field of misery suggested, for, without speaking, he turned towards the great oak staircase which had been the pride of many a Conway long dead and gone, and would have proceeded straight to his room, but that Ann interposed:"You'll have something to eat, sir? Byrne was so tired I made bold to tell him to go to bed and I would sit up. We scarce knew whether you'd be back or not; but supper is spread, there is game and other things; be said, Mr. Terence, and take a bite. You must be fairly famished after such a drive.""I walked, and I'm not in the mood for eating," said the young man, pausing, however, irresolutely."Well, sir, a glass of wine, at any rate; you must need one: or, maybe, punch would be best. I'll see if I can get some hot water.""No, Ann, no," said Mr. Terence, now fully persuaded, descending the easy steps and entering the dining-room. "I will have a glass of wine to set your mind at ease; but I can't toke spirits: my head is not strong enough.""I suppose it is just as you're used, sir. I have heard some say they dursn't touch wine, and then there's others can taste nothing, and they, like as not, are the safest." And all the time she talked, Ann was offering tempting dishes, probably the remains of the funeral meats, spread for the young heir's meal.Even in early girlhood Ann Patterson had never been comely. Angular in person, hard-featured, with the pronounced Scottish face so often to be seen in the North of Ireland, she was yet always good to look at: kindly, wholesome, honest, there lurked no shadow of turning in her expression. She was true as steel, faithful as a dog, and though, as regarded book-learning, almost uneducated, still shrewd and wise beyond most women in any rank of life. To see her moving about the room, to hear her homely voice urging him to eat, to find her eyes fixed upon him with a tender sorrow, filled Terence Conway's heart with a vague comfort he could not have defined, but that was very real, nevertheless.She was not changed, though all else might be. It seemed to him she had never changed since the first day he could remember her: when they went together and picked up wonderful shells on the sea-shore—shells which were to him then as treasures from the enchanted isles. No, she had not changed, save from youth to age. She was young when she came to Calgarry House as own maid to Marmaduke Conway's daughter-in-law: forty years had passed since then, and, after going through all the successive stages of service which might entitle her to the proud position of housekeeper, she attained that post.But she was Ann Patterson at the end as at the beginning. No one called her miss or mistress. She could make her own sufficiently respected without insisting upon such out-ward homage neither did she rustle in silken sheen, as might well have beseemed her position, but she wore plain stuff gowns and white aprons, and white linen caps, adorned with goffered frills of miraculous stiffness; and pinned round her throat and tucked within her dress was a muslin handkerchief, pure and soft-looking as driven snow. Many and many a time had Terence sobbed out his childish sorrows on her faithful breast. It all came back to him as he looked at her; and, but for shame, he felt he could do the same thing again and derive consolation from it.I am sorry Mr. Conway left you nothing, Ann,"he said at last. "And I am afraid I can't make it up to you.""I want nothing, Mr. Terence, nothing," she answered. "Why should the master have thought of me? Haven't I always had my wages, and good wages, too? Have I ever, since I came here, wanted food to eat, or a roof to shelter me, or a sift bed to lie on, or a fine fire to sit at when I was so minded? It is no grief to me that my name is not down in the will. It's over you I'm fretting; for you expected, and you'd a right to expect, and it's no wonder you're cast down at the way things are left. But you may be sure it's all for the best: wait till a few years are past and gone, and you'll find, if you walk straight and keep calm, it was for your good the money didn't follow the land.""I do not know what I shall do," declared the young fellow, meaning that his position seemed hopeless."Still, it is a fine property you'll have."The owner shook his head. "Fine enough for a man possessed of means, but not for a poor beggar like me.""There's many a one would jump for joy if he had the refusal of Calgarry; and besides, Mr. Terence, sure you're no worse off than you were?""I am, because I built on the money.""That wasn't the right thing to do.""Perhaps it wasn't, but I did it, for all that. Who'd have thought," went on the disappointed heir, "of any man in his senses leaving what was needed to keep up Calgarry away from Calgarry?""But still, sir, you're no poorer, are you?" urged Ann, who could have given a shrewd guess years before that the money would not go with Calgarry."Yes; for I borrowed on the strength that the bulk of what he left at any rate would come to me. I am heavily in debt, and now I shall have to pay up without an available penny to pay with.""You were rash, surely, to run into debt without seeing how you were to pay.""What was I to do—how was I to live?" asked young Conway, pushing aside his wineglass and filling a tumbler with his dead kinsman's Madeira. "From the time John Conway died we were the next heirs, weren't we?""I have always been given to understand so," said Ann."We were; my father was the next heir, and I came after him. If he had succeeded he could have sold this place; and it wasn't very likely he was going to pinch himself, with only an old man of seventy-three between him and the property.""He didn't, as I've heard tell, anyway," commented the housekeeper."He did not," said the young man defiantly; "and I am glad to
remember he did not. He borrowed money—plenty of it—and he spent freely and had some enjoyment. When he died the insurances on his life paid everybody—do you understand?""I think so, sir; he couldn't pay them without dying.""precisely—at least, unless Marmaduke Conway had died first. I was just of age when my father went, and, of course, I found no more trouble about borrowing money than he did.""Dear a dear!" moaned Ann. She knew gentry had, many of them, these pleasant sort of ways; but it appalled her to hear from his own mouth that the child she could remember gathering shells and running little races with the waves, and making daisy chains, and with bowed head and folded hands saying his infant prayers at her knee, should have come into the estate of manhood and folly almost on the same day."But I am not dead."He was talking less to her than to himself; his heart was so full, and he had kept silence so long, once the barriers of restraint were broken, he seemed as though he could go on for ever. "Nor am I likely to die; and instead of the insurance people wiping off my debts I shall have to meet them myself; that is where the shoe pinches, Ann.""But it need not pinch long, Mr. Terence. If Calgarry is hardly what it was before the famine, it is as fine a domain as any in Donegal. If you live quiet and peaceable here for a while, you need not spend much, and you could soon put by enough to rid you of all your troubles.""That's all you know about the matter," he answered, emptying his tumbler and filling it again. "The amount I have actually had I might be able to repay with pinching; but there is interest on it—high interest—and more interest on every bill that wasn't met, and insurance premiums, and law costs, till I haven't a notion what I owe.""O! but that's a cruel thing," exclaimed Ann, "eating the grain out of the growing corn.""It is," agreed young Mr. Conway, with the air of a man on whom the process had been forced by the shortcomings or evil doings of others; "there is nothing more cruel than finding only chaff when you come to thresh out your crop. I am sure I ought to know, for I have been threshing mine out tonight till I am about mad."He laid down his knife and fork, with which he had been merely making believe to eat, and, leaning back in his chair, looked at Ann, who looked anxiously and mournfully at him.She was well aware how faithfully the "goings on " of Mr. Terence's father had been transmitted to Calgarry, and the extravagances of young Terence himself in due order reported, but of the length and breadth of filial and parental delinquencies she had even yet merely the faintest idea. One thing, however, seemed clear before her: viz. that the young heir was in grievous trouble, and that as there was a way out of it, he ought to consider his circumstances."Mr. Terence," she began at last, "you said a while ago if your father had lived to be master of Calgarry he'd have sold it; why wouldn't you do the same?""Perhaps because I've a reason for keeping it he hadn't.""They say Mr. Norbury, the gentleman that had the shooting for three years past, would like well to buy it," went on Ann, not in the least discomposed by his answer."I know he would, and so would Captain Conway; he made me a bid to-night.""For the Lord's sake, then, take it, sir.""Why should I take it?" he asked. "Why should this Marmaduke have everything, as the other had?""If you don't want him to have it, let Mr. Norbury buy the place. Wouldn't either of them give you enough to lead a grand life with Miss Dutton in Dublin, or London, or any place you've a liking for? This is but a wild sort of country for gentlefolks that have seen other parts to stop in, and Donegal is not what it was; the best of the people, God pity them, are dead or emigrated. Ah! but they suffered sore, Mr. Terence, and there is suffering among those that are left. And Mr. Norbury is an open-handed gentleman, and has plenty to be open-handed with. It would be Heaven's mercy to sell the place to him. He'd keep it up as it ought to be kept, and he'd give employment to many a poor starving creature—""And the Conways would be forgotten, as if they had never been.""You needn't think that, sir; the Conways will never be forgotten," said Ann, with unconscious sarcasm."No one shall have the chance—at all events while I am alive," retorted the young man, flushing angrily as he spoke."You're maybe right, but I wouldn't be in too big a hurry to say so," persisted the housekeeper. "Sometimes a good offer doesn't come a second time when people want it; and after you've had Calgarry a while you'll find there is something about the place you'd rather there wasn't.""What do you mean?" asked the new heir. "What are you talking about?""What I would rather not talk about, Mr. Terence: THE NUN'S CURSE."That was the second time in one night young Conway had heard reference made to this old story; and precisely because the phrase impressed and disquieted him more than he would have cared to own, he said jeeringly to the house-keeper,"I never thought, Ann, to hear you, a good Protestant, reviving that ridiculous legend.""I am a good Protestant, sir, I hope—at least, I try to be a good Presbyterian, which Mr. Malet says is much the same thing; but for all that I believe there is a curse over this place, and every one of your name as comes to own it. I can't go against the evidence of my own senses, and I've seen enough here to know there is SOMETHING upon Calgarry might well make a stout heart fear to keep it.""If there be a curse on it I shall have to face it, as others of my race have done," answered Terence, with a thrill of pride. Not to the lot of every one does it fall to succeed to a big estate and the doom of misfortune—an ancient estate that for nearly three centuries had lain under a curse. If there had only been money sufficient to back up both, what a happy man Terence Conway had been that night! As it was, he
immediately remembered his debts, and wondered if the Curse would invade Calgarry in the visible form of Jews clamouring for their money."You won't mind old Ann speaking plain to you, Mr. Terence, will you?" said the housekeeper tentatively."Why, you always have done that; it is too late to object now," replied the heir, with an uneasy laugh. "Go on: what is it you have in your mind to say?'"Just this, sir: there never was before, and there maybe never will be again, such a chance for lifting the Nun's Curse off your name and Calgarry as you have now. If I'm told what is right it is not the place itself that was cursed, but—every Conway that should own it. And see now how things are. You want money, and there's a stranger—no drop's blood to you—wants the property. If you sell it to him you can go away and enjoy your riches, and he can stay and give no end of employment, and lift the hearts of the poor; and the Nun, whoever she was, can lie at rest in her grave; and there will be peace and happiness where there has been nothing but strife and trouble."The woman spoke with a subdued passion which seemed to have its effect on the old Duke's successor, for he made no answer; only employed himself in arranging some crumbs of bread in a methodical line on the tablecloth.Ann looked at him doubtfully for a moment, and then turned her eyes towards a japanned screen which shut off all draught from the hall.Behind it she saw a lady standing, who had evidently heard some portion of the conversation, for she made eager signs to Ann that it met with her unqualified approval. In dumb-show those gestures said:"Strike home—strike hard! you are doing good work. God grant you may persuade him;" and then, with an imploring look, the eavesdropper, seeing she was only distracting a faithful adviser, stole away noiselessly as she had entered.The young heir had at last settled the crumbs to his satisfaction, and lifted his head as she went."Ann," he said, "between me and you, do you think Mr. Conway we buried to-day felt anything of this Curse?'"Think, sir? I know! It was always with him, always and ever; and at the Last. If you had sat up with him as I did, you would not doubt the strength and power of the Nun's Curse.""Who was she, Ann? And what made her curse us all?'For a second Ann stood silent, looking with brooding mournful eyes at the young man."Mr. Terence," she answered, "don't ask me, please. There wasn't a servant who came into this house, not a tenant ever called Mr. Conway landlord, would have dared tell the story in his lifetime; and I wouldn't like even for you to be the one to repeat it the night he was put in his grave.""I won't ask you," said the new master; and he fell to thinking once more."Sir," said the housekeeper, "I would like to speak only one other word: I was here, you know, when Mr. Gilbert died, quite sudden. Though the eldest son, Mr. Conway that you buried to-day never liked him, but made much of Mr. Patrick."Well, the minute Mr. Gilbert was underboard, his father took a hatred to Mr. Patrick, who could do no wrong till he stood next to Calgarry."For ever after there was strife and bickering; then he died, leaving two beautiful sons."Your father got into favour all at once. He was asked here and your mother and you, and the grandsons, who lived at Calgarry, got plenty of sour looks. You know what happened: they went out one day in a curragh, and never set foot more on land alive. They were carried here dead, and as he crossed the doorstep with them, I knew your father had got THE NUN'S CURSE, for he looked glad. He was glad, too, may the Lord pardon him! And, Mr. Terence, sir, you know the rest, since—""No, Ann, I do not know the rest, as you read it. Before God I never desired the old man's death, and if you think the Nun's Curse will rest upon me because I did, you are wrong!""No, sir, I am not," replied Ann. "You knew you must succeed. Your father had little chance of succeeding if either of those poor young men had lived and married, and—""Do not go on," entreated the new master.""Sir, I must, because it was not he was glad, but the Nun through him. She was proud and happy to see the poor young fellows stiff and stark. Mr. Terence, it is a cursed estate (God forgive me for calling any inch of His ground cursed!), and get rid of it, do. I am only a foolish old woman, I know; but take better advice nor mine, and see what it will be."There ensued a dead silence, during which the wild fury of the gale became painfully audible."Hark!" said the young man at last, "what an awful storm!""The Lord have mercy on any that's out at sea this night!" ejaculated the housekeeper; and they kept mute for a few minutes again."I suppose every one has gone to bed?" hazarded Mr. Terence Conway, in a pause of the tempest.No, sir, they are all in the drawing-room; but Sir Henry doesn't know you are back, or Miss Dutton, either. They made sure you would stop at Dunfanaghy till morning."Well, then, I think I will go quietly away to bed, Ann, and consider your counsel.""May He who sends all wisdom guide you to a good decision!""You look tired, "said Mr. Conway, which, Indeed, the poor soul might well do. "Have a glass of wine; it will do you good.""No, thank you, sir: it would be better than any wine to me if I thought you would let Mr. Norbury have Calgarry.""Or Captain Conway?""No, Mr. Terence; I had far and away rather hear you had sold it to Mr. Norbury, instead of only shifting the Curse on to another of your name."CHAPTER IV.A GUARDIAN ANGEL.THE drawing-room at Calgarry was a goodly apartment, wainscoted in dark oak, and lighted by four deeply-recessed windows, overlooking lawns sloping to a river that flowed in front of the house, merging its waters a mile further on in the Atlantic, which twice in every twenty-four hours swept the smooth sands of Calgarry Bay.According to the taste of that year when Terence Conway came into possession of his own, the room wanted everything in the way of furniture and decoration. According to the taste of to-day it needed nothing, except to be spoiled by the addition of gorgeous draperies mocking the tropics, and "old" china fresh from Staffordshire.For more than a century the hand of improvement had mercifully spared its spider tables, its splindly chairs, its brass fireplaces and fenders, its old spinet, its Turkey carpet, its tabinet curtains, its capacious sofas, its great china bowls filled with shrivelled rose-leaves, that still in death emitted a faint odour like the memory of the just; its japanned cabinets, supported on bowed legs and looking like superior plate-warmers; its footstools covered with fine needlework wrought long before Berlin wool was thought of; its window-seats where the hue of the once crimson cushions had faded to a picturesque brown; its great round centre table made from the root of the oak, and revealing to the imaginative observer endless fantastic faces in the polished surface; its card-tables lined with arbutus-wood instead of baize; its carved ivory boxes, its two chimneypieces of gray marble, each large enough for a modern mausoleum, its painted ceiling—all, all were still there, even as in the time when that lady in light attire, whose portrait filled up the middle panel on the wall opposite the windows, brought great trouble to Calgarry with her. She was not any good; but she had been suffered to remain for a hundred and fifty years or thereabouts, smiling from her frame, because of the fatal beauty that caused a worthy gentleman's death.Out on those sands, covered twice a day by Atlantic waves, he looked his last on the sun; and many believed, though millions of tons of water had since washed over it, that his blood ever rose as the tide receded, and reddened the spot where he fell. 'Twas an eerie portrait, even to those who did not know the story."I always like to sit facing her," said Mrs. Mark Barry. "If I do not, I feel as though she were creeping out of the canvas, and coming to lay her hands on me."On the night after Marmaduke Conway's funeral, the portrait lay in shadow. Turf fires make no leaping flame, illuming distant objects and dark corners; but from each end of the apartment they threw out an intense and steady glow, the while the wind roared round the house and the rain beat against the windows.Three persons were seated around the hearth which was furthest from the door, all of whom had been connected by blood or marriage with the dead man. They were Mrs. Mark Barry, a "far out" cousin, as she frequently explained; Miss Dutton, whose claim to relationship was so slight that she could scarcely find a pretext for perching on the family tree; and Sir Henry Beecham, who, having fought Boney, and won great distinction in subsequent campaigns, and married Miss Dutton's aunt, and been appointed guardian and trustee to the heiress, had always stood so high in old Marmaduke's estimation, that people felt surprised when told he was no kin to the Calgarry people, "only a friend."In person Sir Henry was an ideal " man about town."From his hat, which he wore a trifle on one side, to his boots, not a fault could be found with his appearance. Always perfectly dressed, always unruffled, always in thorough possession of his wits, Sir Henry was an acquisition to any society.He may not be very clever," said old Mr. Conway on one occasion, summing him up for Mr. Malet's benefit; "but he knows his way about better than any one I ever met." And Sir Henry did—he had found his way to success in the army While better men died without acknowledgment or promotion. William the the Fourth knighted him, and Queen Victoria would have made him a baronet, had he not from prudential motives humbly declined that honour; he had known the way to find a wife better off than himself, who made his comfort the sole study of her life; and Mr. Dutton chose him from out the whole human race as the one person fit to be intrusted with the care of his daughter and quarter of a million in hard cash. Further, old Duke considered him so delightful a companion, that the gates of Calgarry seemed to open of their own accord when he claimed admittance, while every domestic about the place rejoiced to think Sir Henry was staying with "the master."That master was now lying very quiet out in the night, with Muckish brooding over his resting-place, and the wild winds howling a fitting requiem. Perhaps Sir Henry might have been considering how his former friend and entertainer liked his new quarters, for he looked very grave as he sat with the glow from a huge turf fire slightly colouring his pale face.By the corner of the mantelpiece Miss Dutton was resting her fair head against the marble, and waving a great fan made of white peacock's feathers backwards and forwards with a slow rhythmical movement, which proved intensely irritating to Mrs. Mark Barry—a brown-eyed, dark-haired, vivacious little lady, who was possessed of a temper and a will of her own.Of the latter she had given abundant proof when, against the wishes of all her friends, she insisted on marrying Mark Barry, who thought her the best and most charming woman in the world; and those that once had a taste of her quality when in a passion never after entertained any doubt as to whether Mrs. Mark Barry were or were not a spitfire.Warm-hearted, impulsive, courageous, generous, she yet had made quite as many enemies as friends. She was either hated or loved, and it is only fair to add, she could in her own person hate and love most thoroughly. It was she who had listened to Ann Patterson's statement concerning the doom which lay over Calgarry, and as she reëntered the drawing-room and walked past the likeness of that dead woman, for whom blood—which people thought still cried out to Heaven—had been shed, her heart felt very full of the subject: so full, she longed to enter upon it at once. But she said nothing, though silence was always grief and pain to her, more especially when Miss Dutton chanced to be present.The heiress was ever good to Mrs. Barry, but Mrs Barry very often was anything but good to the heiress. Old Mr. Conway had as thoroughly enjoyed his "far out" kinswoman's attempts to annoy Miss Dutton as he had formerly appreciated seeing a dog try to draw a badger. Personally, he did not love Mrs. Barry, whose tongue was sometimes as sharp as her temper; but she amused him."Yes," he would say to Sir Henry, "bring Philippa with you, and make Lettie come too. Philippa is a very good girl, a credit to any establishment; but I can't stand her alone."While, on the contrary, though Sir Henry liked Mrs. Barry very much indeed, he could cheerfully have dispensed with her society when he was blessed with that of his ward."Written all your letters?" he asked the little lady when she had selected her place opposite to Miss Dutton, and where she would have no "creepy " feelings about the wicked beauty in her panel."Yes, every one," she answered; "and put them in the post-bag.""I wonder what your husband will think?" marvelled Sir Henry."I know what he will say," she returned, with great animation.Sir Henry did not ask for further information. Experience had taught him that Mrs. Barry's reports of her husband's utterances were sometimes too verbatim, and whatever his own opinion of Mr. Conway's will, he did not care to discuss it."Terence must have stopped at Dunfanaghy," he remarked, with a stifled yawn. "No use sitting up any longer for him, I suppose.""He has been back for nearly an hour," said Mrs. Barry."Indeed!" and Sir Henry rose to put on some more turf, which he took from a huge brass box placed near Mrs. Barry's favourite corner. "Why does he not favour us with his society? Has he gone to bed, or what is he doing?""Eating some supper, and drinking a good deal of wine,I fancy," answered Mrs. Barry; "and he is listening to some very sound advice from Ann, which I only hope he will follow."Sir Henry laid down the tongs, and, drawing himself up, stood in front of the fire, looking at the speaker.Then, for the first time, a spectator might have noticed one sign of age which neither tailor nor hairdresser could succeed in disguising.Getting groggy about the legs," was Mr. Mark Barry's coarse style of criticism (fact being the Knight's knees were a "over," after the fashion of a horse that has been hard driven). "Wants to go to a carpenter and have a new pair turned," added the ingenious Mark when dilating on the subject; and even in the midst of her anxiety Mrs. Barry could not help thinking of the remark as she regarded her distinguished relative."What is the advice our good friend Mrs. Patterson offers her favourite to-night?" he asked. "Does she suggest that he should take the pledge?""I did not hear anything about the pledge, but she is entreating him to sell the property.""What property?""This property—Calgarry; and I hope to mercy she may get him to do it. He was listening to her most earnestly; and, Philippa, I do beg if he refers the plan to you, that no cold water may be thrown upon it."Just for a second the movement of the fan ceased; then it went on again with the same maddening monotony as before"Sell Calgarry, eh!" exclaimed Sir Henry; "that would be a great pity. Never tasted such salmon as one gets here; and that turbot we had at dinner simply left nothing to be desired.""I suppose turbot and salmon could still be brought to Calgarry House even if there were not a Conway left on earth?" said Mrs. Barry."Ah! but I should not be here to enjoy them.""A clause might be inserted in the transfer stipulating that Sir Henry Beecham was to be invited so many times in the year to stay at Calgarry House," suggested Mrs. Barry."It would not be the same thing; the cook would perhaps be one of those sent by the devil, instead of having enjoyed the advantages of Mrs. Patterson's training. There is only one thing in which she fails—frying. I do hope Terence will bring his influence to bear on that question.""And I heartily hope Terence may find something better to occupy himself about. I trust he will sell Calgarry, and leave this evil place. Do you hear me, Sir Henry?""My dear Letitia, you need not raise your voice to such a pitch. I am not deaf.""And do you hear me, Philippa?""I hear you," said Miss Dutton, with calm indifference.Well, I trust neither of you will oppose Terence's resolution""We have still to learn it is his resolution," said Sir Henry."That is true—that is too true," sighed Mrs. Barry; "but you won't try to dissuade him. You wouldn't like, now, to see the Nun's Curse settling down on this poor boy, as it has done on those who have gone before him?""I think we had better leave the worthy lady you have mentioned out of the question. I very much doubt whether she goes with the land.""She does! she does!" exclaimed Mrs. Barry. "Terence can get rid of her by selling Calgarry.""You are satisfied on that point?""I am quite satisfied.""The only reason I asked," went on Sir Henry, "is that there is no precedent to guide us. Hitherto it has not been possible for any Conway to dispose of his inheritance; therefore I imagine it must be difficult, if not impossible, to predicate offhand what the effect of a sale would be. Time, I should have fancied, could only have settled the point. However, no doubt you know best. I am aware you always know best.""A Conway ought, at all events, to know more about the Nun than anybody else," retorted Mrs. Barry."No doubt," agreed the individual who was not a Conway; "and in this matter of selling Calgarry I am not dis-posed to set up an opinion against that you have so strongly expressed. All I say is, it seems to me impossible to decide such an important point offhand. It might be a good thing for Terence to get rid of his inheritance, but, on the other hand, it might not.""Which is merely another way of stating there are two sides to every question.""Sometimes there are more, my dear Letitia. But to revert to Terence, the question of selling this property is one which requires grave consideration on his part, and I do not see my way to meddle in it at all.""I do not want you to meddle," retorted Mrs. Barry.What I desire is," speaking really to Miss Dutton, though ostensibly addressing Sir Henry, "that no one shall try to dissuade him from selling Calgarry if he feels inclined to do so.""For one I certainly should not care to undertake such a responsibility. Calgarry is a fine property, but burdened as I to be, it will require great prudence and self-denial to keep his head above water. Were Calgarry mine, I should not sell it; but then—""It is not yours, and you are not a young man," interrupted Mrs. Barry impatiently."Calgarry is not mine, and I am not a young man, though it was scarcely polite, Letitia, to remind me of the latter circumstance. Had I been young and single when I first saw you, Mr. Mark Barry might not have won such a prize so easily.""Do not be ridiculous," entreated the lovely Letitia; "you know how much I dislike that sort of talk, more especially when I am aware people are only laughing at me.""On my word," said Sir Henry, "I have always admired you immensely, while my regard is as great as my respect."The object of this complimentary speech tossed her head impatiently as it proceeded; and a monosyllable very like "Stuff!" escaped her lips when the knight ended by laying his hand on his heart and bowing low.Further and more forcible comments were about to follow, when Miss Dutton came to her uncle's rescue."If you two are going to quarrel, I will say good-night," she observed. "I hope you will not sit up till morning.""You will not, at any rate," snapped Mrs. Barry."That I most assuredly shall not," answered the beauty. "Pleasant dreams, Lettie; sound sleep, uncle;" and she left the room and went slowly up the wide easy staircase.From the first landing two corridors opened, one to the north, the other to the south, dividing that portion of Calgarry House in half.Miss Dutton's apartments were situated in the part furthest from the great end window, which commanded a distant view of the Atlantic; but as she was in the act of turning towards her own room, the fitful moonbeams made her look towards the light. Having once looked in that direction, she looked again. Gazing out at the night, listening to the sound of the tempest as it roared inland from the ocean, to the thunder of the wild waves dashing against the headland and breaking over the sunken rocks, was a man standing still and solitary. Remembering what had been carried so lately out of the mansion, the sight would have unnerved many a girl; but Miss Dutton was made of sterner stuff.Setting down her candle, which waned and flickered in the draughty corridor, she passed with swift quiet steps to the side of the watcher."Terence," she said, "my poor boy, is it you?" and she laid her hand on his arm. "Why are you not in bed?" she proceeded; "after such a day you need rest.""I cannot rest," he answered, "I am miserable; I do not know what to do.""I will tell you," said Miss Dutton. "Let no one persuade you to part with Calgarry. Do not, like Esau, sell your birthright for any mess of pottage. Your duty lies here; your inheritance has come to you by the will of God, not by the gift of man. It is not for you to fling it from you as a thing of naught.""You bid me keep it, Philippa?""I bid you do what your own conscience will tell you is right if you listen to its dictates. It is for you to make a great and good thing of your life and this estate. You cannot get rid of your responsibilities by handing them over to another. Be a man, be a Christian, Terence. Make me and all your friends proud of you. Show what a Conway of Calgarry can do; take the ban off your name and the Curse off your house. Make your tenantry happy, and your estate, instead of a desert, a smiling plain. We will talk more about this to-morrow. Now, good-night.""Good-night, my angel—my better angel!'' said the young man, with passionate fervour. "You have saved me; you have tranquillised me; you have lulled the storm.""I cannot stop longer," she interrupted "Lettie will be coming up directly. Only one last word: let nothing induce you to sell Calgarry.""Nothing shall.""You promise me that?""I promise,"he said, "faithfully."CHAPTER V.MRS. BARRY AS ADVISER.IT is one thing for a man to say he will absolutely refuse to advise, and quite another to find he is not asked to advice.Sir Henry Beecham had felt certain nothing could induce him to illumine with the light of his long experience such a dense darkness as the latest Conway difficulty; but he never anticipated that difficulty not being laid before him.He was so accustomed to be consulted by all sorts of people about all sorts of questions, that Terence Conway's silence seemed to him little short of a revolt. The owner of Calgarry did not drop a hint concerning his intentions.He said not one word about Captain Conway's offer, or Mr. Norbury's, or his own plans, or his own perplexities. Sir Henry could not understand his action at all; and the awful weather, which continued for weeks after the old Duke's funeral, did not tend either to clear up the matter or to make the house pleasanter.Never, indeed, had the valiant General spent so absolutely disagreeable a time at Calgarry.The mansion was too well built to rock, but whenever a door was opened the wind rushed in and played mad prank, till it lay down exhausted in some remote corner."I wonder none of your predecessors ever thought of building a porch," said Sir Henry one morning, when the hats were blown off the stand and the wind went dancing up the staircase whistling in glee."A porch would spoil the appearance of Calgarry," answered Terence."I am surprised any man in his senses should in such a situation have placed the hall-door facing east.""East is better than north here, at any rate," replied the owner; which was a very true statement, but one that did not show whether he meant to sell the place or keep it."Do you not think hot-water pipes would make the house more habitable?" tried Sir Henry on another occasion."I have no doubt they would."What could a gentleman who had quite decided that nothing should induce him to advise do under such circumstances as these?"In the whole world it would be impossible to find a less inquisitive individual than myself," Sir Henry frequently remarked; therefore it proved infinitely annoying to know he felt really curious as to Terence's intentions.About the wine he professed himself anxious. "You know, my boy," he said one evening after dinner, while pouring out a glass of old Madeira, " this wine belongs really to Captain Conway. I am afraid we are not doing right""Captain Conway and I have made an arrangement con-venient to both about the wine and other matters," answered Terence."He means to sell," decided Sir Henry."He means to stay," concluded Mrs. Barry."Heigho!" sighed Sir Henry next morning."I wonder when the weather will mend?""Are you anxious for the weather to mend?" asked his host gloomily."Well, yes; I should think every one must wish for a sight of the sun.""I don't," returned Terence, in a tone which suggested suicide."Dear me! what is the matter with you?" exclaimed Mrs. Barry. "Anybody would think you had just lost an estate instead of succeeding to one."The fortunate young man did not answer; he only walked out of the room, with head bent and hands plunged deep in his pockets."I fancy there is some hitch about the purchase," observed Sir Henry."I don't," returned Mrs. Barry. "I believe he is not going to sell, and that Philippa knows the reason why.""What reason do you suppose there is?""That she won't let him.""Not a very likely idea. Why should she wish to prevent him?""I cannot tell; perhaps because it would be a good thing for him to get rid of Calgarry.""I think that very doubtful. If he were paid a large sum of money down for the place, I am much afraid he would soon run through it.""And will it not be quite as easy for him to run through Calgarry?""Not quite so easy."Mrs. Barry did not answer this remark save by a short contemptuous laugh. Her manners, as Sir Henry often told his wife, left much to be desired."Come Letitia." he resumed, "be frank. If it were not for that ridiculous legend about the Nun, should you wish Terence to leave Calgarry?""I would not; for I love Calgarry—love every shell on its shore, and every bunch of heather that grows on its wretched soil.""H'm!" said the knight, "I am getting a little disenchanted with Calgarry.""You think, perhaps," suggested Mrs. Barry, "the late Mr. Conway was a more agreeable host than the present?""It is hardly fair to judge of a man's qualities when he is anxious and unhappy.""I wonder why he is so anxious and unhappy?""I imagine because he doubts the prudence of selling his patrimony.""More likely because he doubts the prudence of keeping his patrimony.""You are convinced he does mean to keep it?""As certain as I can be of anything.""I should rather like to know, one way or other,"said Sir Henry reflectively."Then why do you not ask him?""It is an awkward question to ask, more especially as he might inquire how I had come to know there was any proposition about buying;" and the knight looked at Mrs. Barry with a sort of " Had you there, madam!'' expression which was very irritating."If that is what is preventing you," retorted Mrs. Barry, "I will ask him myself. I will go and ask him now;" and she instantly jumped up and went in search of her relative, whom she found standing at one of the library windows, looking out at a wild gray sky and a tempest-swept earth."Terence," she began, "I want you to tell me something.""What is it?""Are you going to let Captain Conway have Calgarry?""How do you happen to know he wants Calgarry?""That is making believe, Terence; you know quite well how I know. Phil told you I heard you and Ann Patterson talking together the other night.""A pretty confession, I am sure!""It is of no use trying to put me off on any side issue. Answer me straightforwardly: are you going to sell Calgarry or not?""I am not.""That is Phil's doing. She is always putting in her oar where nobody wants her.""If you speak of Philippa at all, I must ask you to speak in a proper manner.""I do not want to say anything about her. I implored, entreated, adjured her not to meddle with the business, and this is the result. Terence, if you follow her advice instead of mine, you will rue it to your dying day.""What a pleasant prophecy for a fellow to hear!""Pleasant or unpleasant, it is true. What can you do with Calgarry? What will you do at Calgarry? Take what Captain Conway offers; or if he does not offer enough, see what Mr. Norbury will give, and leave the country—pay your debts, go to India or New Zealand or—""The North Pole, perhaps?""The North Pole by all means, if you like; only don't stop at Calgarry or in London.""I have not the slightest intention of leaving Calgarry.""And what does Philippa intend to do? Is she going to stop at Calgarry, and devote her money to clearing your estate and making a second Garden of Eden in the wilds of Donegal, with you for Adam and herself for Eve?""I have not asked her.""And she has not told you?""She could scarcely do that, could she?""Terence, won't you reconsider the matter? Won't you take advice?""No. I have fully and finally made up my mind.""You do not seem much the happier for having done so.""Surely that is a matter which concerns no one but myself.""It concerns me very much indeed; for I cannot bear to see you miserable, and I know you are wretched now, and storing up more wretchedness for yourself hereafter. Do not get angry; it is of no use being angry with me. Haven't we known each other since we were babies? Have we not loved and hated, quarrelled and made up friends again, all the days our lives? There is not one of my own brothers so dear to me as you; and—O, what a goose I am!" she went on, dashing tears from her eyes. "Terence, I entreat of you not to decide in such a hurry; take time to think out the matter. Consult some one—Sir Henry; some honest lawyer, if you know one; Mark, even, though you and he do not always agree.""We never agree," edged in her relative."I know you don't, and it is a pity, because Mark has such wonderful sense, if he would only wrap it up in more elegant language. Who else is there? O! Mr. Malet. Why do not you discuss your affairs with Mr. Malet?""In the first place, because my affairs are not very pleasant to discuss; and in the next, because Mr. Malet has not thought it worth his while to call on me.""Do you know the reason? He is afraid you might think he wanted something from you. If you are not a rich man, Terence, you are a great man now; you have much in your power: you have many things to give.""I shall probably have the living of Mostrene to give some day, if that is what you are talking about.""That is one of the things. It is a good living, and Mr. Malet was promised it. Patrick Conway promised it to him—you know he did.""I know nothing about the matter more than that it was not his to promise.""Perhaps not, but the Duke also led him to believe he should have it. Mr. Malet has been shamefully treated. No one can deny that.""He has not been treated shamefully by me, at all events.""He was forbidden Calgarry—told never to set his foot inside the gates again; and then the minute Mr. Conway needed somebody to talk to about his wicked old soul, a special messenger was despatched for Mr. Malet, who got out of his comfortable bed to come here. I wouldn't have done it, I know.""No one who has the pleasure of your acquaintance, Lettie could suppose that you would.""O! I never set up for a saint!" answered Mrs. Barry."Perhaps it is just as well.""Though I believe I am quite as good, and a great deal more sincere than some who do. I know I don't fast twice a week; and as I possess nothing I cannot give tithes; neither do I stand at street-corners praying—"Sad as he was, the ceremony indicated proved too much for Terence, and he burst out laughing."That is right. I am glad I have said something at last to make you laugh," exclaimed Mrs. Barry, in no wise annoyed. "And now, to please me, Terry, go, like a good boy, and call on Mr. Malet. I have not asked you to do a single thing for me since I came here this time, you know I have not; and you might do that, remembering how kind he was to us in the happy, happy long ago.""He was very kind," agreed Terence, a rush of olden memories for a moment overflowing and sweetening the bitter waters lying stagnant and sullen in the depths of his heart."No one could have been more kind; and I will go over and see him.""And I will go with you, for I want to get a peep of Audna.""Just as you like," said her relative, with resignation; "but it is not a pleasant sort of day for a lady to pay visits. Your bonnet will be off your head, and your skirts over it, before we are half-way up the avenue.""What! do you mean to go now?" exclaimed Mrs. Barry."I do, this minute!" and he smiled maliciously."You are hateful, Terry!" she cried. "No, you are not. You are a dear kind creature; and I won't say another disagreeable word to you for a week.""I wouldn't promise too much, if I were you. It is hard to tell what may happen during the course of a week.""It is, indeed," she agreed; "but at any rate I will try not to be spiteful, though I know well enough you are only going this morning to get rid of me. I declare," she added, "I have a great mind to be your companion, though it is blowing great guns.""As I said before, you must please yourself.""So I will, by staying at home, and listening to Sir Henry's lamentation about there being no fish," she answered, rapidly changing her tactics. "I was only jesting. I would not put my nose outside the door on such a day. But look! Who in the world is this worthy fellow coming jig-jogging up to the hall door?""He is a stranger to me," answered the owner of Calgarry, turning a little pale; perhaps he thought the Chosen People were already sending emissaries after him to Donegal."No, he is not," exclaimed Mrs. Barry, who had at last recognised the visitor. "You know him quite well by sight, or, at least, you used to do. It is Mr. McKye.""What, the Presbyterian minister?""Yes. Grown fat and a little gray.""What can he want at Calgarry?""Money, most likely. They say the wind stripped half the roof off his meeting-house the other night.""If he hopes to get money here, he must be the only man within twenty miles who has not heard all about Mr. Conway's will.""People are certain not to believe the owner of Calgarry can be any possibility be short of five-pound notes.""They will have to learn to believe it. Ask Mr. McKye to walk in here, Byrne," he added, as he took that divine's card from the butler. "Now, my clear Lettie, unless it is your wish to stop through the interview—""I am going instantly." But O! I am sorely afraid this will put an end to your proposed visit.""Quite the contrary, I assure you." And next moment Mr. McKye was making an elaborate bow to Mrs. Barry on her way to the door, and Mr. Terence, feeling for the first time a sense of his dignified position, stood, with hand extended, as the visitor said afterwards, "most affably.""Do I intrude, Mr. Conway?" asked Mr. McKye."Not in the least," answered the young man. "I am at leisure, and very happy to see you.""Thank you. In that case I may perhaps venture to say I am anxious to have a few minutes' private conversation with you.""He certainly wants a subscription," thought Mr. Conway, beginning to feel very doubtful whether he could refuse to give one; but he only begged Mr. McKye to take a seat, and said he was quite at his visitor's service, whatever might be the nature of the communication he had to make.Mr. McKye, who was a stout man with a short throat, and a particularly mellow, not to add oily, voice, thereupon deposited his hat on a convenient table, placed his gloves in it; and having, after ceremoniously asking permission to do so, divested himself of a heavy top-coat, accepted the offered chair, pulled it close to Mr. Conway, and began.CHAPTER VI.THE NUN'S CURSE."IT would be as idle as useless for me to affect ignorance of the fact that your late relative's testamentary dispositions have left you very differently situated from what we all hoped would be the case."Though he felt considerably surprised at this opening, Terence said " it was very kind of Mr. McKye to express himself in such terms." "My relative's will, I cannot deny, proved a disappointment to me," he added; "but after all, Mr. Conway had a right to do what he liked with his own.""I deny that, sir, totally. Nothing in this world belongs so absolutely to any man that he has a right to do wrong with it. We are only leaseholders for the term of our natural lives, and when our time expires, we are bound to deliver up the property we have held, not merely in as good a state as when we entered into possession, but in a better. If the parable of the talents means anything, it means that nothing here is ours—not our money, or our mental capacities, or our physical powers; not our worldly station or our comeliness—"Terence, looking at the pudgy little speaker, could scarcely forbear smiling as the contrast between his appearance and the sonorous comprehensiveness of the last word struck him forcibly; but he bowed in acquiescence, while Mr. McKye went on:"Therefore, I say, the late Mr. Conway had no more right to leave his money as he liked than he had to lay waste Calgarry; to let the land that had been brought into cultivation by the sweat of men's brows and the labour of men's hands slip back into a state of nature, while he drove those very men off his estate—his only for life, mind you—and saw them sail for America, go to the poor house, and die in the ditch. I don't speak without warrant, Mr. Conway; there have been awful doings here: sins of omission and sins of commission; offences against God and God's creatures—""Is it necessary to speak of these things at all?'' asked Terence. "While Mr. Conway lived it was competent for any one to accuse him; but now he has gone before a tribunal where man's praise or blame cannot affect him—""You are quite right there," returned Mr. McKye, "and it gladdens my heart to hear you talk so fitly about serious things. At the same time, let me remind you that the evil wrought by any human being lives after him. When all that is mortal of our fleshly frames has mouldered into dust the ill seed we have sown will be growing, and flowering, and fruiting, and scattering more ill seed, so that at last we can scarce tell in what spot of earth the wrong may not spring up and yield its fitting crop.""I have no doubt all you say is perfectly true, Mr. McKye, but I really do not see any object to be gained by continuing such a theme. If my late kinsman did evil, it is too late to talk about the matter. It is impossible for us to bring him back in order to make atonement.""That is just the point I have been aiming at. I want you to get thoroughly into your mind two facts: one, that Mr. Marmaduke Conway had many, many talents intrusted to him; and the next, that he misused them all. Great were the treasures confided to him, and because he buried some in a napkin, and scattered others to the winds of heaven, great will be his punishment.""Are you not going a little too far?" suggested Terence, in a tone of remonstrance."No, sir, not one bit; and so you will see before you are much older. Have you been over the Calgarry estate lately?""Not for a long time; but I know pretty well what it is.""Pardon me, you do not know what it is: a desert, a howling waste; a land forsaken save by the wild birds and beasts that fly from man. Go where you will—east, north, south, west—so long as your foot is on Calgarry ground, you will scarce come across a dwelling inhabited by man or land cultivated by man. There the red foxes wander unmolested, and the vulture makes his home. You will see a country desolate as Judea—made desolate, not by its Maker, but by one who within the last month was borne to his grave, followed by a train of mourners over a mile long.""I always understood the potato blight depopulated Ireland," was Terence's comment on this flight of eloquence; "and certainly Mr. Conway could in no way be considered answerable for that.""If a man were standing on the shore, and saw another drowning before his eyes that he could without peril, without trouble, save by stretching forth his hand, and still let him go down, what should you call that spectator?""I should call him an inhuman wretch," answered Terence, although he guessed what was coming."Then out of your own mouth your kinsman is condemned. A tithe of his yearly income would have fed every man, woman, and child on his estate till the famine was overpast; and he would not give it—he would not give a penny. No, not a dole of bread or handful of meal. He would allow none to come nigh him to tell their story of misery and want; but a certain woman, maddened by starvation, got somehow as far as the point you were looking out on just now. She stood there—it is a true story I am telling you, true as the gospel I believe in—and held up two babies in her skinny arms, and prayed Mr. Conway for the love of God to take pity on them. He told his servants to drive her away, but they wouldn't; and she stood there till she dropped down dead of starvation. Then he bade his men to take her off the premises more coolly than if she had been a heap of autumn leaves. That was the wife of as good a tenant as landlord ever had.""What you tell me is horrible," said the young man—"so horrible, I can but hope you are labouring under some mistake—""Under no mistake, sir. The whole country-side would confirm my statement.""But, Mr. McKye," asked Terence, recovering himself, "granting that there is no exaggeration in your story—granting that Mr. Conway was guilty of every sin in the Decalogue—I am driven to ask you what it has to do with me? I am not responsible for what went on here during the famine any more than I am answerable for events that occurred before I was born. If Mr. Conway wronged his tenants, where is the use of telling me? I never wronged them in the past, and I do not want to wrong them now.""And I heartily hope you never may.""I hope not, very earnestly. These are early days for me to talk, Mr. McKye," proceeded the young man, with a certain graceful hesitation; " but so far as my lights and my means allow me, I desire to do my duty towards every tenant on the Calgarry estate."There ensued a pause. For the moment, Mr. Terence Conway had, if in such a connection one may be pardoned a nautical phrase, taken the wind out of Mr. McKye's sails; but that reverend gentleman was far too old a sailor over many a controversial sea to let such a temporary check disconcert him in the least.He knew he had but to tack, and after that pause he tacked accordingly."Your lights, Mr. Conway, are, I am sure, clear as youth and energy can make them; but your power, or, in other words, your means, seem to me more doubtful."The new owner of Calgarry lifted his eyebrows."Pardon me, Mr. McKye," he said; "but I do not think your knowledge of my means is sufficient to warrant that remark.""I imagine it is, quite," was the calm reply. "To-day, I suspect, there's not a man, woman, or child in Donegal but Knows just as much about your affairs as you do yourself. No one in the position you occupy can hide his light under a bushel. Publicity is one of the penalties you, and such as you, pay for being great people. I hope my plain speech does not offend?""Not at all," answered Terence; "I like plain speaking.""Then you do not 'strain after' most of your family, for there has not been a Conway of Calgarry—well, I wouldn't like to say offhand for how long—that could bear to hear the truth.""Really, sir, your knowledge of my family, their peculiarities, and their shortcomings, seems exhaustive," observed the latest Conway of Calgarry."It is no thanks to me that I could tell you all about those who have sat here before you root and branch, leaf and acorn. Yes, though I never as much as spoke to one of your name till this day, I am acquainted with your story from cover to cover."Without committing himself to ask a question, Terence was forced to maintain silence; but Mr. McKye had no idea of being checked by any artifice of that sort, and went on."When I was ' called here'" ("What can the man mean?" thought Mr. Conway, who chanced to be ignorant of Dissenting phraseology), "I couldn't be reckoned as other than a very young man, only a few years older than you are now."Mr. Terence merely inclined his head. Though the minister meant no offence in thus bracketing himself, his listener felt offended."You may be sure," proceeded Mr. McKye, unconscious of having given annoyance, " when I took up my abode in such a wilderness I hoped and believed I wouldn't have to stop in it long; and it is wretched and dissatisfied I should be this day, having through all the years been offered nothing better, if it hadn't so happened I was forced to bring my father along with me. At the time it went against the grain, for it fell to my lot to support him, and I had my notions, I can't deny, and thought to be rich and well considered; but nothing better could have befallen me. He is a man who never did a day's good for himself, but he has done good for me."Mr. McKye stopped, and Mr. Conway politely expressed his pleasure at hearing such agreeable news."He never could manage his own workmen," explained Mr. McKye, starting again quite refreshed; " but he looked well after my labourers. While I was, I hope, scattering spiri-tual grain, he saw to the sowing and reaping of my temporal crops.Perhaps you have passed by Mountain View, sir, my little place? No? Ah, well, to you, fresh from fertile England, it would seem as nothing, yet people hereabouts speak as if it were a veritable oasis. All the credit belongs to my father. He found out the right trees to plant—the shrubs that would stand the winter—the crops to suit the soil. He is a wonderful man, though, as I tell you, he never succeeded in a solitary venture he made for himself."Bored to death, Terence nevertheless felt constrained to say, " That is very remarkable.""Isn't it, now?" returned Mr. McKye; "and he has, besides, the most wonderful turn for old histories of all sorts. It was he found out all about your family: spelled and put together till he made quite a book. He was going to publish it once, but the man who had taken the idea up failed. Bless you, I might have heard about the Nun's Curse for ever before I could have found out the meaning of it. He even had to spend a long time before he could be sure how the notion originated. The inhabitants of this part are a silent and secret lot; also it's my belief they were afraid of old—I mean the late Mr. Conway hearing they had let drop a whisper. It was reserved for my father to trace the whole story to its source."And what was its source?"asked Terence hoarsely."You don't mean to say you are ignorant?" said Mr. McKye, with a surprise which, if feigned, was very well assumed."Were I not ignorant I should not ask for information," was the reply. "I have been hearing of The Nun's Curse till I am weary; but I can obtain no information. Was there ever a NUN? Did she curse the Conways? and, if so, for what reason? I should really feel obliged for any enlightenment on these points."My dear sir—my dear sir," almost gasped Mr. McKye, " I shall be delighted—or rather, it is more fitting I should say It would cause me profound pain to open for your sad satisfaction the sealed history of the Conway family.""I do not want to hear about the Conway family,"interrupted Terence; "all I wish to know is, how the Nun comes in and who she was.""I do not know who she was," said Mr. McKye. "In the covent, as you are aware, nuns on taking the veil resign, with other things, their ordinary names, and are for ever after known by some purely fanciful designation. This poor creature seems to have taken the appellation of Agnes.""Yes; pray go on, Mr. McKye.""I must for one moment advert to the mode in which this estate came into the hands of its present possessors. It was given to a certain Maurice Conway as a mark of royal favour. Calgarry and Gilcarry too were handed to that gentleman in those days with rather less fuss that now accompanies the giving of an order.""Did Gilcarry, then, at one time also belong to the Conways?" asked Terence, with much surprise."Most undoubtedly. How proud my poor old father will feel when he hears his researches are new to you, Mr. Conway!""I hope one day to make my acknowledgment in person," said the young man. "Meantime, Mr. McKye, I hope you will not think me impatient if I ask you to tell me as shortly as may be about Sister Agnes. There is a visit I must pay this afternoon, and—""No single moment shall be lost. As I was saying, Maurice Conway received the lands of Calgarry and Gilgarry and a good round sum of money to boot. His son succeeded him, but then there were only two daughters—twins. The elder by a few minutes married a Mr. Kirwan, who took the name of Conway. She got Calgarry as her dowry. The other wed a Mr. Florence: she had Gilcarry given to her—Gilcarry, which is nearly waste land even to this day, and marches on Shanalore, that lies sheltered from the winds, and has some of the best pasture in Donegal.""What has become of the Florences? I never heard of them before."No, they were wiped out clean; there is nothing to tell they ever existed but an old tombstone in Mostrene graveyard, and it is tumbling to pieces. They were great people once, till, in the time of Patrick Conway, Christian, the then head of the house, took a notion he would like the fat meadows of Shanalore thrown inside the boundaries of Gilcarry. It has always been easy enough to remove landmarks when the man who wants to remove them is rich and powerful. Christian Florence was both, so you may guess the nuns and the priests had not much chance against him. Yes, it was the case of Ahab over again. The owners of the soil did not want to give it up any more than Naboth did his vineyard; but they had to do it, without even the offer of money for the wrong put on them."They were smoked out like bees, and when the Catholic inhabitants resisted, were driven across to the Horn, praying every step of the way; and there, those that did not care to turn on the pikes behind were forced to jump into the sea. It was steel or drowning. Men and women, priests and flock—neither age nor sex was spared. There's a stream you pass on the road called Red Brook to this day, because about a score made a stand there and were cut to pieces.""But why should the Nun curse my people for that?" asked Terence. "We had nothing to do with the matter.""Wait a bit—wait a bit. Patrick Conway had no hand, as you observe, in the raid on Shanalore; likely for this reason, that in those days, if a man took part in a game he generally wanted his share of the stakes, as people do in these days, for that matter. Christian Florence was not one to stand any one picking plums out of his pie; so he burnt down Shanalore village, chapel, and nunnery, and got rid of the owners by himself."Patrick Conway, however, and he were great friends—boon companions, and one day the master of Calgarry went up to Gilcarry to a sort of banquet. It was a fine summer's evening as he came down the hill with his dogs beside him; in those times they dined early, and the sun had not sunk behind Muckish when he got to the ancient burying-ground that has your family vault in it.""You mean old Calgarry.""Just that, but it was not so old then by nearly three hundred years, and your vault was not so full. Do you remember a clump of trees a little to the left of the graveyard as you face north?""Yes, perfectly.""There used to be a house there—the foundations can still be traced, though the weeds and the grass have grown over them. Well, as I was saying, Patrick Conway came down the hill with his dogs, all walking orderly enough till of sudden the dogs started off like mad, and made for a bit of shed that had been put up in the corner of a field to shelter me cattle. Mr. Conway stood still to watch what they were after, and as he stood he saw a woman fly out of the shed and run like a mad creature up the hill."It was one of the nuns, the only one that had escaped slaughter; and as she ran, winged with fear, he broke into a great laugh, and shouted the dogs on her. He had been drinking heavily, and maybe scarce knew what he was doing; but anyhow, on that lovely calm summer evening he stood there, laughing and clapping his hands, and shouting,' Have at her, Fleet! pull her down, Spring!' all the while fear was winging the poor creature's feet as she fled before them like a hare."Mr. McKye stopped; but this time Patrick Conway's descendant did not speak a word."That pace could not last," went on Mr. McKye. "The dogs were just on her. She could hear their panting and the swish of their bodies as they tore through the bents and the rushes; and she had given herself up for lost when the house-door opened, and the mistress pulled her inside and shut out the savage brutes. The whole thing did not take a minute in the acting. It was only as if Patrick Conway had stood on his step for an instant. Then he called the dogs, who would not come at first; and they went down the hill, lower, and lower, and lower, till they got to Calgarry House.""What happened after that?" asked Terence."When he woke the next morning in his sober senses he began to think and feel sorry—for he was not all bad, only wild and headstrong, not to say cruel, except when the drink was in him—and he make up his mind to go and ask if the woman had taken any hurt. A lovelier day never dawned. The sun had not got up very high when he left here, and he was skirting the burying-ground before five o'clock. Not a sound broke the quiet but the songs of the birds and the chirp of the grasshoppers, for it was the height of summer.""Well?""As he turned to go up to the house—it was but a cabin, I believe—he saw the Nun kneeling before it, with her hands and arms spread out, as if in the act of blessing; but she was not blessing, she was cursing, and in a shrill shriek she bade him come nigh, and hear while she prayed Heaven to grant that every owner of Calgarry might have no good of his wealth and no happiness in his home."'May sorrow pursue you and those that come after you as your hounds pursued me! May no hand be stretched out to save you when the breath of trouble is hot on your cheek, and its fangs deep in your heart! May you all be childless or unhappy in your children! May division come between you and your wives! May your gold eat into your hearts and your lands be a snare to you! May you, when you are old, be caught in the trap you set for others in your youth, because you despise mercy and contemn judgment, and only follow wickedness! Amen.' And after she had said Amen, with a loud cry she gave up the ghost."The people of the house lifted and carried her in. Patrick Conway followed them, and looked on her as she lay dead. She was a young woman, and beautiful; and he went away in the sweet morning, with the fresh air blowing on his face, down and down the hill, like one stricken, with the doom on him."CHAPTER VII.MR. MCKYE'S OPINIONS.THERE was silence for a few seconds after the minister had finished; then Patrick Conway's descendant asked,"Do you believe all that, Mr. McKye?"Mr. McKye looked astonished at the question."I do, implicitly," he answered; "it is perfectly true; it is, if I may so express myself, historically true.""O!" said Terence."My father can give you chapter and verse for every circumstance.""I do not wish to dispute that matter,"answered the young man; "but I should like to put it to you whether you think it probable, or possible, the curse of a frenzied woman, even though ' young and beautiful,' can have power to influence the whole future of a person who comes into possession of Calgarry nearly three centuries after her death?""If any one had put such a question to me before I came to Donegal, my answer would have been an immediate 'No!' " returned Mr. McKye, with commendable frankness. "Now, however, I am forced to say it is difficult to get over facts; and the history of the men who since that evil day have entered into Possession of Calgarry contains the most marvellous fulfilment, the Nun's denunciation. A curse seems literally to have dogged their steps.""Do you consider, then, that more misfortunes have come to us than fall to the lot of most families in our rank of life?""I do—more misfortunes of a peculiar and inexplicable nature; bad misfortunes, so to speak. The heads of other families have lost their estates, died on the scaffold, been banished, beggared, ruined; but in no other case that I can recall has personal sin immediately followed on the accession to an estate. Instances have been known where a son never succeeded his father. In your house not merely does no son succeed his father, but the father hates his son, and the owner the man likely to come after him. The Nun did not pray that your race might die out, as the Florences did, who are gone root and branch, bough and twig; but she asked that there might be division: and ever since there has been division.""There was no shadow of division between my father and me," said Terence."Your father never owned Calgarry," was the reply."It is hard to tell what might have come had he outlived the late Mr. Conway."Terence knew one thing which in that event would have come to pass, if Mr. McKye did not. After him no Conway again for ever would have been harassed by the Nun's Curse. On that point he felt quite satisfied, but he did not deem it necessary to make confession of his faith.There was something in the idea, however, which kept him silent for a moment, then—"So you think there is no hope for me?" he observed, with a poor attempt at a smile."On the contrary, I think there is every hope for you," returned Mr. McKye. "No man ever had a finer chance than you at this moment. I feel convinced the whole happiness of your existence is now trembling in the balance, and that is why I have made so bold as to come here to-day. My father and I talked the matter over earnestly and anxiously, and at last, sorely against my will, I resolved to face your possible displeasure in the exercise of what I consider a plain duty. If I saw a man walking straight forward to the edge of a dangerous precipice, ought I not to warn him of his peril? There is a precipice before you, Mr. Conway, and I implore you to avoid it."In face, in figure, in voice, and manner, Mr. McKye was common as common could be; but he was in earnest, and the strength of his conviction conferred upon him somewhat of eloquence and dignity, which produced an uncomfortable impression on his auditor.His was as the voice of doom. So might a seer of old have stood by the roadside, and, though aged, hungry, and in rags, by reason of his gift of second sight warned some king of the evil to come. History and legend abound in such stories: the poor and unconsidered in the glory of morning prophesying to the mighty, beside whom they seemed but as the dust of the earth, and the prophecy fulfilling itself before night!What was before him? Whom was he destined to betray? Whom should he injure or destroy? What tragedy would link itself with his name? What dark page would shadow the whole of his story? To what abyss of shame would the Nun, her skeleton hand clasping his, lead him, even against his will? Pshaw! life lay before him to make a good or a bad thing out of, whether he kept Calgarry or sold it.Not a Conway before him but came into possession of the estate and splendid possibilities at the same time—possibilities each man in succession deliberately threw away. He knew all that, but he meant to act differently. It was in his power—in his, the last and least fortunate of the Conways of Calgarry—to add to the family story some lines that should retrieve the narrative of selfishness, wrong, and oppression there set forth. Though Mr. Conway had practically disinherited him—left him with a large estate burdened by debts of his own making—he could and would make a better thing of life than any of his predecessors had tried to do.Philippa had said this in those soft sweet tones, which were surely softer and sweeter than any ever heard before. He had a great future before him, if he were strong and brave enough to stay at Calgarry and conquer circumstances. He need not look beyond his county, he need not strain his eyes further than Gweedore, to see what one man could do—had done. Why should he not be such another man? Why should the poor not rise up and bless him? Why—"Mr. McKye," he said, "I am sure you have intended nothing but good towards me, and I thank you very heartily for your visit and your advice. My mind, however, is quite made up. I shall not sell Calgarry. For weal or for woe, I mean to keep the estate which has come to me."It is a great blow to any one to hear he has lost his case, and Mr. McKye felt it peculiarly hard as he fancied young Conway was considering his words, what time that gentleman's fancy was wandering over the career that stretched before him. But the minister did not yet give up his cause. One shot still remained in his locker. He would appeal to that sense of right which he firmly believed lay deep down in the hearts of even the worst of men. One chance was left for Terence and for Donegal. In a vision he, too, saw a downtrodden peasantry sprinkled with the beneficent dew of wealth and justice springing up into grace and beauty like grass after summer rain; he heard blessings invoked on a benefactor; he beheld quays built and harbours made; in spirit he followed produce to the English markets, he welcomed Saxon tourists to a peaceful and happy land where smiling content dwelt in well-thatched cottages, and he even read in that sweet dream the title-page of a book which bore his father's name as the author of An Irish Eden, washed by the Atlantic and watered by the Garry, on which no curse rested, from whence the Nun had been driven, and that knew not the name of Conway, save as a memory and a tradition."I am afraid I seem troublesome," he began, again taking up his parable and his courage, "but I should like to say a few words more.""Say them, then, by all means," answered Terence good-naturedly."It is scarcely necessary for me to ask whether you have seriously considered this question as affecting yourself.""I could not have considered it more seriously as affecting myself," was the reply. "Situated as I am, there is no one else left whom it can affect very materially.""Thank you; that is just the point I was trying to get at. The question you have debated, in fact, is—pardon me if I speak too plainly—whether you can contrive to make an impoverished estate maintain itself and you, and pay any debts for which you may be liable.""You do speak very plainly, Mr. McKye," said the young man, colouring, "and I will emulate your lead so far as not to beat about the bush. You have correctly stated the question that has occupied me.""Did you ever hear an old proverb which says, 'When women and cats starve, God help men and dogs'?""I cannot recall to mind that I have. What does it mean? or rather how do you intend to apply it to my case?""We know the embarrassed owner of an estate that wants a lot of money laid out on it won't starve, if he can help it; but how about the tenants? I have witnessed such misery among the people hereabouts, till I am sure the man who undertakes such a responsibility as you are about to do, without the will and the means to benefit those dependent on him, is just in the same case as a farmer who buys a horse, when well aware he has nothing to feed him on. I have seen animals die of starvation, I have seen human beings die of starvation—the process is not pleasant to witness, and I do not think you will care to watch it.""But, good heaven, Mr. McKye, though a man may be bound to feed his horse, a landlord is not bound to feed his tenants!""A landlord is bound to enable his tenants to feed themselves.""It is not my intention to ask extortionate rents.""There is land even on your estates not worth any rent at all.""I really do not think I can undertake to recreate Donegal, if that is what you mean," returned Terence banteringly."Then it is clearly your duty to sell the property to some one who will undertake to help the people to help themselves. Capital is what is wanted at Calgarry as elsewhere. Money put into the soil, so that money may be got out of the soil. There is nothing so grateful as the earth (unless it may be earth's poorest children). Give her ever so little nourishment, and she rests not by night or day till she has repaid the kindness a hundredfold.""I believe that statement is in the main quite accurate, and I must see what I can do.""What you can do, Mr. Conway, lies now within your grasp. If you let your chance slip, it may never return to you. Thousands of pounds are no more to the man who wants this place than a farthing to me. There is nothing he won't do for the property and the tenants. He is one of the sort Ireland needs badly. I would like well for you to think it over before you finally deny him, if deny him you must. It is for the poor I speak; for the honest, hard-working, long-suffering poor, who have no friends able to speak for them. As a servant of their God and mine, Mr. Conway, I am constrained to say you will sin if you do not try to raise them from the slough of despair in which they are sinking. If I offend I can't help it. My Master has sent me to you with this message. It is for you to attend to it or not."When two messages, diametrically opposite in their terms, though purporting to come from the same source, are delivered to one person, it is difficult for him to decide which to accept as genuine.Miss Dutton had told the new owner duty clearly pointed that he should remain at Calgarry. Mr. McKye declared duty as clearly commanded him not to stay, but sell and go forth. It was difficult to see how he could adopt both courses, even if he wished to do so; but, happily, there existed no necessity for him to attempt any impossibility of the sort.He had given his promise to Philippa, and the matter was consequently settled. Wrong or right, message or no message, he meant to retain his inheritance; but there could be nothing gained by making a fuss over this determination, therefore he answered his visitor's appeal with diplomatic courtesy."It is impossible for me to take offence because a gentleman feels so strongly and speaks so straightforwardly as you do, Mr. McKye; at the same time, I am satisfied this is a question I—and I only—can, or ought, to decide. Further, it strikes me you are not quite impartial; you hold a brief, or I am much mistaken, for the other side.""I confess it, sir. I have never sought to conceal the fact," said the minister valiantly; "but if you imagine my brief, as you call it, involves any retaining fee, that I expect directly or indirectly to reap any advantage for myself from the advice I have ventured to offer, you are utterly mistaken—utterly.""Believe me, such an idea never crossed my mind. I am not in the habit of attributing sinister motives to those who speak as though they wish me well. Till a man gives me cause to suspect his sincerity, I prefer to believe in it. I believe in yours, and I hope we shall come eventually to know each other so long and so well that you will admit even a Conway of Calgarry may have some redeeming qualities. Now, let me offer you some refreshment. Nay, I will take no refusal;" and he rang the bell."Lay luncheon for Mr. McKye and myself immediately, Byrne," he said; and, as the butler had already commenced preparations for the second great meal of the day, in five minutes—nay, in two—Mr. Conway was able to marshal his guest into the dining-room.Though he had deemed it right to enter a protest against such unexpected hospitality, Mr. McKye would have felt sorely disappointed to be taken at his word.The minister was not one of those uncomfortable Christians who think to please God by despising the food He provides. No man ever asked a blessing on a good dinner with a fuller sense of pleasure to come than Mr. McKye, and when he returned thanks for a bad one, he felt that in some way the designs of Providence had been strangely thwarted. His fault, if fault it were, lay in quite the opposite direction to asceticism."There is a rich feast spread,"he was wont to say, "and it would be a poor return to the Giver not to enjoy it."Sir Henry Beecham himself had not a finer taste in culinary matters than Mr. McKye."If it is only half a round of dry toast, let me have it properly made," he said to his wife in the early days of their married life, since which period he had educated her up to a very pretty proficiency in the great art.Common report hinted he ran the priest very hard in the concoction of a jorum of punch, while every one who enjoyed the privilege of his intimate acquaintance affirmed that a beefsteak grilled under the personal superintendence of Mr. McKye was a thing not to be lightly rejected.To such a man it may well be imagined the luncheon-table at Calgarry House afforded exquisite pleasure."There was everything almost you could name," he told his father afterwards; "and yet young Conway apologised for the fare. As for the wine, it was the best out of old Duke's cellar. Well, curse or no curse, he's a fine fellow, the new owner, and I'll be sorry to see harm fall on him."Certainly Terence did do all that lay in his power to make Mr. McKye feel at his ease, and Mr. McKye was not ungrateful. He had never been made free of great men's houses, or asked to partake of refreshment in a friendly way with them, and when he parted from this exceptional host it was with sentiments of great respect and sorrow.He would have saved him from the evil to come if he could—saved him and benefited Donegal; but as Terence was resolved to rush on to destruction, he felt it was vain to interfere further except in one way."You shall have my prayers," thought the minister; but he had sufficient tact not to state his intentions aloud. "He who heareth prayer can help His creatures, no matter along what road they are travelling; and it may be He sees it well to let this young man do as he has determined."Mr. McKye's faith was strong as faith could be. God to him was not merely an actual but an active Presence, and he felt sure the Almighty merely used men to work out His purposes, which He could still perfect without their aid, in any way He chose.His was the power and the glory: man could only do what his Maker permitted. Nevertheless he would have liked to save this kindly and gracious young Conway had it been possible, and it was with a very sad heart he rose (after an excellent meal) to take his leave."As you know, Mr. McKye," said Terence, "I am not a rich man."The minister bowed in acquiescence, even while his eyes wandered over the luncheon-table and his mind considered how differently lots were apportioned."But I should like to help you if in my power. The late storms, I understand, did considerable damage to your meeting-house. What will the repairs cost?"Mr. McKye did not speak for a moment. With real delicacy he was trying to frame an answer which should not hurt the young man, whose heart, he felt, must, spite of his lineage, be in the right place."I am beholden to you, Mr. Conway," he said at last. "In your position I should scarce have thought you'd have heard of my perplexity. But the wreckage is not so great as was at first put about, and a friend is going to make it right."Terence did not smile. Though new to his great position, he had sufficient knowledge of the world to hide his suspicion of whom the friend must be."Some other time, then, Mr. McKye," he said."Yes. I'll be thankful to you for the schools," answered the minister. "They're in great need. We want to—""Perhaps you will explain all that to me when next you favour me with a visit. I am so sorry to have to cut our present interview short, but I must this afternoon manage to call on Mr. Malet.""A very thorough gentleman," said Mr. McKye, putting on his comforter and buttoning up his overcoat; "and, I hope, a Christian.""Surely there can be no doubt on that point!" exclaimed Mr. Conway, in surprise."I don't know; I wouldn't like to be too sure," answered Mr. McKye, surveying his hat thoughtfully; "a Christian should be lowly.""Who could be more meek than Mr. Malet?" asked Terence, mentally considering how the Calgarry incumbent, condoning all slights, had hurried to his kinsman's death-bed."It is not for me to say; for I have ever found Mr. Malet a perfect gentleman—courteous, liberal, and, considering all things, full kindly. But I am of opinion a Christian ought to be more than courteous, liberal, and kindly. He should not be worldly-minded—""You think Mr. Malet worldly-minded, then?" suggested Terence."As you ask me, sir, I do;" after which statement Mr. McKye took his leave.CHAPTER VIII.MR. MALET ADVISES.IT was blowing half a gale when Terence turned out of the teeth of an icy north wind into a shrubbery walk which led straight up to Mr. Malet's cottage.Originally the merest cabin, years of that gentleman's tenancy had transformed it into a most lovely little dwelling. Well Terence remembered it—well he knew it. Many a happy day he and Mr. Barry had spent under its thatched roof. On many a wet morning the wide corridor that ran along the back of the house had echoed with their noisy romps and childish laughter. They had sat together over the turf fire in the kitchen eating hot buttered potato-cakes, an experience which then possessed the charm of a sin. They had between them carried Audna, when a mere toddling infant, "lady to London" up the rocks that shielded the cottage from the wild Atlantic gales, and watched the foam-maned sea-horses rushing squadron after squadron madly on the cliffs. And to the westward lay a tiny bay—he could see it as he stood at the front door—where they had gathered shells by the thousand in the happy, happy long ago. They had run out after the waves as they ebbed, and run faster in shore as they flowed, and told each other stories, and sat on the great stones looking up at the blue heaven, their hearts full of the beautiful fancies and unutterable content that can never return again, never for ever.All recurred to him as he stood looking down into the bay, now full of boiling angry billows that had been lashed to fury during the late storms. The pleasant past came back with smiling face and soft tender hands, that touched his heart with a yearning indefinable sorrow, and brought from some deep well of feeling a mist of tears to his eyes which dimmed the dark landscape for a moment, and merged headland and breakers and ocean and brown bare earth in a confused blurred mass.Mr. Malet was at home, and—"Will you be pleased to walk in, sir?" said the woman who answered his inquiry, opening the dining-room door, beyond which lay the little study the visitor knew so well.As the visitor was ushered in with the simple announcement, "A gentleman to see you, sir," Mr. Malet, who was seated in an easy-chair nearer the fire, rose, and came forward with the exclamation,"Terence! is it really you?""Really Terence, and no other," answered the young man; and the pair clasped hands rather than shook them."I am very glad you have come.""And I am very glad to have come.""Now you are here you will stop for dinner at the same old hour, half-past four.""Nothing I should like better. There never could be any hour for dinner nearly so pleasant as half-past four."Just as if he were in his own home, the owner of Calgarry returned into the hall, hung up his hat, took off his top-coat, and hung it up too, smiling at Mr. Malet, who looked on thoughtfully."This is like old times," he remarked. "They were happy old times.""I hope the new are not very unhappy," said the clergyman."I do not know—they are very perplexing: I have come to you for comfort.""About what? Succeeding to Calgarry?"They were ensconced at last one on each side an upheaped peat fire in the small study, which was lined from floor to ceiling with book-shelves, filled full as they could hold."No, not exactly; but you know the terms of Mr. Conway's will?""Yes—Captain Conway takes everything except the estate.""Precisely.""And did you expect to get anything Mr. Conway could keep from you?""Well, yes, I did.""I do not see why.""Neither do I now, but I did expect.""Then, of course, his will must have been a serious disappointment.""It was, and it is one which does not grow less; on the contrary, each day seems to increase the difficulty of my position.""I am afraid I fail to catch your meaning; in what does the difficulty consist?""Every one seems to think Calgarry, without money, is a white elephant.""Who is every one?""Several people—most people. I have been harassed to death about the matter. Scarcely a day passes but I am told it is my duty to sell the property.""Your duty to whom?""To the tenants and myself.""And what do you think?""I do not think so at all.""Neither do I. Always supposing there is nothing in the background with which I am unacquainted.""The case in a nutshell is this: Here is a big estate, a huge estate, and here am I without a penny.""That won't last. Pennies will come to you. Meanwhile I suppose money can be raised?""I don't know about that. You see there is no rent-roll to speak of. Mr. Conway has left the property a prairie.""All the better for you. If he has cleared it of a few good industrious men, he has also cleared it of whole families—grandparents, parents, children, cousins, uncles, and relations by marriage—starving on land which they had divided and subdivided and divided again till literally they had not a rig of potatoes apiece. I do not suppose Mr. Conway meant to do you a good turn, but he has.""Perhaps in that way. But I am told I ought to put capital into the soil.""I feel I am groping in the dark," said Mr. Malet, much perplexed. "It would simplify matters a good deal if you would tell me who the persons are that have taken upon themselves to offer you advice for which you do not seem to be thankful.""I am not thankful at all. Since the day Mr. Conway was buried, first one and then another has been advising me to sell, till I am weary of the word. And I have had no one to talk to freely and unreservedly as I am talking to you now. I should have been here sooner, only I kept hoping you would come to me.""If you think for a moment, you will see there were sufficient reasons why I stayed away.""I see them now. I did not see them in the same light yesterday."If he thought Mr. Malet would enter into the subject of his own personal wrongs Terence instantly was undeceived."And now who are these excellent persons who take such an interest in the sale of Calgarry?" went on the clergyman. "Mr. Norbury of course heads the list?""Strange to say, I have not heard a word direct from him. I am told he would buy, but I have no knowledge of any such desire except what is derived from mere gossip.""He does wish to buy, I think; but probably imagines it prudent to wait for some sign from you.""He will have to wait a long time, then," answered Terence. "Captain Conway, on the other hand, made an offer to me the day of the funeral.""Which you—""Which I said I would consider.""Have you given him your answer yet?""Yes. There was no purpose to be served by delaying it, so I wrote to him almost immediately to say I should not sell.""Will that make any awkwardness about the furniture? It all belongs to him, does it not?""He has behaved very well. When 'I went with him to Danfanaghy he proposed leaving everything as it stood till I came to some decision. Then if I did not wish to part with the estate I might take over the contents of the house at a low valuation. I rather fancy he thinks the furniture may be useful to him when he gets the place eventually.""You imagine, then, he believes you will change your mind?"Terence nodded, and remained silent for a minute, during which Mr. Malet also refrained from speech."When I returned home after my interview with Captain Conway, Ann Patterson began begging and praying of me to get rid of Calgarry. Next morning, Letitia followed suit; and to-day, just as I was about to come here, Mr. McKye appeared on the scene.""The son or the father?""The son. He was very much in earnest. He made me feel rather ashamed of my family, and of standing in the way of a good rich man who would repair all our shortcomings; indeed, he said so much and to such admirable purpose that I believe if I had not given my promise to keep the property I might have been tempted to sell it.""O! you have bound yourself by a promise not to yield to these tempters?""I have.""It would be indiscreet, I suppose, to guess at the name of the individual who exacted such a pledge?""Not at all. I do not mind telling you it was Philippa Dutton.""That strikes me as very important and satisfactory.""In what way?""Why, surely it shows that the terms of Mr. Conway's will have not affected her sentiments," said Mr. Malet, looking hard at Terence."I do not suppose her feelings are changed in the least; but on the other hand I have not the faintest idea what her feelings are."Mr. Malet looked at the young man in amazement."Do you mean to say," he asked, "that you and she have come to no understanding?""We are not engaged," answered Terence."Then what are you? What have you been all this time?""The very best of friends—the closest of friends. At first, I supposed the late Mr. Conway would arrange everything; then when he cooled towards me I did not like to open the subject myself during his lifetime.""And have you never proposed to her—never told her—" Mr. Malet paused, for he could not think of the precise word he wanted."I have never yet asked her to be my wife," answered Terence, "but she knows she is sun, moon, stars, and planets, earth and heaven, to me."Mr. Malet sat looking at the fire. He was thinking of a time when one he should see here no more had been as the Whole host of heaven to him."Why do you not speak plainly to Miss Dutton?" he asked at last."How can I, now, as things have turned out?""You are the owner of Calgarry, even though she be an heiress.""That is true; but—""You have no expectation, I suppose, that she will propose to you?" suggested Mr. Malet a little sarcastically."Certainly not; still—""You lost a splendid opportunity when she advised you not to sell your estate. She could scarcely have told you more plainly she had an interest in it.""If you had heard her, you could not have taken that meaning out of what she said. She has no thought for anything but duty. She believes we ought not to consider what we like—only what is right. Hers is such a grand, noble nature. When I listen to her she makes me feel mean and selfish; there are so many things I want for myself; and she never thinks of herself, only of others.""I do not see why her unselfishness should keep you silent. As you like to have matters put on that ground, I may say I consider it is your duty to let Miss Dutton know exactly what you feel towards her, and ascertain her feelings in return.""I am afraid she would not like me to speak so soon after Mr. Conway's death; it might seem to her unfeeling: she was very fond of him.""O, indeed! I was not aware."At that moment the door opened, and a girl came in. The short day in that northern latitude had already faded, and in the dusk she did not at first recognise the stranger, at sight of whom she stopped surprised."Surely you have not forgotten me, Audna?" said the owner of Calgarry, making but one step across the room, taking her by both hands and kissing her."Why, you are Terence!" she cried, not a bit abashed by his demonstrative greeting. "O! I am glad you have come at last! I am so glad!"He did not ask her why she was so glad, for as he led her forward into the light of the fire he knew by the way she laid a caressing hand on her father's arm she rejoiced at this healing of old sores for his sake.This was the Audna, the motherless child, he and his cousin had carried "lady to London," that they had cared for, fondled, loved in the old bright days departed; and he looked down on her, as she stood on the hearth between her father and him-self, with a curious sense that everything was passing away from him—that in a world of change nothing can stand still, not even the years in Donegal."How you have grown!" he said."How you have changed!" she answered; "you are quite a man.""I have been quite a man this many a day,'' he observed, with a rueful laugh."And my little girl has almost shot up into a woman," added Mr. Malet, a little perplexed frown puckering his forehead as he spoke."I wish we were all young enough to go gathering shells again," said Terence, as if he felt the weight of his own age and his own sorrows too much for him as he spoke. "I was thinking about those old expeditions of ours as I came along the hickory walk.""Which is the laurel walk now," amended Miss Malet, who did not know how pretty she looked with her bonnet hanging a little back and her nut-brown hair blown a little about her forehead, and a rich colour in her fresh young face, and her dark blue eyes shining in the firelight like stars, and an indefinable gentleness and sadness in her manner, which was due perhaps to always living alone with her father, who might almost as well have been cast away on a desert island as stranded in the wilds of Donegal."Letitia wanted to come over and see you to-day," went on Mr. Conway, "but the wind was so rough I made her stay at home. The first fine afternoon, however—""We will call on Mrs. Barry," interposed Mr. Malet. "Please tell her so with our kind regards. And now, Audna, run away. Mr. Conway and I are discussing weighty matters.""Why do you call me Mr. Conway?" asked Terence when they were left alone."I scarcely know," answered Mr. Malet, "unless because it has been suddenly brought home to me that you are quite a man.""I hope I shall never be anything but Terence to you, if I live to be a hundred," was the impulsive reply."It would be difficult to say what may happen before you are half that age," replied Mr. Malet, with a smile. "What I desire now is to give you that comfort you asked for a while ago You ought, I think, to settle on some plan of action, and action to it. You have taken one step in that direction by determining not to sell your property. The next thing is to speak frankly and fully to Miss Dutton.""I should not like to speak to her here. A man ought never to make love to his guest.""There is something in that. I am old-fashioned enough to be of the same opinion.""You see," went on Terence, "if a girl wanted to say ' No' it would place her in such an uncomfortable position.""But you do not anticipate an answer of that sort.""I scarcely know what I expect. At any rate, I would rather not put my fortune to the test at Calgarry. When Sir Henry leaves, I shall go to London also, and then if I can pluck up enough courage we shall see.""Why are you returning to London so soon?""I want to talk over my position with some people there.""Creditors?""Yes," admitted Terence."Do you owe much?""Unfortunately, yes.""Have you been discounting Mr. Conway's death?""You could not state the case more exactly.""Humph! Then, of course, all the bills drawn on that event will come back dishonoured.""Every one. I have not a word to say in my own excuse; and if I had I should not say it;" and Terence let his head fall forward on his hands covering his face.Mr. Malet rose and took a turn up and down the room. "My poor boy," he began at last, "I am heartily sorry for you. This is the key to the whole of your trouble. I suppose your liabilities are very heavy?""So heavy that I do not know how I am ever to meet them and keep Calgarry," answered the unlucky owner of that property.CHAPTER IX.AILEEN.WHEN the storms had exhausted their fury, and the ocean sobbed itself for a while to rest, there came to Donegal a morning borne on the wings of the sweet west wind, with azure blue in its eyes and sunshine on its face, and the fresh, hopeful scent of spring accompanying its joyous progress. The waves rippled gently in over the sands of Calgarry Bay; the headlands, no longer tormented with the attack of besieging billows, showed a proud, calm front to the Atlantic; the sea-birds preened themselves on jagged spurs of rock, or else dived after their prey into water clear as a mirror; men, who for weeks previously had not dared to adventure on the deep, carried their curraghs across the beach, and launched their frail barks in hopes of a good haul. Light and shadow played at hide-and-seek over Muckish, overtaking and passing each other with such incessant change that the landscape never for a single moment remained the same. The beautiful wagtails, which haunt the sterile waysides of that part of Ireland, were alert and busy; while in the plantations surrounding Calgarry House, thrushes and blackbirds sang to the accompaniment made by the river flowing swiftly over stone and gravel, between boulder and rock, to the sea, in which its bright waters were lost.A morning to put any one in good spirits, and yet not a single person gathered round the breakfast-table in Calgarry House seemed in the least elated by it.Sir Henry Beecham tried his best to appear cheerful. He spoke in commendatory terms of the weather, saying it showed an evident intention of "taking up" at last. He mentioned that, for the first time, he had ventured to open his bedroom window during the process of dressing, and found the air quite balmy. He suggested that possibly the crocuses would soon be pushing their yellow heads above ground, and remarked the birds apparently knew St. Valentine's Day was not far distant. Further, he observed they really appeared likely to have a fine passage after all; and when he uttered these last words, it was patent to those who heard that his previous statements had been merely polite flatteries; that all he at that moment desired was to get away from Donegal, and remain away for an indefinite period.Never before in this world, perhaps, were guests so bored as the three who had been badly enough advised to come to the late Mr. Conway's funeral, and remain at Calgarry after it. Sir Henry could not be considered a person usually difficult to entertain or hard to amuse; but at Calgarry there was not even the pretence at entertainment or an attempt to amuse. Weeks of wretched weather, days when it was impossible to get out of doors, the pall of death still lying over the house, and a gloom like the grave shrouding the new heir's brow, were surely enough to try the temper of any man, more especially of one accustomed to live and move and have his being amongst people who hid their skeletons out of sight, and considered it good form to ignore the possible existence of such unpleasant things in the cupboards of their neighbours.Breakfast, luncheon, and dinner were the only breaks in the deadly monotony he had borne with scarce a murmur; and really, after a time, breakfast, luncheon, and dinner begin to pall when they are partaken of day after day in the same company, amid the same surroundings. News from the outer world there was none: the post came twice a day, certainly, but it brought nothing to excite or interest any human being. When the last subscription to the Times expired, Marmaduke Conway had ceased to concern himself in politics as well as other mundane matters; consequently not even a paper, save the Dublin General Advertiser, found its way along the lonely highroads to Calgarry. Visitors, also, there were none. Even if a gentleman had felt disposed to stir abroad in such weather, he would have thought many times before taking his horses out also. There was nothing to turn to in the house. Miss Dutton had essayed to play some masses on the old spinet; but the discord was so horrible she could only close the instrument with a sad smile. Mrs. Barry's vivacity turned generally to snappishness; and as for games, though, on one evening, a card-table was got out, and the four miserable wretches took hands at whist round it, their attempt at jollity proved such a signal failure that by common consent trumps were not again mentioned.Sir Henry had never dissipated the great forces of his own mind by reading the thoughts of other persons, but, in despair, he did saunter into the study, where he had spent many a pleasant hour with the late owner, and looked at the shelves, to see if he could find something to while away the time.There were ranged all those admirable works without which no gentleman's library can be considered complete, and there were also a vast number of books which ought not to be in any gentleman's library at all. From both the instructive and the destructive Sir Henry turned away. What had become of the light literature with which the late Mr. Conway always seemed to surround himself—Fraser and Blackwood, Colbourn's New Monthly, and sometimes the Quarterly or Edinburgh? Where the green leaves that in the golden days departed made a pleasant spring-time even at the dead of winter, that month by month brought, folded between their covers, happiness to thousands of homes? Where the Art Journal and the Athenœum? where everything that formerly caused the old house to seem modern as London? Not a trace of these remained; and when Sir Henry put a question to Mrs. Patterson concerncerning their whereabouts, he found they had all been sent by friends, who took them away again when they visited their dear kinsman. "A boxful of books used to come regularly from Mrs. Bagenal Conway, the Captain's mother," Ann went on. "After her second marriage she was often staying at Mostrene Castle.""O!" said the General thoughtfully; "that accounts for the milk in the cocoa-nut."He did not explain this dark utterance further, but Ann perfectly understood it had reference to Mr. Terence's name being left out of the will. For her own part, she had always thought Mrs. Bagenal Conway "a wonderful clever lady, even when she had scarcely a decent gown to her back; and she, for one, was not a bit surprised when the news came that the widow had managed to catch Mr. Boyne, who was first cousin to the Mostrene people."Foiled in his folorn hope of finding relief in elegant literature from the deadly dulness of Calgarry House, Sir Henry was fain to seek change in those high-walled gardens, which, though most hideously ugly, were sheltered from the wind, and had been the pride of many a Conway. The gardener imparted a great deal of information on many subjects. "When he came first to Donegal, he had as many as four men under him; latterly he was not allowed help even to wheel in dung; indeed, he was not allowed dung, for that matter, so he needed nobody to wheel it.""Yes; and perhaps Sir Henry would look at the hot-houses—a finer range there was not at one time in the county, and now he had not a stove-plant, or a vine, or a peach; the woodwork was rotten for want of paint, and the panes of glass had fallen out from want of putty. He could not get fuel to keep up the fires, and he himself was under notice when old Mr. Conway died. Mr. Terence Conway had said nothing to him yet, but he hoped the garden would now be kept up as gardens ought to be."Next day Sir Henry managed to get as far as the stables, were in perfect order, and there, on many subsequent days, he spent a considerable amount of time not altogether unprofitably.He did not know so much about horses as he might have done had his chanced to be a cavalry regiment, but he liked to hear talk concerning them, and it was an agreeable change from the monotony of the drawing-room to sit on a little hillock of hay or the corn-bin, listening to anecdotes about the various animals that had stood in the stalls and been famous in the county.He quite won the hearts of the few men employed by his easy manners—by the pleasant way in which he ate oats and chewed straw, and told them how equine matters were managed in Spain and France, and other outlandish countries, and gave them silver, and remarked on the qualities of the horses they groomed, bought by the late owner."He was a rare judge of cattle," said one fellow, after he and the General had got on confidential terms, referring to old Duke. "The dealer that took him in would have had to rise pretty early.""So I have always understood," answered Sir Henry."And a rare whip, too. God help the horse he took the notion of driving!""Made him go a pace?""You may say that. Why, he thought no more of—""Ah! be easy, now," interrupted another. "What's the good of talking about such things, when he'll never touch reins more?""Why wouldn't I talk?" returned the first speaker, who was from Fermanagh, and less under the ban of silence than his fellows. Sure, it's a blessing to be able to speak at last.""You're never backward about that," answered the other, as he walked out of the stable. There was a moment's silence after he went, during which Sir Henry carefully selected along spike of hay for his delectation."I was going to observe," resumed the Fermanagh groom, that old Mr. Conway thought no more of a horse's life nor if it had been something of no sort of value. Did you ever hear how he served Aileen?""Well, I hope," said the General, who felt uncomfortable, though curious."I'll tell you. It was in old Teague's time; he had the whole management here before the master came back to live at Calgarry entirely, and the horses were more like his own children nor dumb brutes. There was one beauty he had reared, and broke, and driven, and called Aileen, after a sweetheart of his that died. She was a bay, with black legs and a coat like satin, and a straight neck and a head like a greyhound, and her like wasn't in all this country for speed, and temper, and kindliness. She would follow Teague like a dog, and put her nose into his pockets—rub her head against his sleeve, fondling him."She was just about five years old when Mr. Conway broke up his London house and said he had come back to live on the soil, and Teague was mighty proud to show the stables and the horses; and you may be sure he did not forget to sing Aileen's praises in his song."'Put her in the T-cart, and we'll see what she's made of,' said the master. 'I'm going over to Mostrene, and you had better come with me.'"Well, sir, whatever it was ailed the mare that day, the Lord alone knows; but when they got her out, it was as much as they could do to harness her. She, that hadn't a bit of vice in her, reared and plunged while they were getting her into the shafts; and then, as I've heard tell, once they had hooked the traces, fell to shivering as if she was in some great trouble."By the time Teague got his coat on, and took her round to the hall-door, she seemed right enough, only a bit fidgety, till the Squire came out, when she wanted to turn round and make for the stables again."Teague took her by the head, but just as Mr. Conway had his foot on the step she backed, and he was nearly down. However, he got into the cart and took the reins; Teague jumped up beside him, and away she went like the wind."'Wants some of the nonsense taken out of her!' said the Squire to Teague; who answered, frightened, he did not know why,"'I don't know what is the matter with her. She never was like this before.'"After a while the Squire got her in hand, and she quieted down, and they passed through the gates, and she went along the road, trotting as none other ever knew how to trot. She was not a high-stepper: she threw her feet straight out, and covered as much at one stride as another would at three."Teague's spirits rose, and he took a sly look at his master: Mr Conway was smiling the queerest smile. At sight of that smile league's heart dropped like lead. They say the devil got up into the T-cart with the Squire that day."Sir Henry had never put the piece of hay into his mouth; he sat with it between his first and second fingers, looking at the man."Well?" he asked."They passed the turn to Mostrene, but Teague dared not let on he knew. They went mile after mile, up hill and down dale; whenever the mare slackened speed, Mr. Conway gave her a cut with the whip that made her jump almost out of her skin."Afterwards, Teague said it seemed to him they had been going at that pace for days, till he felt that dazed and struck he could not open his lips; but at last he did say,"'Aren't you afraid of doing her a damage, master?'"Mr. Conway made never an answer: he only brought the whip across her back with a swish that left a wale that'll last his life across Teague's heart, and made him cry out,"'For God's sake, sir, what has the mare done?'"And still Mr. Conway said nothing, only thrashed the poor brute on."She was flagging now at every few paces, and the more she flagged the more he put the torture on her."'Is it to kill her, sir, you're trying?' asked Teague. But Mr. Conway kept his white set face straight forward, and spoke not a word—only raised himself a bit that he might use the whip to better purpose. 'Because if it's that you're set for,' went on Teague, 'master or no master, you're not going to do it!' and with that he made a grab at the reins and the whip, and next minute was out of the cart and lying on the hard turnpike road."He must have been stunned, for when he came to himself and got upon his feet he could see no sign of cart, or mare, or master."He started running as hard as he could, with his cheek cut open and one eye closed up, and himself all shaken with the force of the fall. It was a steep hill before him, and at the top the road took a turn, so that he couldn't see very far; but he hadn't run more nor half a mile before he came on the T-cart, with the shafts broken and the mare lying dead.'A couple of men stood by, and they said the way Teague lay down beside her, and cursed and swore and lamented, was something awful."He cried like a child. He never did a day's good after. I mind him a broken old man before he went to America."Sir Henry made no immediate remark; a deadly sickness came over him, and instinctively he placed his hand flat on the hay to keep from falling over; then a sort of fog cleared away, and he managed to say,"It seems most remarkable that Mr. Conway should have treated a valuable animal in such a manner. There must be some mistake.""No mistake at all, sir. That is just the man Mr. Conway was. Sure, if he thought nothing whether women and children died, why would he care about dumb brutes? He was heart-cruel. He took a spite against a dog that used to follow a poor natural who often brought fish to the house, a dog that never did him or anybody else harm, and one day it was missing, and not a soul could hear tale or tiding of it. Well, a while after that, the gardener heard a strange noise in the old stone summer-house down by the garry, and he called to David Blake—that was the idiot creature's name—and said he thought his dog must be inside. Davy whistled and called, and there was a sort of feeble whine; and then they tried to open the door, but it was locked. They sent into the house for the key, but nobody had it; and, while they were standing there, Mr. Conway came past, and ordered them all off. Then they knew he had shut the dog in there himself. When it got dark, Davy made his way into the grounds down the bed of the river, and tried to break the door in, but it was thick and solid; he beat on the panels till they were covered with his blood. The windows were too narrow to let a child through, let alone a man; so at last in desperation he fell on the roof and tore a hole, and let himself down, and carried away the dog, which was barely living and no more. It died in his arms as he carried it home; and he broke his heart thinking of the days and the nights it lay starving to death, and him coming and going to the house not a quarter of a mile away.""Do you mean that the idiot died as well as the dog?""I do, sir, just that; and only the people about here don't like to talk, there's lots of the same sort of stories you might near. They say Mr. Conway could not help it; that there was something inside him, when he took a hatred to any one, gave him no rest till he had wreaked his vengeance. I don't know much about it myself, but I wouldn't mind wagering five shillings if a poor man had let his hatreds get the better of him in the same way, he'd have been taught different;" and the speaker shot a measure of corn into one of the mangers with a decision which was equivalent to booking his bet.Sir Henry did not say anything. Indeed, what could he say?It is a difficult thing for a man decently brought up to tell even a groom that he is a liar. Besides, Sir Henry did not think this groom was lying. Though he wanted currying and dandy-brushing more than his own horses, though his speech was rude and his manners were uncouth, what he said had a ring of truth.There seemed no valid reason to disbelieve him. Common rumour and popular belief had long held old Duke Conway was as one possessed, and whether that chanced to be by one devil or a legion, appeared to the General a question as useless as hopeless to investigate.Accordingly, at last he put that long stalk of hay between his lips, and rose from his seat, remarking as he did so,"I suppose I never shall understand why you do not cut your hay out in trusses like the English.""Maybe we'd cut it out in trusses like the English if we could," was the scorching reply. "If we'd a climate like England, and could put up our grass green almost, as they do over there, and hadn't to keep it in cocks to dry for weeks before we dare stack it, we might do heaps of things.""I see, the climate is the difficulty," said Sir Henry, hastening with a mild answer to turn away wrath."That is it, sir," returned the man, mollified. "We haven't any weather to speak of here. No weather at all.""I cannot say I agree with you," remarked the General. "It seems to me you have plenty of weather—such as it is."Having scored which trick, and elicited an appreciative "Faith,
you're in the right of it there, sir!" he left the stables, which he
took particularly good care not to revisit.As he made his way back to the house he looked up at Muckish frowning from afar, canopied in mist, half shrouded by sullen driving clouds that swept heavily over its dark outline, and he wondered how the latest Conway lying under its shadow slept.Was he sleeping? All the terrible legends about the dead Sir Henry had ever heard crowded into his mind at that instant. He remembered that awful story about the vault hewn out of solid rock, and hermetically sealed, whence there came a noise as if all the demons in hell were holding high revel there; so the stone that held the entrance was removed, and the sight which met the horror-stricken spectators proved more appalling than the noise. For the coffins were in splinters, and the dead bruised and disfigured, as though they had been flung backward and forward in some horrible sport. Where they had been laid in lead, the lead was doubled up, and shreds of velvet and cloth and linen, and battered coffin-plates bearing a coronet, and twisted handles, strewed the ground, as flowers and lace litter a floor after some ball.Tremblingly they placed the dead again as decently and as well in order as they could, and replaced the entrance-stone, building it in with cement; but before the work was well finished the infernal orgie began again; thuds were heard as if of the coffins being thrown lengthwise against the rocky walls, and a tremendous uproar caused by dragging the dead up and down the vault.What was going on then—what had been going on during all those awful nights—in the old graveyard lying under the shadow of Muckish?As has been said, in such a country, amidst such utter desolation, everything seemed possible. Why should not a devilish riot be even then in full progress in the Conway vault? Why should the evil spirits that, as Sir Henry knew, were supposed to haunt all death-beds, not be still clamouring for the dead man's sinful soul?What had assoiled it? Had Duke Conway a guardian angel to fight against the fiends? had he one friend who, in the supreme moment, prayed his good spirit might come forth victorious?It was really shocking for a man who attended his parish church pretty regularly, and belonged to an old-established club, and moved in the best society, to be assailed by such phantasmagoria. Sir Henry had borne a great deal, but he felt he could not bear much more. The misdeeds of a family with which he had the honour not to be connected were getting too much for him. The groom's stories had produced an impression beyond their merits. They had shaken Sir Henry's nerves; and though he was not so young as when he helped to extinguish "Boney," Sir Henry's nerves were not easily shaken. He had endured a considerable amount of trouble, both in his own person and in the person of his friends, with commendable courage, particularly that trouble which specially concerned his friends. But there are limits to courage, and Sir Henry felt he was reaching the limits of his."If half what I have lately heard about the Conways is true," he considered, "it is a pity the Atlantic does not walk a mile or so inland, and sweep Calgarry and the family that own it off the face of the earth;" in which sentence the gallant officer merely put into a concrete form the thought that had for many a year been passing through the minds of frenzied men and anguished women, who dared not give utterance to it.CHAPTER X.SIR HENRY SPEAKS."I WISH to make one observation," said Mrs. Barry."By all means," agreed her cousin; "but why only one, Lettie? We should like to hear any number of observations from you."It was the evening of the same day on which Sir Henry had learnt those pleasing traits of the late Duke Conway which caused him to utter that remark relative to the Atlantic and Calgarry. He had not yet got over his idea that perhaps the world could do without the Conways, and be all the better for their extinction; and though he was sitting at table and ostensibly enjoying his dinner, he could not quite dismiss the memory of that lonely graveyard lying all by itself, dark and uncanny, under the black canopy of night, or persuade himself that even at that very minute high revels were not being held in honour of the latest and wickedest Conway laid amongst his own.From some cause every one at table seemed more or less preoccupied. Soup, joint, entrée, sweet, game, cheese, had been discussed with little or no conversation, and the cloth was removed, and dessert placed on the table, before Mrs. Barry thought fit to deliver the broadside she had been preparing for some hours.With a fine scorn she received Mr. Conway's amendment to her proposition and went calmly on, "I have been considering that if our letters can get to Derry, so can I."Her cousin looked up from the pear he was peeling and said, "The journey may be all very well for the mails to take, but I don't think you would much like it in such weather.""Are you trying to make a pun, Terence?" asked Mrs. Barry; "because if so, I may tell you at once I decline to continue the conversation.""I do not believe he had any intention of the sort," interposed Sir Henry, "though I once did see ROYAL M-A-L-E painted on one of her Majesty's post-cars in Sligo. Pray continue the conversation, Letitia.""If the letters can get to Derry, so can I. If the steamers can cross from Derry to Liverpool, I can cross in them. We came here for a week, and we have stayed four, weatherbound. Terence must be tired to death of us.""You know, Lettie, I should like you to remain here for ever," put in her cousin hastily."That is very good of you, and I like being here—I need not tell you that. But I am getting fidgety about my home—I must go. I cannot leave my three babies to take care of themselves any longer.""Three babies!" repeated Miss Dutton. "Why, you have only two, Letitia!""Two little babies and one big one," explained Mrs. Barry. How do you suppose Mark is getting on without me?""As you ask the question," answered Terence mischievously, "I should say, very well indeed.""That is all you know," retorted Mrs. Barry. "At any rate, I have made up my mind. With thanks for your hospitality, Terence, and wishing you well through your troubles, blow hail, blow snow, I shall go home next week."Sir Henry could scarcely credit the evidence of his own ears. He had been almost praying for deliverance from Calgarry, without dreaming that deliverance would come, and behold, when he least expected it, a way of escape seemed to open before him.Really Mrs. Barry was an admirable person. Though flighty and often waspish, though steeped to the lips in superstition, a fault on which at that moment Sir Henry did not feel inclined to bear too hardly, she was constantly achieving some triumph of common sense."But, my dear Letitia," he said, "if you must go home, why by Derry? Why not let us all return together by the short route?""Because it is not short, and I hate getting up in the middle of the night. I want a good long sleep.""Have you not slept here?" asked her cousin."Yes, but I shouldn't if I went by Dublin. No, I have thought the whole affair out. I do not want to drag anybody else away from Calgarry, or persuade any one to travel my way; but I shall bid you all farewell next week, and 'ship myself in good order and condition' from Derry for England.""No appeal, Lettie? no use in asking you to take pity upon us a little longer?""Not a bit, Terence," she answered, laying her hand with a caressing gesture on his arm. "I'm sorry to go in one way: but I want to see my children; and besides—""Besides what?" asked her cousin."Never mind—nothing. I must see Mark is not getting into any scrape.""Upon my word, I do not know: if it were not for the long sea-passage, it seems to me we might all take our departure together, Terence," said Sir Henry. "We have, indeed, prolonged our visit most unreasonably, and there seems little use in waiting for fine weather. With post-horses and short stages we could manage as regards the land journey; but that Derry route!" and the worthy gentleman shook his head mournfully."I do not mind the long sea-passage, miss," put in Dutton softly."When ladies are so brave I must not prove a laggard, eh, Terence?" exclaimed Sir Henry. "As the idea originated with you, Letitia, suppose you give us our final orders in the morning. Think your plan well out—""I have," interrupted Mrs. Barry; "and I can give you your final orders now—that is, if you like to travel with me. I shall go by the first boat that sails next week. Which is the first boat, Terence?""I will look," said her cousin. And then the ladies left the dining-room, and Sir Henry remained, amazed at the suddenness and completeness of the deliverance which had been wrought for him.Another week and he would be in London—in clubland and gaslight, in the pleasant region of good, wholesome, familiar, exhilarating black and yellow fogs; far away from gloomy Muckish, and ghostly graveyards, and Nun-cursed Calgarry, and a land given over to storm and tempest, to mourning and desolation and woe. How delightful to stand on English ground once more, to hear even the worst English accent again, to feel within the bills of mortality, to see Policeman X at the street-corner! The General went to his room that night feeling as though he had won a victory, and not even the torrents of rain with which he was awakened next morning damped his spirits.Mrs. Barry had said she would go, and, let the weather be what it would, he knew she would carry out her resolve. Perhaps the weather knew that too, because it suddenly changed, and dawn, as has been said, one day unexpectedly opened blue sunshiny eyes on a smiling earth, swept by wild gales no longer.Yes, Mrs. Barry's resolution was about to be rewarded; they were going to have a quiet passage and fine weather for their journey."Donegal seems cheering up," said the little lady; "it will be so glad to get rid of us.""Nay," answered Terence, "it wants to tempt you back again.""Do not be afraid; I shall come back often.""I think we shall all feel only too glad to return," added Sir Henry; but he knew he was not telling the truth—at least, as regarded one of the company."I have a letter from Mark," said Mrs. Barry to her cousin, "and he sends a message to you—see, that is it;" and she marked the sentence with her finger as she handed the open sheet across the table.As Mr. Conway read he turned crimson. Why could Letitia not have kept the message over until they were alone? He knew Miss Dutton's eyes were on him, and Sir Henry's also, as he glanced over this sentence:"Tell Conway I met Amos the other day, and gave the rascal such an account of the old Duke's will, the deplorable condition of Calgarry, and the fearful state of Irish property generally, that he will, I fancy, be thankful to take whatever he can get. Terence is wise not to come to London at present. I am glad he has decided to place his affairs in the hands of a Dublin lawyer. With good management he need not fear any trouble.""We have not had a walk since I came here," said Sir Henry to his host, when Mrs. Barry, having taken back her letter, was dispensing second cups of tea. "If you can spare the time, shall we take a stroll round the bay?""I think it would be very pleasant," answered Terence, who knew perfectly well Sir Henry's amiable suggestion meant a talk on business.Well it was very right they should talk. He ought to have taken the initiative himself, but a man cannot always summon up courage to bare his own neck against the axe."A most delightful change in the weather," said Sir Henry as they left the house; "it is really a charming morning."Terence assented dumbly; he wondered what was to follow.As the crow flies, Calgarry Bay lay less than a mile from Calgarry House, but the winding walks through shrubbery and wilderness, and the broader cart-road down to the beach, almost doubled the distance.There was a short cut across the fields, delightful in summer, but in the depth of winter impassable. Terence remembered that short cut well. Many a time he and little Lititia and Miss Dutton had traversed it in the days when his father never thought to stand next in succession to Calgarry. They had been good days. Happy days, perhaps because the expectation of a great property was not then overshadowing him.They passed through the shrubbery and almost through the wilderness before Sir Henry spoke again. He had taken out a cigar which he seemed to find some trouble in keeping alight, but at length he succeeded, and when they emerged upon the open path, their later route might have been tracked by a fragrant odour, pungent, penetrating, yet not strong.Already they could see the ocean. Though still afar off, it was perfectly visible, lying calm, sunlit, smiling, safe within the keeping of grim headlands, at the base of which certain death lay in watch for any unwary vessel.The bay was about three miles across from point to point of these stern landmarks, and swept inward in a graceful curve about the same distance. On the other side the waves which ebbed from its sands washed the shores of Labrador. Terence owned Calgarry Bay. All the shore rights were his; the seaweed the storm fiends brought in their giant hands and flung on the beach, the wreckage that often strewed it, the shells which twice a day the tide brought there and left, as a child leaves and forgets its o s, the gravel, tempests in their boisterous sports tossed up to the verge of the fields bordering the bay,—all these things, which so short a time before were grasped by old Duke Conway, now belonged to him.It was a proud possession—one which in its vast extent, the position it conferred, the in a way almost unlimited power it represented, might well have made any man's heart rejoice.But Terence at that moment was not rejoicing—apprehensively waiting for what Sir Henry might say.With kindly appreciation—born, perhaps, of the thought that ere long he would, far away from it, be looking on the dear, dirty, familiar, always charming London streets—the General regarded Mr. Conway's inheritance.The sea sparkled and glittered in the morning sun, the profiles of the dark headlands were cut clearly against the sky, the dark fields even seemed to hold a sort of promise in their aspect, and the birds sang loud in gladness, because the storms were overpast and hope of better weather had come upon the earth. The whole scene was indescribably lonely, yet not sad, for the earth lay smiling up to heaven, as if thankful for the peace vouchsafed at last; white sails were following one another round the frowning cliffs, dipping and glinting like sea-gulls, as the light curraghs danced over the waves, scudding before the wind and disappearing behind the rocks; but there can be little doubt Sir Henry heaved a deep sigh of relief at the reflection he should soon see it no more—at least not for a considerable period."Time is getting short with us now," he said at last, turning to his companion."Yes, and I am heartily sorry I have not been able to make your visit pleasanter," answered Terence."My dear fellow, we did not come here for pleasure," returned the General; we came to pay a last tribute of—respect to your late kinsman. Your hospitality has failed in so single respect, and I thank you for it. If ever you are kind enough to ask me here again, I could wish for nothing more than you have given—save better weather and to see you a little happier.""It is difficult to be happy while smarting under such a disappointment as that Mr. Conway's will proved to me. But the first bitterness is passing, and I mean now to set my shoulder to the wheel, and try whether I cannot make a good thing out of Calgarry, even without the money I expected.""I suppose you mean me, then, to understand you have decided not to sell Calgarry?""You knew I had made up my mind not to sell?" said the young man, in a tone which was irritable and inquiring."Letitia said you intended to do so; but many of the things Letitia says are born entirely of her own fancy.""This, at all events, is not her fancy. I told her dis-tinctly I should refuse to sell my inheritance; and I concluded she would repeat my statement to you.""She did," replied Sir Henry; "but I make it a rule never to believe statements unless I hear them first-hand."To this remark Terence made no rejoinder; except as a matter of courtsey there was none needed. The General had at length heard the statement first-hand, and he could do as he liked about believing it."I have no desire to force your confidence," he said, after he had walked on a few steps, "but I should like to ask one question: What next?""I do not quite comprehend," answered Terence, really puzzled."In other words, what are your plans?""I have none except to make the estate as profitable as may be.""You intend to reside here?""Most certainly.""You have changed your mind about accompanying us to London. When are we likely to welcome you there?""If I tell you what I am about to do, Sir Henry, you will see it is rather difficult for me to say when I shall be able to go to London. As I have been advised to put my affairs into the hands of an Irish rather than an English solicitor, I must proceed to Dublin without much more delay. It will be necessary for me at once to get enough ready money to furnish me with funds to meet immediate needs here and elsewhere. That may take some time; then I have to find an agent, since the gentleman who nominally acted in that capacity for Mr. Conway does not wish to retain the post, and if he did I cannot say I should feel much inclined to retain him.""I see," said the General. He had nodded his head at each point as if checking off an item; "a very good programme so far; well, go on.""There is nothing more in the programme, I believe, at present," replied Terence."O!" observed Sir Henry; "but about Philippa?""About Philippa?'' repeated Terence."Yes. Is she to be left out of the playbill altogether?""I scarcely know what you mean," stammered the young man. "Of course Philippa is the central figure in every dream of my future life.""Now we are getting at the point I wanted to reach.""She is associated with every plan; she is joined in every hope," went on Terence, gathering courage as he spoke. "Without her Calgarry would be valueless to me; for her sake I am prepared to make any sacrifice—""You want to marry her, in fact," interrupted Sir Henry, ruthlessly cutting the thread of the lover's eloquence. "We are within sight of land at last.""Was there ever a time when I did not want to marry her?" asked Terence indignantly."And does she want to marry you?" asked the General."How can I tell? I hope—I fear—she is always kind, but—""May I inquire why you do not ask her?"They were standing on the shore now. Before them lay the broad expanse of Calgarry Bay rippling in the sunshine, but the light which shone on the waters was less bright than that lying in the depths of Terence Conway's eyes as he thought of his beautiful love."Why do you not ask her?" repeated Sir Henry."I am afraid," confessed the young man. "Who am I that I should hope to win such a prize?""Pooh!" said the General, as he took out a fresh cigar.It was an extremely unkind exclamation, one calculated to hurt any lover's feelings. Nevertheless, it emboldened Terence to proceed."I intended to put my fortune to the test if things had gone right; but in face of Mr. Conway's will—""There is all the greater need for you to know soon and certainly how you are likely to be situated," finished Sir Henry as the timid suitor paused. "I am about to talk very plainly to you, my good fellow. For your own sake it would be well for you to speak. For Philippa's sake it is necessary for you to speak. Nothing can be more unfair to a girl than for a man to adore her in silence. You have been silent quite long enough. The match is not an unequal one. If you love each other, in God's name make up your minds to become husband and wife. You have a large estate and come of a good family. She comes of no family and has a fine fortune. You are both young. She is a handsome girl. You are not bad-looking. There is the case in a nutshell."Terence's pulses beat fast. He had not expected this. He had, on the contrary, anticipated objection."I have been foolish, perhaps," he hesitated, "but I desired to show her I am made of better stuff than perhaps she imagined. I do not mean to let the loss of Mr. Conway's money ruin my future, and I thought when she saw I had made some progress in undoing the wrong he wrought, I might stand a better chance of gaining her love. You know how high her ideal is; how little she considers any worldly advantage when compared with doing one's duty.""She has the highest ideal of any woman I ever met, and lives up to it," said Sir Henry, when Terence ended his sentence, if not his rhapsody. "Yes, she lives up to it."The General's tone so absolutely contradicted his words that his companion stood silent."And if you think over the matter dispassionately," went on Sir Henry, holding his cigar still unlighted in his hand, "it is not a bad thing to live up to one's ideal, when that ideal is to do exactly what one chooses, and get all one wishes for oneself. The only objection to it is that such an ideal is hard on other people.""But you don't—you can't mean to imply that Philippa has a trace of selfishness? She is the grandest, noblest woman I ever met.""She is indeed most grand in her conception of her neighbour's duty—truly noble if a trifle unpractical; but it is useless talking to a man in love about any defect in the mental constitution of his fair; so I will get on to what I really desire to say. While I entertain no insuperable objection to the match projected, for reasons with which he never favoured me, by your deceased relative, I think it necessary to state that, being Philippa's guardian, it will be my duty to have her money settled strictly on herself; further, to see that it is as safely invested as it has always been. I may tell you at once, however, I should decline to invest it in any mortgage on Calgarry. Without meaning any disparagement to your property, I do not think much of it as an investment or a security. I have hitherto always considered Calgarry a very charming estate; but now, I must say frankly, Calgarry with no money behind it, seems to me quite a different place from Calgarry with a large private income."Sir Henry paused, but Terence said not a syllable."Now that we understand each other," went on the General—"or rather now that you understand me—if you choose to marry my ward you can do so—that is, if she will marry you. I have a notion she will not. Letitia says she is sure she will not. But that is not my affair; only were I you I would come to some definite explanation with her—your mind will then be settled. All shilly-shallying in affairs of this kind is greatly to be deprecated. If she wishes to marry you there is no just cause or impediment why she should not. You are not a fit husband for her, however, any more than she is a fit wife for you. She would not let you be a bit the better for her money. She would want her whole income for herself, and yours too—that is, supposing you ever have any. Philippa ought to marry a man who showed at once he meant to be her master. In her case it is a matter of tyrant or slave; there is no medium, and I know which you would be."Having finished which exhaustive speech, Sir Henry at length cut the end of his cigar, lighted it, and, seemingly satisfied there was no more to be said, on the Philippa subject or any other, remarked that he thought he would stroll on a little further, and walked away, leaving Terence at leisure to survey the beauties of Calgarry Bay if he felt disposed to do so.CHAPTER XI.PHILIPPA'S ANSWER.THE walls of Derry, though not perhaps a promenade to be rashly selected on a winter's day, have at least the merit of being admirably adapted for a tête-à-tête. Except the Cathedral, there is no other place in what has been called a "town of back streets" suitable for confidential talk, but the walls are silent and lonely enough for all purposes of privacy.They are a mile in circuit, and a great deal can be said in a mile. There, however, as elsewhere, the first conversational step often proves difficult. It proved so difficult to Terence Conway that as he surveyed the wide expanse of country, on which the "'Prentice Boys" once looked down, filled with an opposing army, his heart failed him, and he would have spoken some platitudes about the siege, the glorious defence, the intrepid Walker, the breaking of the Boom, but that he knew Miss Dutton's sympathies were all with the good and intrepid King James, and that her gentle bosom held a very sufficient hatred for the glorious and immortal memory of him who de-livered a country that did not want to be delivered, from "Popery, prelacy, bad money, and wooden shoes."She had no liking for "the usurper William of Orange or his undutiful wife." She regarded those who shouted "No surrender!" and fought, and starved, and died in defence of their "stern unbeautiful faith," as rebels and stiff-necked fanatics. She would have lent a willing ear to any legend of the building of the abbey for canons of the Augustinian Order founded by St. Columba, or the Cistercian Monastery endowed by Turbagh Leinigh, or the Dominican Friary built half a century later; but of these things Terence knew nothing. Indeed, he was as ignorant as any gentleman need to be of the history of his native land. He was quite prepared to take the country as he found it, and very wisely too. If many people at the present time were only willing to follow so excellent an example, and let the dead past bury its dead, a vast amount of trouble would be saved and good effected.It was no tale about nun or saint Terence longed to tell, that he seduced Philippa out to hear, but a love-story concerning himself and her he had made up his mind to pour forth ere she returned to England; and now time was flying, and the steamer lying at the quay, and not a word would come—not one, though he had thought when they were in the Diamond, if he could only entice Miss Dutton on the walls, his lips would be opened and the string of his tongue loosed.They had come to Derry from Calgarry in one of the old Duke's carriages, posting. It was a long journey, and at that period and at such a season a most wretched one.They stopped for one night at Letterkenny, and then pushed on to the maiden city, where they had the worst luncheon Sir Henry could ever remember having tasted since his campaigning days were over. Nothing but the knowledge that he would soon be in England enabled him to put a cheerful face on the matter."And one can get a decent meal on board the steamer," said Mrs. Barry, as she drew her chair up close beside a blazing fire, and declined to stir out for anybody till it was time to start."We'll keep each other company, then, Letitia," remarked Sir Henry, "and if these two want to see the Cathedral, let them go alone."He knew Terence had not spoken, and he wished to give him this last chance of doing so.Terence had mentally vowed he would speak, just as a man might make up his mind to have a tooth out.A man may desire to have a tooth out very much, and yet dread facing the dentist. Mr. Conway greatly desired to come to some understanding with Philippa, but he misdoubted what that understanding might prove.He was in the "Fain would I climb, but that I fear to fall" mood; and this is a mood which grows the longer a man defers making the attempt."Don't you think it is a little chilly?" suggested his fair at last. She was wrapped to the throat in soft furs, her face was protected by a thick veil, her hands buried in the depths of a sable muff; yet she shivered prettily as she spoke, and so accentuated the purport of her words."Are you cold?" he asked anxiously. "If so, we will go back to the hotel at once; only there was something I wanted to say to you very much.""Then let us walk on," she answered amiably, willing to meet his views. "I am not really cold; still the afternoon is getting late, and we have a journey, you must recollect.""I know—I know," said Terence ruefully; "but there is something I did want to talk to you so much about. We have had no opportunity for speaking quietly together," he went blundering on, unmindful of the fact that love can generally make opportunities, and that plenty had presented themselves to him; "and besides, I did not like to say anything at Calgarry just after Mr. Conway's death.""The dear old man, I was so fond of him.""I know you were," returned Terence, inwardly wondering why; for he was ignorant of the fact that rich people generally like rich people, just as Scotchmen always like the Scotch. "So I could not well say what was on my mind there, and then I intended to speak to you in London; but now I may have to stay here—I cannot tell for how long.""It is very hard for you," she replied softly; "but you are doing what is right, and you will be helped in your loneliness.""O Philippa, if you only say one word, I shall not mind my loneliness at all. Will you—""You must tell me what it is, first," she returned, as if she were a simple little girl of ten. Terence had always felt this wonderful simplicity was one of her greatest charms, and he thought so now."You remember what Mr. Conway's wishes were?" he began."About what?" she asked, with a sweet unconsciousness infinitely preferable to the guilty modesty of so many of her sex."About you and me. Don't be vexed, Philippa; I feel I must speak now.""I am not vexed," she replied, "only I do not quite understand. Of course, it would be mere affectation in me to pretend I do not know what he wished at one time. Is that what you are referring to?"It seemed to Terence as if the wind chopped suddenly round to the east, and went through him like a knife."At one time!" he repeated: "do you suppose that he did not continue to wish it.""If he had, I fancy he would have left his money to you."Here in a concrete form was the idea that had been floating through Terence's mind all along. She saw plainly the "dear old man" had not latterly set his righteous heart on the match, and it flashed across his mind like an inspiration he had never wished it at all; that the whole thing was a deliberate plan to mislead and mortify; that many a time Marmaduke must have laughed in his sleeve at the folly which believed in such benevolent intentions.At that moment it was revealed to him that he never had a chance of the money; that his kinsman had not deceived him more than he, Terence, had deceived himself."Perhaps you are right," he made an effort to answer; "indeed, I am sure you are." And he walked on a few steps in silence, thinking what he had better say next, and choking back a passionate desire to brand the departed Conway as a scoundrelly and malevolent hypocrite.Suddenly taking his courage in his hand he stopped—they had reached a quiet and sheltered little corner—and said,"Philippa, we may leave his intentions, whatever they were, out of the question. Whether I had once a chance of the money or not, I have no chance of it in the future. You know if he had left me millions I should have prayed you to share them with me; and I do not think you ought to misjudge me if I ask you to take me, though I have only Calgarry, and that burdened by debts of my own contracting.""Dear Terence, have I ever misjudged you?""Never," he answered; "and that makes me hope you will not do so when I entreat you to say the one word I spoke of a minute ago. I have been afraid to ask you, afraid of seeming to want your money, and God knows if you had not a penny you would be dearer to me, were such a thing possible, than you are now.""It is so good of you," she murmured."It is not good at all," he returned. "There is nothing and no one in this world good enough for you. I wonder at my own presumption in asking you if you can care for me at all.""I have always cared for you," said Philippa. "There is no friend for whom I entertain a greater regard.""But I don't want to be regarded as a friend; that is, I want to be your friend, and a great deal more—I want you to love me as I love you—no, that is impossible; but to love me a little—to love me well enough to make me the happiest fellow on earth."She did not answer immediately, and he could not well read the expression on her face, by reason of the shadows which were gathering, and her closely-drawn veil; perhaps if he had, it would not have helped him much.The pause was effective, but inexpressibly trying."Speak, dearest!" he entreated, when he could bear the suspense no longer. "Speak, if it be my death warrant!" His breath came short and fast, as if he had been running hard, and his face was pale, and set like that of a man who waits to hear the worst.Had Sir Henry been there, he would have said, and said truly, he was but a cowardly lover—one who almost deserved failure.But Philippa did not crush him. She only answered,"I hoped you would not speak of this for the present.""Why?""Because I do not think we know our own minds.""I know mine," he returned."It is so sudden," she pleaded."Sudden! There has not been a day since I first saw you I have not longed to say, 'I love you.'""Yes! but that is different.""Do you mean you cannot love me? If that is it, say so at once—stab me to the heart; take away every hope and object in life; but O! dear, you cannot be so cruel! You, who are kind and tender to all others, be a little kind to me.""My poor Terence, how could any one be unkind to you.""You ought not to be," he answered, "for you must know how I love you. Yet you are unkind because of your very goodness: perhaps you are afraid to give me pain; you cannot bear to cast me out into utter darkness."Whatever might be her motive, Philippa did not explain, and the young man went on,"You torture me—you cannot imagine what your silence means to me. For Heaven's sake, end this suspence. If it is to be 'no,' I must bear the trouble as I may.""I do not wish to say 'no,' and yet I cannot quite say 'yes,'" she faltered."God bless you, dear, for that!""You see," she went on, not striving to release the hand he had seized, "we have never been exactly—I mean we have always been like friends, and—""You want time to accustom yourself to the truth that I can only think of you as the one woman I love—the one woman I desire to marry.""Yes; that is partly what I mean.""And what else do you mean?" he asked, insanely caressing the small hand which lay so warm and quiet in his. He was beside himself with joy; yet he feared to show his joy, lest he should, as he told himself, frighten this "lovely timid bird.""There are so many things to consider.""What things, sweetest?""Please not to say that; I know you will not vex me;" and she made a movement to withdraw her hand."Nay," he entreated, "let me keep it. Well, if you will have it so!" a most obedient lover. "An absurd creature!" Mrs. Barry would have called him. Mark's wooing of the vivacious Letitia had been of a very different description; but then she knew her own mind, which it certainly seemed as if Miss Dutton did not. "You were saying there are many things to consider," he went on after this little interlude. "Will you tell me what they are?""I will try," she answered gently, "as we walk back. I think we ought not to stay out any longer. It is getting late, and the steamer—""Will not start or hours yet," he interposed."O, Terence, how can you?" she exclaimed, "especially when you know Sir Henry would rather almost leave me behind than remain a night in Derry.""I only wish he would," thought Terence; but he was too wise to say so.""I am selfish," he answered. "I cannot bear to part with you; but let us go back to these great things we have to consider.""They are great to me," she answered with a pretty humility. "In the first place, I do not value money in the least.""I know you do not, my—darling," he was going to add, but bit back the proscribed word ere it passed his lips."Except," added his darling, "as a means to an end."Terence had not the faintest idea what she meant; the only thing of which he felt sure was that something very great and grand underlay her utterance."I have always considered the fortune my dear father left me as a sacred trust, to be used for the benefit of my fellow-creatures. He, I am sure, would have wished me to do so."Besotted as he was, a thought did cross Terence's mind that the old army contractor, who had made his money, according to Sir Henry's account, by supplying the worst possible goods at the highest possible price, had never cared much about his fellow-creatures' weal or woe so long as he could make a profit out of them; and he did not even try to say anything pleasant about that gentleman."My guardian," resumed Miss Dutton, who had paused, perhaps for the clapping which did not come, "is the kindest person possible, and my aunt most amiable; yet it would be useless to disguise that there are many points on which we are not in sympathy. Some of my most cherished convictions they, I know, regard as silly fancies.""All your convictions should be mine," said Terence rashly; "and as for your fortune, of course it would remain entirely at your control. You never imagined I wanted that, I hope?""I never did—never, never. Only I could not tell whether your ideas as to how it might best bear fruit were quite in accord with mine. I have suffered so much from want of comprehension on the part of those of my own household that—""I comprehend you; I sympathise with you. I love to near you talk concerning the poor and needy. I could listen for ever while you discourse like an angel about the duties of the wealthy and their responsibilities."This was quite true. Terence would have listened joyfully to the Newgate Calendar or a volume of Blair's Sermons had Philippa been the reader."And then as to yourself?" she ventured."O, never mind me," he entreated."But I must," she said; "for you are placed in a far more difficult position than I am. It is no light matter to be a great landowner; to have tenants whom you can make prosperous or the reverse, a large estate it is competent for you to use or misuse. I tremble when I think of all that has devolved upon you; but you will try to prove yourself worthy, will you not?""I will do anything you bid me, if you will only give me hope," he answered."I think I have given you great hope," she replied."You have not said yes to what I asked you."Time was flying, and Terence growing desperate."It would be wrong for me to say yes unless I felt quite sure of myself and you. It is early days for you yet at Calgarry, and you may not do all you now intend. It would almost break my heart to see you fail—to see you waste or neglect to improve the glorious opportunity that has come to you."Perhaps it was because his present opportunity seemed slipping away unimproved, that Terence waxed not unnaturally impatient."I should have thought you had known me long enough to be able to decide whether you could care for me or not; but no doubt you are wise to refuse to engage yourself till you see exactly what stuff I am made of. Perhaps you have been kinder to me than I deserve. Anyhow, I am grateful you do not cast me into the depths of despair. But I want more. No; I am not going to ask you to pledge yourself. What I do ask you is to fix a limit to my probation. If I put my affairs in train; if I do my best to be a fair landlord and a good master, will you marry me? With that hope to look forward to, I shall be strong enough to do anything. Dear Philippa, will you not be merciful?"She hesitated for a second, then answered, "I do not know what to say—this has all come upon me unawares. An engagement is not a thing which should be lightly entered into, the end of a few months, perhaps—"He stamped his foot impatiently. "A few months! Why not say a few years at once?""Now, Terence!""I beg your pardon. But, after all, a man is only flesh and blood.""A few months will pass quickly," she returned, with dignity. "If you wish you can speak to me about this again in the summer. It is impossible for me to say more now; I think I have already said more than I ought;" and with that the lover had to rest content."Well," asked Sir Henry, as he and Terence stood at the hotel door waiting for the ladies, "have you put your fortune to the test?""Yes.""With what result?""Leave to renew the subject at midsummer.""She has not refused you, then?""No; and she has not accepted me.""Still, you have made more progress than I expected."Which might well be, although Terence did not feel at all satisfied."Here we are!" exclaimed Mrs. Barry at that moment. She was quite in cheerful spirits at the prospect of seeing her babies so soon again.And then they drove through the narrow, dirty streets to the quay, and in a few minutes were on the deck of the Liverpool steamer."We shall see you in London ere long, I suppose?" said Sir Henry."I shall see you as soon as I possibly can, you may be very sure," answered Terence, who had partially recovered his spirits, feeling confident Philippa's small hand had pressed a little heavily on his arm as he escorted her across the gangway."How is it?" asked Mrs. Barry, in a whisper, drawing him for a moment apart."She allows me to hope," he answered, in the same low key."You could have hoped without her permission," she retorted, in that tone which made Sir Henry often think Letitia quite as objectionable a person as her husband, of whom, in spite of his cleverness, the whole Conway connection was deeply ashamed.CHAPTER XII.MR. MARK BARRY.MESSRS. BRAY & LUCAN, solicitors, Kildare Street, Dublin, stood at the very top of their profession. They held as sacred legacies those traditions which had been handed down to them from times when the world was not so full and practice was not quite so sharp as both have since become.They were agreeable gentlemen, possessed of courtly manners, who had mixed with the best society, read, travelled, and seen a good deal of life.Wise enough not to despise business when it was making a large income, they yet confined their attention almost exclusively to the concerns of those set by Providence in high places.The nobility and landed gentry were their clients. Lords were ordinary visitors in Kildare Street, and the chief dignitaries of the Church as well known to the clerks as their own parents. It was on the occasion when his wife came into some little property, that Mr. Malet made the firm's acquaintance; and he had always after retained a pleasant memory of both partners, who refused to accept any remuneration for what they termed such trifling services.In those days Mr. Malet was a poor man, and the kindness was welcome. Since then he had made judicious investments which had turned out profitably, and rendered him easy concerning the pecuniary welfare of his daughter; but he never forgot Messrs. Bray & Lucan's consideration towards him.Mr. Bray, who was fond of fishing, had once, when visiting Donegal, found his way to Calgarry Vicarage, and remained there for a few days; and it was therefore natural that Mr. Malet, when talking with Terence as to his affairs, should have mentioned the solicitors in Kildare Street, and advised the young man to take them into his confidence.Acting on Sir Henry Beecham's dictum, that "there is nothing so confoundedly dear as a cheap hotel," the owner of Calgarry had, on his arrival in Dublin, caused himself to be driven to Morrison's. There he repaired the effects of travel, and after eating a more substantial breakfast than he felt inclined to dispose of since the reading of Marmaduke Conway's will, sallied forth to seek the counsel of Messrs. Bray & Lucan. In addition to the letter of introduction with which he furnished his young friend, Mr. Malet had thought well to write privately to Mr. Bray, and give such a general idea of young Conway's position as might obviate the necessity for much preliminary conversation and subsequent questioning.The dislike a man in difficulties entertains to confiding fully and freely in any one is the greatest bar to his getting out of them.Mr. Malet knew this, and knew also the whole of the circumstances would have to be wrung out of Terence, unless some preliminary explanation were offered."I have sketched out the position of affairs," were almost his last words before he bade the new owner "good-bye and God-speed." "You must fill it in, and for Heaven's sake be frank with them. Don't let there be any after-clap.""I am very glad to see you, Mr. Conway," said Mr. Bray, when Terence entered his private office. "Any friend of Mr. Malet's must always be welcome here." And then Mr. Lucan appeared, and made a remark to the effect that "the name of Conway was well known in Ireland.""Better known than trusted, probably," thought Terence, but he did not give expression to this opinion."And so you find yourself in a little difficulty?" began Mr. Bray.Terence amended the phrase by stating that he found himself in a great deal of difficulty. He could not tell what to do, and he had come to them for advice.After that they went to work, estimating roughly, of course, the incomings and the outgoings, and giving deep consideration to the liabilities."You have no intention of disputing the will?" asked Mr. Lucan."Certainly not," was the reply."You think all the money must go, then?""Must go—there is not a shadow of pretext for stirring in the matter.""We may as well have a look at the will, though," suggested Mr. Bray."Now, what about these debts?" said Mr. Lucan. "Let us see how much they amount to."And he took out his pencil and set down the sums from Terence's dictation, and afterwards totted them up. Mr. Malet had done the same thing before, but in neither case did the debtor find that addition made the total much less."Humph!" remarked Mr. Lucan.Mr. Bray looked at the figures over his partner's shoulder, and said "O!"Terence alone remained silent—those figures presented no novelty to him."Do you think it would be any use fighting these fellows?" asked Mr. Bray at last. "According to your statement it is the interest which has run the amount up so enormously.""Yes, and insurances.""Will they take less?""I am sure they won't.""Will they consent to instalments?""Yes, Mr. Conway thought they might do that, but he did not feel sure. Mr. Lucan, perhaps, would write to them."It is a very large sum of money," observed Mr. Bray. "I cannot imagine how you contrived to run up such an amount of debt in so short a time.""Neither can I," argued Terence, "for I had nothing hardly out of it.""You went to races, I suppose?""O yes! I went to some races.""And you played at cards, doubtless?""Yes; but I didn't lose very much.""Perhaps you bought jewellery?""A little—not a great deal.""And entertained your friends?""Of course. When my friends asked me I had to ask them back again."I see; the old story—""Of a fool and his money?""I should not have put it quite so rudely; besides, it was not your money.""No; but I made sure of it.""And, contrary to the old adage, you did not go barefoot while wailing for the dead man's shoes?""I only wish I had," returned Terence; "I should not be walking on flints now.""You will have to turn over a new leaf if you are to do any good," suggested Mr. Lucan kindly."I have turned it," declared the young man; but even while the words were on his tongue he thought of Morrison's, and wondered what the bill there would be."Well, we will do all in our power to help you out of your troubles," said Mr. Bray. "And that reminds me, Mr. Malet mentioned you were embarrassed for want of ready money. Am I right?"He certainly was right; but it was hard for Terence to answer yes straightforwardly."I have—a few—pounds," he hesitated. "Mr. Malet kindly lent me enough for present needs.""We had better put that right, then, at once. Perhaps you will not mind coming with me to Latouche's—we bank there, and you cannot do better than place your account with them."It all seemed like a dream. A few days before he had not the wherewithal to pay his expenses to Dublin; and now, in the twinkling of an eye, he was a customer of one of the oldest banks in Dublin, with an amount lying to his credit which sounded like affluence. At last he felt in very truth how good it is to be the owner of a large estate, and his heart was almost light when he parted with Mr. Bray, who said,"It might be well for you to call upon us the day after to-morrow; there are many matters into which we have not gone. By the bye, where are you staying?"An hour previous, Terence would have been ashamed to reply, "I am at Morrison's," but now he was glad. As usual, Sir Henry proved to be quite right; and, satisfied on this point, the young man decided he would take a stroll about Dublin, and consider the changed aspect of affairs. He felt almost another person from the impecunious individual who had on the previous day paced the walls of Deny: for it is most sadly true there is no trouble in this wicked world which cannot be lightened by a heavy balance at one's bank.He was walking along Nassau Street, when some one accosted him from behind, and turning, he recognised a man he neither expected nor desired to see."What, Barry!" he exclaimed. "You in Dublin?""Even so—well met," answered the other. "I was obliged to come here on business last night, but did not expect the luck of running across you. Where's Lettie?""On her way to London. She will be sadly disappointed to find you absent when she gets there.""I don't think so; and, between ourselves, I am just as well pleased to be out of the way. She is like a whirlwind when she returns home after a long absence. Two, if not more, of the servants always receive notice; from garret to cellar nothing is right; figuratively, trees are uprooted and roofs blown off; but she quiets down after a few days, and affairs resume their normal condition. She kept to her plan of going by Derry, I suppose?""Yes, they all went that way. The General wanted to stop a few days in Liverpool.""No doubt he did, the sly old fox. An old flame of his is living in the neighbourhood. Where are you putting up?""Morrison's. You are with your mother, I suppose?""No; I am too busy to devote any time to my family. And now tell me about your affairs. Have you got a decent lawyer?""Yes; I have just come from Messrs. Bray & Lucan.""Bray & Lucan, eh? Good slow old family coach, that firm; but respectable—most respectable. They ought to be able to manage an advance for you from the Bank of Ireland.""They have got me one from Latouche's.""Just for pocket-money, I suppose. I meant something on a different scale. You'll want it when you come to settle with Amos and that lot.""Mr. Bray is going to write to them.""What about?""Proposing throwing payment of the debts over a term of years.""Proposing the devil!" exclaimed Mr. Mark Barry so loudly that the passers-by turned and stared at him. "Terence, are you mad? Do you want to be worried to death? Never to get out of debt as long as you live?""No; but—""But you are in a fair way of tying a nether millstone round your neck. Thank Heaven I met you. Come back with me this minute to Kildare Street, and let me tell Messrs. Bray & Lucan about old Amos and his gang.""Indeed, I shall do nothing of the sort.""Then if you won't, I swear to you I will go alone. I will not see Letitia's cousin put his head into the lion's mouth if I can help it. You had no business to go to people like Bray & Lucan for such a matter as this. You want the most unscrupulous blackguard you can find to deal with those dirty scoundrels, Amos & Co. It is of no use, Terence, fuming and fretting. To Kildare Street I am going this instant; and you can either come with me if you please, or stay behind if you choose.""God help me!" ejaculated Terence: "where shall I find peace?""Not in being an idiot," answered the other. "Now, come along. If you don't find your friends in Kildare Street take my view, I'll unsay my words and apologise into the bargain."With a heavy heart the owner of Calgarry suffered his relation to drag him back to the office he had so lately quitted. Mark left him no option; his energy and resolution were terrible."Mr. Bray in?" he asked a clerk, not giving Terence the chance of speaking."Yes, sir.""Just tell him, then, will you, that Mr. Conway would like to speak to him again for a moment?""Like!" thought Terence, but he refrained from speech; and the next instant they were in Mr. Bray's presence."You remember me, I hope?" began Lettie's husband, forestalling any attempt at interference on Terence's part. "I am Mark Barry."Mr. Bray intimated that he remembered Mr. Mark Barry very well indeed, and not pleasantly, his tone implied. He had known him slightly when Mark was a very racketty, impudent, and idle young barrister, lounging about the Four Courts, before his father's property was sold under the Encumbered Estates Court, and he himself migrated to England, where he had in due course settled down to hard work in painful earnest."I thought it better to bring Mr. Conway back here, Mr. Dray," went on the other, "because he tells me you propose to treat his creditors as if they were human beings possessed of souls and hearts. They are not; they must be met like wild beasts, and I really do not think that is a sort of business in your line. Once they are out of the way, I know you will put everything that is wrong right about Calgarry; but I must say you will not be wise to attempt to deal with Amos and the rest. I have given them such an account of Conway's position, and of the waste the old Duke left his property, that they will be glad to take what they can get, supposing they are bullied into it. If Conway will only kindly keep his finger out of the pie, and you do not show in the matter, I think he may get off for a sum which will surprise you. Of here is Mr. Lucan. I am glad hear will hear my views—""Mr. Mark Barry," said Mr. Bray with emphasis, "advises that we should leave Mr. Conway's creditors to be dealt with by some one else than ourselves.""If that could be done, I should certainly not regret the change of arrangement," answered Mr. Lucan. "What solicitor do you suggest, Mr. Barry?""I have not thought the matter out fully yet, but I know a suitable man may be found. What I should propose is this: draw a broad line between Mr. Conway's past and present. You take his present, and I will deal with his past somehow, and for a moderate sum start him fair."The pull he has over his creditors is that they one and all dread publicity, dread a trial, dread being badgered in the witness-box; and unless they believe a large amount is to be made out of it they won't fight. They know Conway has no money; they can see the will when it is proved, and meantime I will get them a copy. They know nothing of Ireland, and are willing enough to believe they will find it hard to recover anything here."They think we are all in Ireland, gentle and simple, a set of rogues, liars, and assassins; and I for one don't intend to disabuse their minds. I told Amos in a country where we every one leagued together it would be useless to attempt to recover a halfpenny; but I threw out a hint that Mr. Conway was so just a gentleman, I felt sure he would, if fairly dealt with, try to pay his creditors something.""I am glad to hear you say even that much, Mr. Barry," observed Mr. Lucan."If I had the means to pay I would defraud no man of his just due," answered the virtuous Mark, "neither would I advise another man to wriggle out of any fair liability. But this is robbery. Amos has a character to keep up. He has a handsome wife, and goes in for society. I am sure we can manage him if we go about the matter properly. I wish you could have seen his face when I told him a perfectly true story about the way the Queen's writ runs in Connemara."I was sitting one morning at breakfast with a friend in the hotel at Maam, when a fellow came into our room and said, 'I've got a bit of paper for your honour.""'What is it?' asked my friend."'Deed a writ—what will I do with it?'""'Put it in the fire,' said my friend, 'and say you could not find me.""The man did put it in the fire, and went off a sovereign the richer. When I got back here I had the curiosity to examine the return, and found the cause for non-service was stated, and sworn to precisely as my friend suggested."'And you call yours a Christian country!' said Amos, who is a converted Jew, in pious horror."CHAPTER XIII.THE VERY MAN."I DO not quite see the relevancy of your interesting anecdote," remarked Mr. Lucan, when Letitia's lord and master at last "ran down.""I never expected you would," answered Mr. Barry, with that cool impudence which always made Terence feel as though a stream ice-cold water were deluging his spine; "but Amos did;" and the speaker looked at his audience, and his audience looked at him."If I gather your meaning correctly," said Mr. Bray, "you led Mr. Benaron to believe it might be wise for him to take what Mr. Conway felt able to offer, since the law would afford him little or no assistance in Ireland.""You have put the case in a nutshell, and I impressed him with the truth of what I said. I did not leave the nail half in, half out: I hammered the fact into his rascally old head, till there was no fear of it getting out again—unless some one is foolish enough to take it out," he added, with a withering expression of scorn at the presumed imbecility of every one present passing over his handsome face.Mr. Barry was very handsome. In the length of a day's journey, no one need have desired to meet a handsomer man. His voice was pleasant, too. He had that soft, melting brogue which might wile a bird off the tree; and when he chose, a tender, wistful smile that had won many a girl's heart, and haunted her memory when she ought to have been devoting her attention to better things."There is a sort of business," he went on after a pause, intended to let the surprise and admiration caused by his tactics subside a little, "which can be best managed by letting respectable firms render themselves useful by non-interference.""I quite agree with you there," said Mr. Lucan, as he hoped, sarcastically."It is painfully true," returned Mr. Barry. "For, joking apart—""Allow me to assure you I had not the very slightest intention of joking," interrupted Mr. Lucan."I believe you—I do indeed," observed Mark, with a comical twinkle in his eyes, which contradicted the demure gravity of his tone. "Why, you are not offended, are you? It is only my way.""I am aware of that, Mr. Barry," said Mr. Lucan stiffly. It is a strange thing, a man would rather be accused of a crime than of a deficient sense of humour."And a bad one too, you would have added, but that you are too polite. I heartily beg your pardon.""No need for that," answered the other; "but affairs are not progressing. Had we not better be—""Getting back to our sheep? Yes, only, you see, Amos is not a sheep, but a confoundedly ugly wolf, with as nasty a set of teeth as you would ever desire to have nothing to do with. Well, as I was saying just now, there are cases in which a respectable solicitor is useless—indeed, worse than useless."Mr. Lucan bowed. Mark probably hoped he would accept the statement as a compliment, but some people are never satisfied."Take, for instance," proceeded Mr. Barry, "the case of a lady about to be married. No firm would draw her marriage settlements tighter or better than you—nay, on special occasions, you might even go to the wedding breakfast, and return thanks for the bridesmaids in a neat little speech."Though he was a bachelor, Mr. Lucan looked rather indignant at this suggestion."But supposing the case not one of marriage, but another matter, that required to be handled in quite a different manner—eh, Mr. Lucan? eh, Mr. Bray? I think—""I think, Mr. Barry," interrupted the senior partner, with great distinctness, "that we need only discuss Mr. Conway's position and affairs, or rather our position with respect to Mr. Conway's affairs. He sought us. We were willing to advise him, and have done so to the best of our ability. But, of course, if he thinks it expedient to remove his business, and place the whole of his difficulties in other hands more competent than ours, we shall make no objection.""Nothing can be further from my intention than to make any change of the sort," interrupted Terence."And, believe me, I had not the smallest desire to interfere with the legitimate drama," added Mr. Barry, now speaking in his character as a man of sense, and not as a mere buffoon. "Messrs. Bray & Lucan are precisely the firm to undertake the law business of Mr. Conway of Calgarry. My cousin " (Terence winced, and mentally cursed Mr. Barry's familiarity, while anathematising Letitia for selecting him for her husband out of the wide world of men), "in his new capacity as landed proprietor, will never find sounder lawyers than yourselves; but I tell you candidly I don't want you to do anything or know anything about the good Amos Benaron. I can tell exactly what will happen if you do. Here is the action of the play—characters you are acquainted with, scene is familiar to you. Amos writes to our friend here; our friend hands his letter to you. You instruct some eminently respectable gentleman in London; he answers Amos. Amos goes to his own sharpest of sharp practitioners, who in the first interview learns that Terence is afraid of a writ, and accordingly threatens to issue one immediately. He refuses to accept a penny less than the whole extortionate amount; and the upshot of the matter is you ultimately effect a mortgage on Calgarry, and pay off one of the greatest blackguards in England, and Terence and his tenants have a millstone hung round their necks for life."Mr. Barry stopped. He felt he could not add to the force of the picture himself had drawn, and waited for some one else to continue the conversation.It was Mr. Lucan who stepped into the breach."Then, in a word, you wish Mr. Conway—""To act exactly as he would have done had he come into Calgarry unencumbered," said Mark, accepting the half-finished sentence as a question. "I advise him to place his affairs as regards the estate unreservedly in your hands, and then to go straight back to the north and try to make a good business out of a bad. When he hears from Amos let him send the letter to me. I will find a lawyer not afraid of touching pitch—a lawyer whom pitch can't defile, in fact. Then I suppose some money must be found, but sufficient for the day—""All this is very irregular," suggested Mr. Bray."I can't say how it may be with you, but I find people do irregular things every day," answered Mark. "They have to do them—necessity is stronger than will. At all events take comfort, it is not you who are irregular—you need know nothing of my cousin's little embarrassments. We can all of us all round make-believe he does not owe a penny, but enters into possession of Calgarry as clean and guileless as any young rascal just soaped and oiled and combed for Sunday-school.""Well, what is your idea, Mr. Conway?" asked Mr. Lucan."I leave the matter entirely to you," answered Terence."Now, suppose you all leave it to me!" exclaimed Mr. Barry; "you will save yourselves a lot of trouble and a lot of unpleasantness, and, who knows, set a certain young man in the straight road to marry a beautiful heiress.""Ah, indeed! is that on the cards?" said Mr. Bray, interested."It is on the cards—don't blush, Terence—but, of course, we never can tell exactly how the cards may play. I can tell you this, however, that if Mr. Conway does not make some arrangement with Amos now he may bid good-bye for ever to Miss Dutton. Sir Henry Beecham, her guardian, is a very astute gentleman—far too fond of his ease to run the risk of any unpleasant complications hereafter with his ward. I think I can hear him if once events obliged him to take notice of our friend's position! He can be as blind as a bat if he likes, but no one can see further through a millstone when he has the mind."'My dear Conway,' he would say—he eases the near foot a little when he is very much in earnest, which detracts some-what from the dignity of his attitude—'my dear Conway, as you put it to me, I really do not think, as the what-d'ye-call-him in the Bible observed, that the land will bear you and Amos. I am afraid you will have to go to the wall. Confounded pity, too, for it is a fine estate; but Calgarry unencumbered is one thing, and Calgarry with a monkey riding it quite another. Of course, it is incumbent upon me—' That is the style, gentlemen—perhaps you have had the pleasure of meeting with it before."Mark's mimicry was perfect, and, as he did not like Sir Henry, it had just that dash of bitterness which adds character and flavour to any social salad.The respectable solicitors would not even have smiled could they have avoided doing so; but they looked at Terence, who, though angry, was forced to laugh, and something in his face proved irresistible to both partners."Come, that is better," commented Mark. "I suppose I may go away now and take the Conway puzzle with me to work out at my leisure?""We should really like to hear what Mr. Conway thinks about the whole matter," said Mr. Bray, who felt they were totally in the dark as to Terence's own wishes."All I think and all I hope is that no one else will consider it necessary to advise me any more!" exclaimed the much-badgered young man. "If I meet with a single other person who expresses an opinion on my affairs, I shall shoot myself!""You had better make your will, then," recommended Mr. Barry. "It would be a pity to leave everything at loose ends.""And remember, Mr. Conway, we have it on excellent authority that in a multitude of counsellors there is wisdom," said Mr. Lucan, with a good church-going expression of countenance."Some one said that meant safety for the counsellors, not the counselled," observed Terence so ruefully every one laughed again.Really, it seemed as though, spite of their protests, Messrs. Bray & Lucan felt quite relieved to find the money-lender was to be dealt with by some one else."Fact is," explained Mark afterwards, "they can't bear that sort of work. Family lawyers are like old duchesses: so eaten up with pride and grandeur, they do not care to affect the common herd. Now, what shall we do? Will you ask me to dinner, or shall I ask you?"There was nothing Terence at that moment less desired than to dine with Mr. Barry anywhere; but making a virtue of necessity, he invited that gentleman to be his guest at Morrison's."I was only trying you," said Mark, and he laughed for some reason best known to himself. "You shall come to me, I'm a better caterer than you. Six—seven—eight—name your own time; only be punctual.""Six, then," chose Terence; "and perhaps we can go to the play afterwards.""You will see nothing so good in Hawkins Street as has been put on the boards at Calgarry," answered Letitia's husband; "but as you like, I am your man. Till six, then."And he hurried away, perfectly conscious that, though Terence wanted to be out of the money-lenders' hands, he did not in the least thank his relation for his interference."Ah, well, he will one day," said the barrister to himself, "when he has not married Philippa, or mortgaged Calgarry up to the hilt, or sold it to Marmaduke the Second. We'll see many changes in his ideas ere we are much older, I fancy."He was crossing Carlisle Bridge, where traitors' heads used to rot, just as other traitors' heads were wont to rot above Temple Bar, when, seeing a face he recognised, he stopped to speak to the owner."How is it you are in Dublin, Stirling?" he asked."I have been here for some time.""Got a holiday?""Yes, a longer one than I like.""You don't mean to say you have left Mount Philip?""It has left me, unfortunately. The property is going to be sold.""No!""Indeed, it is, stock, lock, and barrel. The furniture has been disposed of, and the land follows shortly.""Encumbered Estates Court, I suppose?""Of course.""That Court will play the devil with the country.""Sir Francis does not think so. He is only too pleased to get rid of his property.""What a fool!" And Mr. Barry added nothing more, but stood considering in an impartial sort of way how foolish most people were."I should not sell, if I stood in his shoes," said Mr. Stirling; "but I fancy it is as much Lady Straffan's doing as his. She and the young ladies hanker after the delights of London.""I wonder how many delights they will find when Sir Francis has run through every penny of the money he receives? The whole thing, Stirling, is a gigantic mistake. Because a man won't put his shoulder to the wheel, Government steps in and auctions the cart and horse for him. There never was a madder thing than enabling all the old landlords to uproot themselves.""That would not signify in the least if we could only uproot the old tenants too, and start afresh. As it is, our wise legislators will find before twenty years have passed the last state of Ireland worse than the first."Mr. Barry did not answer. He was thinking about an estate almost in the precise state Mr. Stirling desired.Famine, disease, and the "Duke" had so uprooted the old tenants, that but few remained to uphold the traditions of an epoch which the Encumbered Estates Court was fast bringing to a close. At Calgarry everything could be worked on fresh lines, without interfering with any vested interests. The "accursed root" was recovering from its mysterious disease. Those who had suffered from the "blight" were dead or in another country. A clear field lay before any man strong enough to till it without fear or favour.Terence wanted such a man, and here in bodily presence he stood before Terence's cousin."Have you anything in view?" asked Mr. Barry, after thus deliberating."No; nothing suitable. I was offered an agency in Clare, but it won't do at any price.""I know one that would fit you to a T.""Where is it?""Donegal—what's the matter? Don't howl till you're hit, man; there is nothing wrong about Donegal. It is a poor county.""I should think so, indeed!""But free from crime; they are a fine sturdy industrious people.""O!""They are, I tell you; there can be no tickling of the ground there, and reaping a harvest. Everything has to be fought for with Nature, and—""You are not in court, Barry, so all this eloquence is wasted. To whom does the property belong?""To my cousin, Terence Conway. He has just come into it; the late agent resigned, a new one is wanted. Calgarry is a howling wilderness, the old tenants are dead or beyond sea; Terence is a right good fellow—a fellow anybody could work with. He is to dine with me at six; come and meet him, and we'll settle the matter offhand.""If it is Calgarry, that puts a different aspect on the business.""It is Calgarry, and you are the man to take the agency.""Thank you; it is well worth consideration, anyway.""You will find it well worth taking," answered Mr Barry."And now I think of it, do not come to dinner. I have to-day been helping Conway against his will, and there is no time when a man is less disposed to take advice from a friend than when that friend has done him a service. No; I will tell you the best course to take: run down, as soon as possible, to Donegal; you can put up at Dunfanaghy; drive over to Calgarry House, where you will not find the owner; instead you will see a very respectable old woman, who is sure to send you for information to the clergyman, a Mr. Malet; get him on your side and the matter is settled. Say you heard the agency was vacant—you need not explain from whom. I had better not appear in the business. Now, will you go?""Yes; I like the notion of Calgarry.""And you'll like the reality, too. Work enough there for half a dozen men."Altogether Mr. Mark Barry felt he was getting his cousin's affairs rapidly into train.CHAPTER XIV.MR. BENARON.IN the earlier days of his sinful life, when a worthy son was being trained in the ways of profitable usury by an equally worthy father, the gentleman Mr. Barry referred to as Amos was known amongst a wide circle of acquaintances as "young Aaron."Old Aaron, till the day of his death, held court in a dingy office in Hart Street, Lower Thames Street, hard by the ancient church of St. Olave, where Pepys sleeps very quietly; and for many years his first-born, Amos Benjamin, there assisted him to spoil the Egyptians.Amos was ambitious, however. He saw there lay west-ward of the City boundaries a goodly land well watered, fertile, where gold was to be found, and he longed to go in and possess it. The old man, his father, was still alive, hale and hearty, ready and willing to welcome and fleece fools as ever; and the place had consequently grown strait for the young man also eager for prey. Thus it happened that he looked out a ground floor in Soho, and after receiving his parent's blessing—a good man's blessing, how good it is!—betook him westward with a light heart to do battle with the Philistine. While he was making a change, it occurred to him he might as well effect a slight alteration in his name; wherefore hence-forth he figured before the world as A. Benaron, after the fashion of those persons who at this present day have a knack of connecting their Christian name, if it be well and high-sounding, with the surname by a hyphen. Amos dispensed with the hyphen and one tiny little a; Benaron bound him to nothing; Aaron tied him to a great deal. "A rose by any other name," we all know; yet the gentleman from Hart Street felt he smelt sweeter as Benaron, and Benaron he therefore became and remained.The world prospered with him exceedingly. In due time he married well, forsook the faith of his fathers, and in doctrine became, to quote Sheridan's well-known simile, "like the blank sheet between the Old and New Testament." He took a house in Baker Street, where his wife "received;" he sent his sons to college, and his daughters to expensive schools. There was no limit to the grandeur and greatness of Benaron, who helped more young fellows gently and lovingly along the road to ruin than will ever be known here.There was a certain tavern just out of Fleet Street where this estimable person generally repaired for dinner. He ate another dinner at home later in the day, but he rarely missed looking in for a chop or steak at his favourite resort, where he was greatly respected by the landlord and honoured by the waiter, whom he never "forgot," and who was in the habit of informing Mr. Benaron, in a confidential whisper, of any delicacy procurable likely to gladden the heart of so excellent a customer.On his return from Dublin, Mr. Barry did not seek Mr. Benaron in his Soho lair; in fact, he did not seek him at all, but he allowed Amos to find the person he desired to see at the tavern mentioned, where Mark also often assuaged the pangs of hunger and the pains of thirst. When Mr. Benaron entered, Mr. Conway's cousin was studying a pamphlet which he had propped up before him, and affected not to notice the money-lender.Mr. Benaron, however, instantly perceived him, and, walking over to Mark's particular corner, hung his hat on a peg, and then observed to the student, who still remained wrapped in his pamphlet:"How d'ye do, Mr. Barry? I have not seen you for a long time."Thus accosted, Mr. Barry looked round, and answered,"O! it is you, is it? Anything fresh?""I was just about to ask you the same question." And Mr. Benaron seated himself beside Mr. Barry, who, though obliged to make way for him, did so with no unseemly haste."I have been out of town, and am in arrears in the way of news. So far as I know, however, the British Constitution is in about the same state as it was when I went away. St. Paul's and the Abbey I see are still standing, and the Thames is as dirty as ever.""And Mr. Mark Barry is the same as ever, too," remarked Mr. Benaron politely; "he will have his little joke. A small steak, potatoes, and a pint of bitter," he said to the waiter. "Well, and where have you been?" he went on, turning again to his companion."I have been in Ireland," Mark answered."In Donegal, I presume?""I don't know why you should presume anything of the kind. What the——should I go to Donegal for?"Mr. Barry really put the matter very forcibly. Mr. Benaron, who was a smooth-spoken, mild-mannered individual, felt almost too forcibly. He did not like strong language, and he always deprecated strong measures."I thought perhaps you might have gone there to visit your—to see young Mr. Conway, in fact," he explained."It is not a habit of mine to go where I am not asked," said Mr. Barry in an aggressive tone, as though he meant to imply Mr. Benaron's practice was different."Have you not been asked to Calgarry, then?""A plain question, to which I will give you as plain an answer," replied Mark. "No.""Dear me! that is very sad.""I do not see any sadness about the matter; or any gladness either,"—and Mr. Barry went on with his chop and kidney. Just at that moment the steak ordered was placed before Mr. Benaron, who proceeded in a dignified way to do justice to it.He did not in the least resemble the usual idea of a usurer. He dressed well and carefully; shaved punctually; trimmed his whiskers regularly; wore a good hat; and was particular as to the make and quality of his boots. Personally he was rather good-looking, and did not betray many signs of his Jewish origin—at least, such signs as we are accustomed to associate with the descendants of the Hebrew race.He was fair; his eyes were steely-blue; his features regular and clean-cut; he affected quiet colours; and the only noticeable thing about his dress—save its uniformly admirable quality—consisted in his affection for white cravats—not white handkerchiefs tied, as in the manner of some, like a bandage round the throat, but narrow ties, such as clergymen of the Church as by law established wear by right prescriptive."A wolf in sheep's clothing," Mr. Barry often declared: and to those who knew Mr. Benaron there seemed a beautiful fitness in the statement."If it is the least pleasure for you to know the fact," resumed the former, after a telling pause, "I have, however, seen Mr. Conway lately. I ran across him in Nassau Street.""Which Nassau Street?" inquired Mr. Benaron, helping himself to a fresh supply of mustard. "There are three in London.""There may be thirty, for all I care," retorted Mark. "I meant, as you might have known, Nassau Street, Dublin.""And how was he looking?" asked the other, wisely declining to notice the brusqueness of his opponent's manner."Much as usual," answered the barrister. "I perceived no difference. There seems small chance of the insurances falling in.""I should have said fear, Mr. Barry," suggested Mr. Benaron in expostulation."I have no doubt!" scoffed Mark. "Well, I must be going.""Pray spare me a minute," entreated the other. "I so seldom have a chance of speaking to you. Thank you," as Mr. Barry, after making a feint of rising, sat down again with apparent irresolution. "Did Mr. Conway say anything about me?""Very little.""But to the purpose, I trust?""I don't know what you call to the purpose. Of course he is aware he is in Queer Street, and his creditors with him. A man does not feel very lively, I should fancy, or inclined to talk much, after such a blow as he has had.""But there is the estate?""O, yes! there is the estate," agreed Mr. Barry, with a nasty smile."And unmortgaged?""If that be so, there is a reason, I suppose.""What reason beyond the obvious one can there be?""I don't clearly comprehend the result you are driving at," said Mark; "and it is rather a trouble to me trying to make out. When we last met I told you Calgarry was not of much more value than an estate in the desert. If you do not like to believe me I can't help it.""But, my dear sir, Calgarry must be of value.""Stick to your own opinion. Calgarry has nothing to do with me.""Even if the land be poor such an acreage must be worth money.""You had better go and see it; I can give you no sounder advice.""And the rent-roll cannot be inconsiderable?""There is no rent-roll, as I formerly explained.""But this is madness!""Possibly; nevertheless it is truth.""Mr. Conway—that is, Mr. Terence's father—always spoke of the estate as very productive.""You did not take his word for the fact, I conclude?""No; of course I made inquiries.""Of course you did—before the famine; before the late most Christian owner began to smite and spare not. Calgarry may have been worth something then; it is worth nothing now—bog, and stone, and heather. You have rich materials to work on, Mr. Benaron, and I wish you joy of the fortune you will reap.""But there is money in stone, and bog, and heather?""I hope you will get it, then.""And if the late Mr. Conway did clear the land of tenants, why, there must be plenty more willing and glad to take their place?""Again, Mr. Benaron, I advise you to go and see for yourself.""No, pray do not rise yet—this is no laughing matter to me.""It is no laughing matter to anybody, I should imagine," said Mr. Barry; "my cousin looks as if he had lost a shilling and found sixpence.""If what you say be true—" began Mr. Benaron."If what I say be true!" repeated Mark indignantly. "What I say 
is true.""Well—no doubt, perhaps so; at all events, I have been most grossly deceived.""I have not deceived you, anyhow.""Of course, of course; but—""You mean Terence Conway deceived you, I suppose? But I don't think he did a bit more than you deceived yourself. He made sure of getting the old man's money—you made sure he would get the old man's money, and neither he nor you could have said why. Then as to the property, it had once, I suppose, tenants and a rent-roll. It is not my cousin's fault that the tenants are gone, and the rent-roll with them. He did not blight the potato; he did not evict the people, level their cottages, lay waste their farms. His case is but an old story repeated. Did you ever know about the Duke of Shetland and his heir?"No; Mr. Benaron had never heard about the Duke of Shetland or his heir either."He hated his probable successor just as Marmaduke Conway hated his heir; but, unlike Mr. Conway, he had great forests—pine forests—forests wide and valuable.""Yes?" Mr. Benaron felt that somewhere there lay an interest for him in the anecdote, though he could not yet trace it."The trees were not entailed, so he had the right to cut down as many as he chose.""That is unusual, surely?""Unusual or not, he had it and exercised it. The stroke of the axe was heard from morning till night, and fell like sweetest music on his ear."At last the head forester came to him, and said:"'Your Grace, we have cut down everything the axe will touch.'"'Take the scythe, then,' answered his Grace. Now you know exactly the spirit in which Marmaduke Conway has dealt with his heir. Famine did not clear the ground quickly enough for his desire, or plague or pestilence, so he tried every artifice to leave the land bare. The people were down, and he trampled on them; they were poor, and he persecuted them; he brought charges against them which, though false, served as good a purpose as if they had been true. He said innocent men maimed his horses and killed his sheep, and got compensation over and over again for injuries inflicted at his own instigation. The district was burdened to pay for losses he only sustained because he chose to sustain them. He tried to transport innocent men, who had eventually to leave their country because he owed them a grudge—the grudge of breathing the same air as himself.""But, Mr. Barry, such things could not have happened?""Couldn't they! You know better than I, doubtless?""In a civilised country!""Should you call a country civilised where three men held shares in one horse, where each of the three shod a hoof and let the fourth go unshod, and the poor brute fell lame; where, when Lord George Hill, wishing to give employment, directed some shirts to be made for him, there was found to be but one needle in the parish, and the point of that was broken? Rather than lose the order the point was reground on a stone. There is plenty of stone in Donegal," added Mark, with bitter emphasis."I must try whether there is not something else," observed Mr. Benaron."You will find plenty of other things, but little of value," answered Mr. Barry, getting up and taking his hat."And about that girl—that heiress?"Mark laughed."You must be very hopeless indeed when you fall back on such a forlorn hope as the lady in question. I should not like to be the man who would suggest to her guardian that her fortune might well pay my cousin's debts.""Do you mean to tell me, then, Mr. Conway has no chance of marrying her?""I think his chance is so remarkably small as to be invisible even to the eye of faith.""Then perhaps you will kindly tell me where I am to look for my money?""I could not think of being so presumptuous," answered Mark; and, having managed to say all he wished to say then, Mr. Barry, with a careless nod, left Mr. Benaron to his reflections.CHAPTER XV.DALLYING.WHEN Sir Henry Beecham said, as he often did say, that "Letitia's husband possessed every sense but common sense," he was mistaken.Mr. Mark Barry had plenty of common sense, worldly sense, extraordinary sense, what he lacked was tact, which is quite a different matter: for though he chanced to be wholly deficient in that delicate sense of touch which prevents a man rubbing his neighbour's fur the wrong way, he knew the odd corners and queer crannies in other people's minds exhaustively, and his advice to Mr. Stirling about the Conway agency was, therefore, good as advice could be.Terence Conway had borne almost more in the way of interference than he was likely to bear patiently. There comes a time when even a worm will turn, and Mark's surmise that such a period had nearly arrived for the owner of Calgarry was undeniably correct.The young man felt after leaving Latouche's that he had cast all his cares on the shoulders of Messrs. Bray & Lucan; but then Mark Barry, with his suggestions and his insistence, came upon him like a moral volcano, destroying all the crops and flowers which were ready to spring.He felt he hated Mark, and he would have liked to quarrel with him once and for all. There are some people, however, to whom it does not come naturally to quarrel, and Terence was one of them. He had his own ideas of life, and having a "row all round,'' often the very best thing a person so situated can do, did not enter into his scheme of happiness. Still, in the state of mind which possessed him when he partook of that unwished-for dinner with Mark, had a future agent, chaperoned by Letitia's husband, appeared before him, he would have nipped all chances of negotiation at once.As matters turned out, he spent rather a pleasant evening. Mark, with an unsuspected king up his sleeve, made himself delightful. The dinner was capital and the wine excellent.Afterwards they went to Hawkins Street in time to see a very fair play well acted; and Mark, who met some friends at the theatre, insisted on everybody returning to a supper which proved one of the merriest affairs at which Terence had assisted for many a day.He left in the best of high spirits, half persuaded "Mark was not a bad fellow after all," and when he awoke next morning reflected pleasantly he had a "thumping sum" in hand and a decent credit at Latouche's on which he could draw. No need to repent having put up at Morrison's now—no need to stint himself in any way: was he not Conway of Calgarry, I a name once to conjure with? and if times were changed and he had dipped the estate a little, what then?It was his to do what he liked with—it was his slave. He could sell—he could mortgage up to the hilt, if he chose; but he had no intention of taking that evil path: instead, he was fully determined to make an excellent thing out of the property and his future. He would show Philippa the stuff he was made of. He had been foolish, mad; but looking on the clean new leaf just turned over, he felt determined nothing should be written there but what was honest and of good repute. Full of which excellent resolves, he dressed, break-fasted, and with a light heart sallied forth into the Dublin streets about the time Mr. Stirling had reached Drogheda on his way to the north.To him, after he arrived in Donegal, everything fell out almost precisely as Mr. Barry had foretold. Ann Patterson said Mr. Malet would be sure to know for how long a time Mr. Conway would be away; and Mr. Malet, when he heard the stranger's business, offered at once to write to his friend about the matter, espousing Mr. Stirling's cause from the first glance in his keen, sensible face, and taking it up with great enthusiasm when he learned that Messrs. Bray & Lucan, who, curiously enough, had the management of Sir Francis Straffan's affairs, also knew the ex-agent well, and would report favourably concerning him.Had Mark Barry been aware of this, he would not have recommended his friend to go a step beyond Kildare Street. As it was, if he had ever known who the Baronet's lawyers were, he had forgotten; and Mr. Stirling felt perfectly satisfied to find himself in Donegal, where, according to his instructions, he put up at the only hotel Dunfanaghy boasts.He could not have gone to a better place in order to gain information about Calgarry. No one imagined who he was or what he wanted, and he had not spent long years as an agent in Ireland for nothing.Though Mr. Malet was naturally reticent about Mr. Conway's property, other persons, amongst them the Messrs. McKye, had no such reasons for silence. Mr. Stirling professed himself much interested in soils; he had, in fact, in his own mind the germ of an idea which has since been scientifically worked in England (whether profitably or not is quite another question), and believed it was chemically possible to supply to any soil the precise ingredients necessary to render it fertile.That Nature has not always been so grateful for such attentions as she might, perhaps only proves her to be a little self-sufficient. At the time Mr. Stirling evolved his theory the land had not been dosed much with any foreign stimulant except guano; and though to this day there are those who believe the potato blight owed its origin to that manure, just as there are others who maintain it was entirely attributable to the Maynooth Grant, the notion which has been steadily growing ever since had even then begun to influence the minds of thoughtful agriculturists, that Mother Earth, understanding her business very imperfectly, can by no means be safely left to her own devices.Mr. Stirling therefore amused himself by making inquiries about soils and fertilisers (they were not called fertilisers at that time, but the same thing precisely was meant). He heard a great deal concerning "wrack," of which he had no experience, but that nevertheless found favour in his eyes; also shells; also spade labour, which latter had, according to the elder McKye's statement, converted Mountain View from a sort of Sahara to a luxuriant Delta.With a modest pride Mr. McKye senior, who made the stranger's acquaintance in the commercial room at McLean's—in its way a sort of Rialto, where men do congregate, or at least eat and drink—finding the visitor interested in the reclamation of land, invited him to inspect what had been done with the expenditure of a little money and a considerable amount of thought on "as unpromising a piece of ground as any in Donegal."Nothing loth, Mr. Stirling gladly accepted the invitation. He was asked to stay the night, and he did so. The rule at Mountain View was a strict Calvinism tempered by a keen appreciation of the Egyptian flesh-pots and a liberal consumption of Irish whisky. No better house to stay in could have been desired by any one fond of creature comforts. There was that plenty about it which is appreciatively called by servants on the other side of St. George's Channel a "roughness,"—not a man, woman, or child, dog, cat, or animal of any sort but had enough and to spare; and the result was a certain geniality and breadth of charity, both of thought and speech never to be found where people affect a pulse and water diet, or even the charming monotony of ham, eggs, and potatoes. The Reverend Mr. McKye professed himself extremely sorry for the owner of Calgarry."As goodly a young fellow as you would meet in a day's journey," he said; "pleasant, straightforward, and not at all set up. All the same, I wish he could be induced to sell; the thing is too big for him—too big for any man who has not an income at his back. The house and grounds alone would require a little fortune to keep up properly. I don't see what he is to do unless he marries that heiress, and then she'll be wanting to spend all her money in England."So the affairs of the rich are criticised by a whole county, just as the affairs of the poor are gossiped over by their needy fellows.Not one of us escapes. No matter how lowly, no matter how exalted, we are all reckoned fit objects to be put in the social microscope and examined, till there is no weak spot left of which Jack Oakes and Tom Styles have not the fullest cognisance.Long before, the McKyes—having exhausted their ingenuity in fruitless efforts to discover what Mr. Stirling's business with Mr. Conway might be—had decided he was either the emissary from some one who wanted to get a "long lease," or a confidential agent despatched by a possible mortgagee to spy out the land. They inclined to the former notion, both on account of Mr. Stirling's interest in the ground, and his anxiety to ascertain whether there were any likely harbours and where. He went poking all about the shore, holding conversations with boatmen, interviewing the coastguardsmen, and obtaining information concerning English and Scotch ports.He visited Gweedore, where Lord George Hill's El Dorado did not meet with his unqualified approval. He thought though much had been done, more might with a less expenditure have been effected. This is the way all the world over. It is more easy to criticise a house than to build it. He had not seen Gweedore before roads were made, farms parcelled out, that vile system, "a cow's grass," abolished, and the natives shown a path to civilisation, whether they chose to tread it or not.Wild enough, desolate enough, remote enough from even the echoes of this world's business and pleasure, Gweedore is to this present day; but it is a seat of learning and very centre of polite life in comparison with what it was when a man who wanted to benefit his poorer brethren took in hand to improve their condition and amend their, ways, and met with the usual fate which attends those who try to do people good against their will.Mr. Stirling, as an impartial outsider, at once hit on the blot in the plan."Too patriarchal," he said to Mr. McKye. "Too much of the father and children business; inhabitants too much helped instead of being taught to walk alone.""Ah well," answered Mr. McKye, "we must give him credit for the best of intentions.""Poor Lord George!" thought Mr. Malet, who chanced to be present. "Surely if he could hear such praise it would amply repay him for all his outlay!"These visits were not paid or inquiries instituted within the space of a few days; in fact, they spread themselves over three weeks, during the whole of which time Mr. Stirling held to his head-quarters in Dunfanaghy.The Calgarry Vicar had written once, twice, thrice to Terence without eliciting any reply.After his interview with Messrs. Bray & Lucan the young man wrote fully explaining the position, and returning Mr. Malet's loan; and this letter was supplemented by a communication from Kildare Street, from which the Vicar gathered the lawyers were not quite satisfied with the turn affairs had taken. He did not exactly know himself whether to be pleased or displeased with Mark's interference. He saw the motive which prompted it, and was quick to recognise that rogues cannot always be dealt with by honourable men; yet in his heart he wished the boisterous unscrupulous barrister had not got mixed up with Terence's business."I hope it will turn out well," he considered, solacing himself by remembering he should hear all the reasons for so sudden a change of front when Mark returned.As days and weeks passed by, however, a new cause for anxiety arose. Where could Terence be? What could have happened to detain him? When he left Calgarry it was with the fixed intention of remaining in Dublin as short a time and returning home as speedily as might be; indeed, so decided was he on this point that Ann Patterson received strict orders to forward no letters.And now, when after three weeks a formidable pile had accumulated in the library at Calgarry, a pile daily growing larger, Mr. Malet became uneasy. Terence could not have
gone to London, because letters from London were constantly arriving for him; he could scarcely be ill, or Morrison's people would have communicated the fact. Could he have met with an accident, and be lying, unknown and badly injured, in one of the Dublin hospitals? He took Mr. Stirling's opinion on this point, which that gentleman gave to the effect: "Mr. Conway was likely amusing himself.""Amusing himself!" repeated the Vicar indignantly: "with such an estate as this lying unproductive; with people asking for land and no one to let it to them; with May little more than six weeks off and not a crop in the ground; with letters I am sure ought to be attended to lying unread and unanswered! No, Mr. Stirling, you must make a better guess than that.""Well, of course," answered the other, "I have no knowledge of Mr. Conway; but I have had a long experience of men in his position, and, to tot up the whole thing, I believe you'll find I'm right.""If you are I—"but there Mr. Malet stopped. Mr. Stirling did not know all the circumstances, and he was wrong, of course."And it is a shame to keep you here," went on the Vicar, after he had not said what he meant to do in case he found Terence was playing truant."I am in no hurry," answered Mr. Stirling. "I am enjoying myself very well, and can wait awhile longer with great satisfaction. If you are anxious, though, why do you not write to Kildare Street? They know there where Mr. Conway is, I'll be bound."As this seemed a more likely suggestion than the last, Mr. Malet sent off a letter by the same day's post, asking Mr. Bray to forward him Terence's address."He cannot be at Morrison's," he explained, "as I have written there three times without receiving an answer."More fortunate in his appeal to Kildare Street, the Vicar received a reply in return, saying—"Mr. Conway had gone on a visit to some relations—his address was enclosed."Mr. Malet happened to be alone when he read that address:"Monksborough, Queen's Co.," therefore no one ever knew what he said.Mr. McKye, a shrewd judge of character, was wont to declare, "Mr. Malet might be a Christian last, but he was a man first," and it was probably in the latter character he spoke,He felt deeply injured—mortally angry. Before he could at all calm himself he had to climb to the top of the cliffs where Letitia and Terence had so often carried Audna, and compose his mind by a look over the wide ocean lying calm as a mirror below. Then he bethought him whose servant he was, and how it behoved the servant of such a Master to have toleration even to a man who could so far forget himself as to rush off at the turning-point of his career to the Foyles of Monksborough."People he should have avoided like a pestilence," thought the clergyman; "people who never claimed him for kin while he was poor and unconsidered, who would let him starve rather than ask him inside their doors if he did not own Calgarry. Ah, Terence, Terence!" and the Vicar's face softened and saddened as his eyes strayed over the glittering sea. "I am afraid for you—sorely afraid that, 'unstable as water, thou shalt not excel,' though you now hold your future, humanly speaking, in the hollow of your hand."As he turned to retrace his steps he saw Mr. Stirling advancing to meet him."You were right," said the Vicar, assuming an air of indifference he was far from feeling; "Mr. Conway is staying with some friends.""I expected that was the way of it," replied the other. "I wonder when he will be back?""I shall write to him to-day, and endeavour to ascertain," rejoined Mr. Malet, who probably never put a much greater constraint upon himself than subsequently when inditing that letter."If your absence is likely to be much prolonged," he said, with chilling politeness, "would it not be well to order your letters to be forwarded? There are upwards of two hundred awaiting you now, and some amongst them may require attention."Then he went on to say Mr. Stirling had been hoping to see him for three weeks, and referred to Messrs. Bray & Lucan. He did not add any encomiums on Mr. Stirling, or proffer any advice from himself. The letter was as cold as snow, but reading it in the full swing of a gay country house, Terence did not notice its reserve."By Jove! two hundred letters!" he muttered. "There must be some confoundedly unpleasant among that lot! I shall have to face them soon;" and while his friends were call-ing for him to "Come along; the horses are at the door," he dashed off a hasty note:"Please arrange with Mr. Stirling for me; let him step into the
agency at once, if you approve; beg him not to stop in Dunfanaghy, but
take up his abode at Calgarry till we can see about a house for
him. Do not forward any letters. Sufficient for the day, & Shall
be home before the end of the week.—Yours
affectionately,TERENCE.""Mr. Conway thinks you might be more comfortable at Calgarry House," remarked Mr. Malet tentatively, when he had said the owner would be at home in a few days, and left Terence's other suggestions unnamed."It is very good of Mr. Conway," replied Mr. Stirling, "but I have no reason to complain of my present location; and anyhow I think, as there is no chance of coming to a conclusion just yet, I will take a run over to Derry, and get back about the week's end."CHAPTER XVI.WELCOME HOME.WHEN Mr. Malet's next communication arrived at Monksborough, Terence was dressing for a ball. He had tied his cravat just to his mind, and was about to put on his waistcoat, when the letter reached him.This time there could be no mistake as to its tenor. The Vicar could be very bitter when he liked, and it was the man more than the Christian who came to the front in that epistle. Not a sentence but ended with a stinging cut, not a remark but was finished by a lash. Nothing undignified or brutal; the workmanship as neat as work could be; yet Terence, when he came to the last word, felt himself indeed the very chief of sinners.Mr. McKye was wont, Sunday after Sunday, to deal out the most fearful threatenings against his flock. He never got into the pulpit without making the dry bones shake in a truly terrible manner, but at the last he always held before them some faint hope of ultimate salvation.In his letter to Terence, Mr. Malet failed utterly to imitate this excellent example. No grain of comfort, no hope of grace was to be extracted from beginning to end, and Mr. Conway consequently completed his toilette in a very different frame of mind from that with which he had begun it.The castigation was not at all too severe; even while smarting he admitted that. What business had he at the Foyles'? Would they pay his debts, settle his difficulties, let his land, get in his rents? He came thinking no harm, and he stayed because staying was so pleasant.Life had seemed delightful to him when he met Larry Foyle accidentally in Dublin and allowed himself to be spirited away. And the weeks had passed like a dream. Charming people were staying in the house, where an incessant stream of visitors caused constant change. Driving parties, riding parties, dancing parties, dinner parties made existence in the country seem more delightful than existence in town ever had done. The Foyles were a most agreeable family. On the verge of ruin, they would have spread a feast and invited their friends to partake of it, could they only have procured the wherewithal for the feast on credit. No one except the servants did anything useful at Monksborough, or thought of doing anything.The family toiled not, neither did they spin. The estate was mortgaged to the last shilling. Foyle père was in debt up to his eyes, his sons were in debt also up to their eyes; and yet they ate of the best, slept softly, dressed fashionably, entertained handsomely, and lived "according to their rank."After a while there would be a deluge, probably before Mr. Foyle's gray hairs were brought with sorrow to the grave; but they had great faith that the waters would leave them high and dry somewhere, and meantime, unless they meant to abandon themselves to despair, they could not alter their mode of living.Truly a brilliant example for the owner of Calgarry—for a young fellow whose heart beat time to music, who loved the tones of singing men and singing women, who only felt he lived when amusing himself, who was a favourite with ladies and popular among men; whose nature was good, but whose training had been bad; and who ought, more than most men, to have turned a deaf ear to the blandishments of that terrible siren who lies in wait for foolish folk, and while calling herself Pleasure, knows full well her name is Death.Yes, he had enjoyed himself. There was a lady in the house, who, being engaged, felt consequently she might flirt with "that silly, stupid, sentimental Terence" to her heart's content. She took him entirely under her wing, she constituted him her cavalier, they rode side by side, he drove her out; they sat apart talking confidentially, she of her Philip, he of his Philippa, and the whole burden of their lay was love, still love.The interchange of ideas, the communion of souls had been delightful. She was not in the least like Philippa, any more than he resembled Philip, but what did that signify? It made their friendship all the more piquant. How beautifully she danced! what light hands she had in riding! Her voice was full of melody, her figure perfect, nothing statuesque about her: quite the contrary—she was full of life, merriment, and mischief, and so sympathetic; she would sit with her dark blue eyes fixed on his face, listening for half an hour at a stretch to the confidences he poured forth concerning Philippa. And now all this was to end!He had eaten his cake, and he must brush away the crumbs, and go back to Donegal at once.He made up his mind on that point before he went down-stairs. In the ball-room he broke the news to Miss Poler, who took the news badly. That evening—spite of the absent Philip and Philippa, they were more sympathetic than ever—she gave him a flower from her bouquet, in return for which, says report, he kissed her hand. Who knows? They were both making believe, yet sometimes make-believe is a game which feigns reality passably well. At any rate, it was all over, the business of life will not wait for laggards, and Terence knew he must get home without delay.He remained a night in Dublin, in order to see his solicitors and ascertain their opinion of Mr. Stirling, which proved extremely favourable."Heaven be praised for that!" thought the young man; "my mind is now at rest about an agent;" and hailing a car, he drove to Morrison's in order to pick up his luggage, whence he proceeded to Amiens Street, and took his ticket for the Black North.The mellow voices of his Southern friends, the warm greetings, the honeyed compliments had been dangerously pleasant to him. He knew as well as he knew anything that the Foyles were not to be trusted—that with them it was out of sight out of mind; but they were delightful people to be with, and he dreaded the greetings which awaited him at home.In truth, a lonely home for any man to return to, even had those letters not been lying in the library, ready to spring at his throat the moment he entered Calgarry.With a great effort he went and looked at them before looking at anything else. It was a fine afternoon in March, and the sun shone cool and bright through the windows, and upon the great table where the letters were ranged. He drew a chair forward, and sitting down, began to cut open the envelopes desperately.Bills, bills, bills, bills, bills—bills for everything a man might rationally have been supposed not to want—bills little, bills great, bills forgotten, bills remembered, bills delivered and redelivered, notes drawing his attention to previous applications, bills accompanied by a request for further orders, bills which the sender "felt astonished" had not been attended to, bills which came more modestly, requesting that Mr. Conway would attend to them. Then followed a sort of lull, filled by letters from acquaintances: some notes from Letitia; a gossiping epistle from Sir Henry, in which he mentioned that Philippa had gone to Hastings with her dear friend Mrs. Vivian Rawson: a few hasty lines written in good spirits by Mark after his interview with Amos; and then Terence was led gradually onward to envelopes which could never have been directed anywhere but in a solicitor's office. There were not many of these, but they sufficed. Four of the largest creditors had already invoked the aid of law. Four gentlemen, dating from different addresses, stated they were instructed to apply for sums which ran into five heavy figures, and unless such sums, together with costs (so trifling as to appear, when contrasted against the debt, absolutely ridiculous) were paid within seven days, proceedings would be taken without further notice.This was scarcely agreeable—but worse remained behind. Terence had not yet exhausted all the treasures of his correspondence. These epistles had arrived while he was amusing himself at Monksborough, and the lawyers and creditors, not being similarly employed, had waxed wroth at Mr. Conway's silence, and jumped simultaneously, as it appeared, to the one conclusion which for some inscrutable reason always seems to occur at once to such gentlemen, namely, that the debtor is "trifling with them."There is nothing much more annoying than the idea that one is being trifled with, and accordingly four further letters were despatched to Donegal, begging to be favoured with the name of Mr. Conway's solicitor, and informed whether he would receive service of four writs. When he had arrived at that point Terence looked at his watch, and found by sending a man off on horseback he could still catch the evening mail from a town lying out of the Dunfanaghy and Letterkenny route. Ringing the bell, he ordered one of the grooms to get ready while he dashed off a hurried line to Mark, and enclosed the letters.When he had sealed up the wrapper, and despatched his messenger, he drew a long breath, and nerved himself to wait for Mark's reply and the next move in the game. He knew Mark would instruct his man, whoever he might be, to receive service, though he would be very angry at matters having been allowed to proceed so far. That could not be helped now, however; but still Terence wished with all his heart he had not stayed so long at Monksborough."I will go out and get a breath of fresh air before dinner," he said to himself; in truth, he felt almost stifled. O, that he were out of debt, that he had never got into debt, that he had been wise in time! But Mark would put everything right for him after a little while: and if he remained at home, and began the great work of reclaiming Calgarry and himself, there was really no cause for despair.The March air was keen and bracing, and his spirits rose at he walked. He would go across and make his peace with Mr. Malet, and tell him what Mr. Bray said about the new agent.Matters would go well, now he possessed an agent; for, though Mr. Stirling and he had not yet met or concluded any arrangement, he nevertheless felt assured matters would be settled between them immediately.So thinking, he had nearly reached the gates, when he saw a stranger advancing towards him.He was young—too young, surely, for Mr. Stirling; but it probably was some messenger from him; a good-looking young man—not a gentleman, but well-dressed and well-mannered.As Terence drew near, he stopped, and, raising his hat, said respectfully,"Mr. Conway?""I am Mr. Conway," answered Terence pleasantly."I have a—a—letter for you," went on the young man, putting his hand into the breast-pocket of his coat, and drawing forth a folded paper. "I do not think there is any answer, but—"Terence made no answer, at all events. He had opened the paper, and stood staring at it, while he read:"Victoria, by the Grace of God."What did Victoria, by the grace of God, want with him, Terence Conway? Only his presence in eight days' time before one of her right honourable judges.A couple of hours' later, Terence was sitting, after his untasted dinner had been removed, beside a table on which wine and dessert still stood.Mr. Malet, seated on his right side, looked at him in grave silence. Mr. Stirling, on his left, engaged in mixing a tumbler of punch, seemed lost in thought.They had walked over together to learn if Mr. Conway were back, and found him in a state of mind which beggared description."There is a curse on me," he broke out at last; "don't you believe that now?" he added, turning with fierce earnestness on Mr. Malet."I am afraid there is," answered the Vicar dryly; "but not the Nuns."CHAPTER XVII."WHAT ARE WE TO DO?"UNLIKE Mr. Malet on a somewhat similar occasion, Mr. Mark Barry was not alone when he received the half-frenzied letter Terence indicted on his return to the house after his interview with that well-mannered young man from Belfast, who had been intrusted by his employers, acting as agents for Mr. Quinion of London, with the due delivery of Victoria Dei Gratia's pressing invitation to Mr. Conway.Letitia and the elder of the infant babies were present at the time, but no stranger, which proved extremely fortunate, for Mark's tirade was violent."I assure you," Mrs. Barry told Sir Henry afterwards, "it was quite unfit for publication;" to which Sir Henry, in perfect good faith, replied,"I can well believe that, my dear.""Dolt, ass, scoundrel, blackguard, inconceivable idiot, drivelling fool!" were the mildest terms hurled at the erring Terence.Mark's language was indeed dreadful. Like the Scotch nobleman, "he stood and swore at lairge," till even Letitia, accustomed as she was to her husband's flights of fancy and flowers of rhetoric, entreated him to "moderate the rancour of his tongue.""Terence may be foolish—I don't say he is not some-times," pleaded Mrs. Barry, who was always ready to take up the cudgels for any one against any other. "But he is not a rogue, and I won't sit by and hear him called one.""I only wish he were a rogue," retorted Mark. "Better be a rogue—a thief—a forger—a murderer—than a fool. I would rather have to do with the greatest scoundrel unhung than with a fellow so destitute of sense, gratitude, and common decency as that precious cousin of yours. He is mad—stark, staring mad!—madder than any maniac in Bedlam! That's where he ought to be. If I had any voice in the matter, I'd have him chained there, and put on bread and water—I would!""They don't chain lunatics now, or diet them on bread and water either, for that matter," said Letitia, with sublime contempt."Much you know about what they do!" returned Mark, pleasantly relieving his speech with light and sportive expletives. "At any rate, I know what I am going to do, and that is wash my hands of Terence Conway and his concerns. By——! the Duke was right not to leave him a penny, and I honour the old villain for his discrimination. The money he sold his soul to get has gone where it won't be squandered, anyhow. As for Terence, he is not fit to be trusted across the street alone. I only hope Philippa Dutton will take precious care not to marry him.""So do I," edged in Mark's wife. "What is my darling crying for?" turning to the hope of the house of Barry. "Papa is not angry with you.""Look here, Letitia," said her lord, "if I thought that child of yours would grow up to be such a thundering fool as Terence Conway, I'd twist his neck now—I would! It might save the hangman a job hereafter.""Whatever he grows up, I hope he will use better language than his father," observed Mrs. Barry. "If you can manage to speak half a dozen sentences without swearing, Mark, tell me what poor Terence has done; nothing, I daresay, to make such a rout over.""O, no! nothing to speak of—nothing worth mentioning! He has only done such a——day's work that he'll have to quit Calgarry. He has danced himself out of an estate and a position a lord might envy. Damn the Foyles! What business had he to go to them at all? But there—as he has made his bed, he must lie on it! I won't stir a finger again to help him.""Yes, you will," said Letitia, with conviction."No, I won't," returned Mark, with greater conviction.And so the discussion went on to the tune of "You will," and "I won't," till Mr. Barry banged the door behind him preparatory to writing such a letter to Calgarry as made Terence's hair almost stand on end.It was a sort of epistolary commination which Mark recited over young Conway's head. The ban laid on the Jackdaw of Rheims was a mere bagatelle compared with the woes prophesied as impending over the owner of Calgarry. Everything a creditor could do Mr. Barry, with a fiendish pleasure, explained as certain to happen. Again he went through the washing process mentioned to Letitia. Again he repeated his admiration for the old Duke's wisdom. Again he remarked that all his sympathies were with the man who had made so wise a will and the girl who would, he hoped, be wise in time, and send her imbecile suitor to the right about."But Sir Henry will see she does not throw herself away," said Mark, summing up the many agreeable incidents in store for Terence. "His head is screwed on right enough; besides, Philippa is wide awake. She knew what she was about when she refused to engage herself to you. She never will now: so, having got your affairs into this confounded mess, you had better go back to the Foyles for an indefinite period. Tell them you are ruined; of course, under such circumstances, they will be delighted to see you."What Terence might have done, or where he might have gone, had he been alone when this letter reached him it is useless to surmise, for, as it happened, he was not alone, but seated at breakfast, with Mr. Stirling as vis-à vis."That is pleasant," throwing Mark's epistle across me table; and then he rose and went to the window, and con-sidered all the disasters which were closing around him. At the end of eight days, the royal command had said, he ought to appear; and now it was the fifth morning, and Mr. Barry, having washed his hands of Calgarry and Terence over and over again, meant to do nothing; and there remained no time for anybody else to do anything, and the Philistines, armed and ready for the battle, would be upon him before he could even secure legal assistance in the fray.Mr. Terence Conway had been brought up in a different school and among different people from Mark Barry. He was not naturally foul-mouthed, and in his conversation he observed that moderation of language which usually distinguishes gentlemen; but, however well educated, the heart, we know, is desperately wicked, and, deep down in his, Terence heartily cursed Letitia's husband. If only he had not meddled in affairs which in no wise concerned him, if he had left matters to the sole management of Messrs. Bray & Lucan, things need never have come to such a pass.What in the wide world was to be done now? Terence felt like a man cut off from help—drowning in sight of land—perishing before a friend could reach him. The Garry flowed peacefully on before his eyes; the sloping lawns lay fair and tranquil in the morning sunshine. And these things, together with many, many more, were to pass away from him, so Mark said; all because he had dallied at Monksborough—stopped, as a child might with other children at play!Meantime Mr. Stirling had time to read the letter through twice before Terence, having reached this point in his cogitations, returned to the breakfast-table, and asked in a tone of absolute despair,"Is there any way out of this?""Of course there is," answered Mr. Stirling."What way?" demanded Terence."I am not just prepared to say that at a minute's notice," was the reply."I never thought Barry would pitch me over.""I don't believe he has," said Mr. Stirling. "This letter amounts to nothing—it is only his way, I mean," went on the Scotchman, remembering what he had for the moment quite forgotten—the fact of his being supposed to have no acquaintance with Mr. Barry; "that he evidently was in a great passion when he wrote to you. I suppose his bark is worse than his bite. No one worth calling a friend would leave another in such a lurch, no matter how foolishly he might be thought to have acted.""Mark is a very queer fellow, though," observed Mr. Conway, in a tone of deep despondency.No one knew that better than Mr. Staling. In good truth, the whole affair looked to him ugly enough. That Mr. Benaron and the rest of the tribes meant business was obvious; and if even one judgment were allowed to go by default, Mr. Conway's insecure position would immediately become serious. Time had been allowed to run so short also, any further delay might prove fatal. Even if Messrs. Bray & Lucan were sufficiently Christian to take up the matter again, Mr. Stirling doubted 'their capabilities at the crisis which was now imminent, as much as Mark Barry had questioned their power at an earlier stage of the proceedings."It will play the deuce if Benaron gets judgment signed," thought Terence's new friend, but he did not say so. He sat thinking that it would not do to invoke assistance from the magnates in Kildare Street till it could be ascertained exactly what Mr Barry had left undone, and then their assistance would probably be too late.A "telegraph message"—the word "telegram" had not then been invented—to Mark certainly, at the first blush, seemed a feasible way of finding out whether an appearance had been put in or not, but difficulties surrounded even this apparently simple proceeding."You see there is really no time to spare. Though I cannot believe Mr. Barry has failed to instruct a solicitor on your behalf, still we ought to be sure.""He says he will do nothing. You see that in his letter.""Ah, but the letter was written in anger. Likely as not you will have another in the morning set to a different tune; but we ought not to depend on to-morrow. What should you think if I were to start right away to London, and see whether Mr. Barry s back is still up? It would not take me long to find out the lie of the land; and, supposing the worst, I could employ some lawyer to stave matters off till we have time to get our breath.""The very thing!" exclaimed Terence eagerly. "Will you go? I shall never forget your kindness!""I'll go fast enough; and don't be vexing yourself, all will came right after a while;" and, having so spoken, Mr. Stirling poured out another cup of coffee, and addressed himself in good earnest to making a substantial meal before setting out for England."I do not much relish leaving you here alone," he said, as he finished, looking at Terence, who was walking restlessly up and down the room."Why, do you suppose I am likely to get into any mischief?" returned the young man, with a doleful laugh."As to that, it is hard to know," was the reply, "but I was not thinking of mischief. I am afraid you will worry yourself into a fever. You'll have to put in a long time of suspense, and there is nothing here to occupy your mind while you are waiting for news.""I know I shall have a long time of suspense, but I must bear it as best I can."Mr. Stirling eyed the young man doubtfully. Already he had grown very fond of him. When we see this sort of thing, we say some persons have a remarkable faculty for attaching others to them, and think we have solved a mystery apparently inexplicable on ordinary lines, all the time blinding ourselves to the fact that the whole thing is a kindly arrangement of Nature, who likes to make the strong useful to the weak."Providence," says the old proverb, "takes care of drunken people and fools," and the same Providence has implanted an extraordinary tenderness in most hearts for those unable from any cause to look after themselves. An absolutely incapable mistress generally secures most excellent servants, such as the careful and clever housewife yearns for in vain. This is perfectly easy of proof, because when through any miracle the incapable mistress becomes capable, she no longer is blessed with domestic paragons: they go elsewhere, being more wanted, perhaps, across the road or round the corner, or in another county; at all events, they leave her. It was precisely on this principle that Mr. Stirling brooded over Terence Conway."You would not do well to be seen about London, perhaps, just now," he said tentatively; " but you might do worse, I think, than travel there with me. You could keep yourself quiet, and you'd be on the spot to hear what was going on, and refer to in case of need, instead of hanging on the tenterhooks here. The notion pleases you, does it?""Pleases me! I should say so indeed!" cried Terence, who had, with a glad exclamation, sprung to his feet before Mr. Stirling's speech was finished. "When shall you be ready to start? Surely Heaven sent you to me in my hour of need!"Mr Stirling was sufficient of a Calvinist to believe the whole matter of his coming to Donegal must be regarded as one of predestination; but even he could scarcely forbear smiling when he remembered that Mark Barry had played the part of Heaven's messenger."I must contrive to see him alone first, he thought; "for if Mr. Conway found out he sent me here, we should never do another day's good together."And this would have seemed a very grievous mischance to Mr. Stirling, who believed that in Calgarry he had discovered a place where he could rest and be thankful. Terence's short-comings did not trouble him at all as they troubled Mr. Malet. The Scotchman was one of those excellent people, never sufficiently to be admired, who was quite content to do his own duty, without troubling himself about the way other people did, or failed to do, theirs. He had, moreover, the widest toleration for landlords and the upper ten thousand generally. If they were not very bad, he accounted them good.He did not see any use in looking at any human being, gentle or simple, through a magnifying glass. He found it easier and better altogether to take broad views of things. He had been a faithful agent to Sir Francis Straffan, "gathered" as much rent as he could for that baronet, and made things, at the same time, as light as might be for the tenants; and if affairs did not in the end turn out exactly as Mr. Stirling could have wished, why, that was his employer's concern more than his."Do your best, and don't fret," was, in effect, Mr. Stirling's simple creed, and who shall say he had not formed a good one for all temporal purposes?When a man once begins to sit in judgment on his employers, and to lament that those set above him do not do their best also, he soon becomes a nuisance to every one, for there is nothing which grows so fast as a habit of criticism. Mr. Stirling was perfectly clear of all tendency in this direction, and the relief Terence found in his society after the vivisection to which he had been morally subjected since he succeeded to Calgarry can only be imagined by those who have suffered from the candid comments of conscientious friends."You are too hard upon him—far,"said the new agent to Mr. Malet. "He is young, and it is natural he should like to enjoy himself. Maybe it would have been more prudent
to have had his letters forwarded, but I have known men double his age who wouldn't open letters when they got them, if they thought there was anything bad inside."It was this catholic spirit which proved so consolatory to Terence, and rendered even the dreary journey to London not wholly one of despair."Now, we will put up at a quiet house I know of," said Mr. Stirling, taking the conduct of affairs, "and I will let you know all that is going on. You have nothing to do but sit still."Terence did not find it easy to sit still, but he got on better after Mr. Stirling brought Mark, clothed and in his right mind, comparatively speaking, to talk matters over."Of course, I told Reynolds to enter an appearance," said Mr. Barry sulkily; "then I thought you could please yourself. I can't advise now. The matter has gone clean beyond me."In spite of which statement, very little persuasion was needed in order to induce him to advise again."You must declare you are determined to fight, and you must fight if need be," he finished. "If you don't, Benaron and the rest will trample you like dust under their feet. Quinion is a very nasty customer; but he can't sail quite so close to the wind as Reynolds. I don't think Amos will much like Reynolds, but we shall see."Mr. Barry's conjecture proved so right that next evening a special messenger arrived at the quiet hotel where Terence and his agent had put up, stating Mr. Benaron had sent a flag of truce, and then the diplomatic fight began in earnest.Mr. Quinion possessed Mr. Benaron's authority to say it would grieve him greatly to proceed to extremities against a gentleman for whom he entertained so friendly a feeling as he did for Mr. Conway. He could not consider Mr. Conway had treated him, after all his kindness, with proper consideration, but he was still willing to make allowances. He believed he had been badly advised—not of course by Mr. Reynolds, whom it was impossible to suppose conversant with all the circumstances, but by others. It was a thousand pities affairs could not be amicably arranged.Mr. Reynolds thought so too, but he really saw nothing for it but to let a jury try the case.A man with means might be willing to pay an extortionate demand rather than let the public know the full extent of his folly; but a man without means was differently situated.Mr. Conway had no option; all he could do was to set his back against the wall and fight."That is the position, Mr. Quinion," finished Mr. Reynolds, who was careful, except by inference, not to say an unpleasant word concerning Terence's creditors.The whole matter promised to be disagreeable—very disagreeable indeed, Mr. Benaron felt. Mr. Quinion had been quite unable to see Mr. Reynolds' cards. The only certainty with which he came away was that Mr. Conway's solicitor firmly believed the owner of Calgarry could not pay, and that nobody could make him pay, precisely for the same reason that a Highlandman cannot be stripped of those articles of general attire which form no part of his costume.Negotiations, if such the proceedings could be called, continued after this fashion for some days, till at last Mr. Quinion was reduced to asking helplessly,"Then what are we to do?""Go on, I suppose—I really see no other course open.""Neither do I," answered Mi. Benaron's adviser; "but it is a pity."CHAPTER XVIII.QUITE BY ACCIDENT.IT was "such a pity" that the eleventh hour still found Mr. Quinion still hesitating. There are times in all games when it seems better any one should lead than ourselves. In the state of his cards Mr. Benaron's solicitor most heartily wished the privilege had not chanced to lie with him."After you, sir," he would most gladly have said; only he knew it was not for Mr. Reynolds to take the initiative, even had he desired to do so, which he did not.From the first Mark Barry had summed up the position quite accurately. Mr. Benaron did not want to fight. To put on his war-paint, and get out his bows and arrows, and sharpen his tomahawk, as he had done, was one thing; but to run the chance of being shot, or scalped, or besmirched by an opponent, quite another.He was daunted not so much by the memory of his own many iniquities as by a worrying doubt whether some forgotten sin might not be raised from the depths of his past to crush him in court.If liars require good memories, rogues who go to law need even better; and Mr. Benaron could not but feel uneasy at a certain calm superiority in Mr. Reynolds' manner, which implied that gentleman knew how to play his game, and felt confident as to its result.He did not say a word; but each time Mr. Quinion met him (and he contrived to do so often) it was just as though Terence's lawyer had drawn back with a bow and a smile, and observed with stately courtesy, "The next move is yours, sir."He had tried to see his hand, and failed. And now, in face of the trumps their opponent might hold, he scarcely liked to advise his client."Reynolds is hiding something good, or I am much mistaken," he remarked to Mr. Benaron. " Have you any notion what it can be?"Mr. Benaron had not the faintest notion. There were so many things, spite of all his caution, an adversary might have contrived to pick up, it was difficult to hazard an even wide conjecture as to the nature of the little damaging trifle Mr. Reynolds intended to keep till the last moment as an agreeable surprise all round."Well, when are you going to do anything in Mr. Conway's matter?" asked Terence's solicitor one day, with the easy air of a man who is quite ready for battle. He knew he held no honours; still it was not necessary to tell Mr. Quinion that. He was quite aware of all the weak points in his client's case; but his tactics were to persuade the opposite side that Terence had a strong defence, which would fill those whom it might concern with amazement."As I have said more than once, we should have pressed matters on ere now," Mr. Quinion answered, "but we have waited because we feel it is in some respects a hard case. As you know, Mr. Benaron is a kindly man, most forbearing, and he is averse to proceeding to extremities, though Mr. Conway seems disposed to leave us no alternative.""Ah!" said Mr. Reynolds, compressing his lips and shaking his head; "it is a hard case. You see, the young fellow expected so much.""If he had not led Mr. Benaron to believe he was certain to get a great deal, he would never have been advanced such amounts.""It is not Mr. Conway's fault that he was left out of the will," returned Mr. Reynolds, with a smile Mr. Quinion might interpret just as he pleased."Perhaps not. At any rate, it was not Mr. Benaron's.""No," said Mr. Reynolds, smiling again."And then, as to the value of the property we have been entirely misled.""It does not seem to be worth much, certainly," agreed Mr. Reynolds."Though the property is the only thing we have now to look to.""Yes, that is a matter about which you must entirely please yourselves; and try to get as much as the law will let you.""What do you mean?""There is always such an amount of uncertainty in these cases—anyhow, you'll have a deuce of a lot of bother before you secure a halfpenny.""Bother of what sort?""O, all sorts; there will be no end to the litigation.""I am afraid that is true enough.""I know it is true; I said so from the first. I can't tell exactly who will get the bulk of the cheese. All I am sure of is that there won't be much left for either plaintiff or defendant.""My own view exactly. What a pity your client has been so badly advised!""Thank you! I always appreciate flattery, even though it be somewhat barefaced."My dear sir—my good Mr. Reynolds, you could not possibly think my remark had any reference to yourself.""To whom, then, did you refer?""To Mr. Mark Barry, of course; he is the moving spirit—the leader, if I may so express myself, of the whole conspiracy," returned Mr. Quinion."You can express yourself, as you have done 
before now, as you choose, of course," answered the other; "but I must say your mode of doing so seems to me singularly infelicitous. I am advising the owner of Calgarry, and it is perfectly absurd to suppose Mr. Barry is advising me.""At all events, I suppose he will appear for Mr. Conway," continued Mr. Quinion, by no means convinced of Mark's neutrality."Time enough to instruct counsel when you force us to do so. To be quite frank, I had another gentleman in my mind till this morning; but after Barry's cross-examination of Stark yesterday I am not so sure—you have read it, of course?""No; I left home in a hurry, and have been busy ever since. What was the case?""Why, you must have heard of it," said Mr. Reynolds, not in the least taken in by Mr. Quinion s affectation of child-like innocence. "Stark v. Slade—before Mr. Justice Jones and a special jury. Barry was for the defendant, and danced on Stark.""Did he, now?" said Mr. Quinion, who in a prophetic vision saw a similar performance being enacted on the body of his own client."He did, by Jove; you read the report through carefully," advised Mr. Reynolds, as earnestly as though he did not know Mr. Quinion had read it through hours before. "Yes; Barry's a wonderful fellow. This case, which he won clean against evidence, will bring him a lot of work. I don't know that I can do better than retain him for Mr. Conway—I mean if you insist on our defending an action. You see he's Irish, and knows all the ins and outs of the Conways and Calgarry; and, talking of Calgarry, I had a man with me yesterday I think you would have liked to see.""Indeed! who was that?""Mr. Conway's agent.""A fine thing to have an agent when we are told the estate has no tenants and no rent-roll!""I suppose he will try to get some tenants. Anyhow, I am sure you ought to have heard his account of the estate.""Set to the same old tune?""Precisely to the same old tune, which I fear we shall have to sing in court.""O, you rely on him for a witness?""I did not when I entered our appearance, because I was not aware such a person lived; but I certainly rely on him now; also on the former agent who saw Calgarry depopulated, and helped largely to carry out the late owner's wishes. The present man has only just put on his harness, and ran over to London on some business before beginning work. Seems a capable fellow. I wish you had seen him. Good-morning." And Mr. Reynolds went on his way, thinking he need not plant or water any more seed for the present in Mr. Quinion's receptive mind."He did not like the notion," said Mr. Reynolds, the same afternoon, to Mark, who had looked in to bear if there were anything new. "He did not like it a bit. Your yesterday's performance scared him. I never read a stiffer cross-examination, and I congratulate you. It was an immense success, though you were all wrong in your law.""My good fellow, drop it, please. If you only knew how I abominate that sort of thing!""What sort of thing?" asked Mr. Reynolds, surprised, for he thought his praise would have given the barrister pleasure."The talk of people about matters they do not understand.""O, you refer to what I said about your law. Well, you were all wrong.""I was not," returned Mr. Barry."Yes, you were; and I will prove it to you.""No—do not, I entreat, expose your ignorance. That is the worst of all solicitors—they think they can teach their grandmothers.""I could teach you some of the first rudiments of law, at any rate," retorted Mr. Reynolds."You flatter yourself, my friend: there is no single thing you could teach me, upon my word there is not;" and the barrister looked straight in the solicitor's face with an expression there was no misunderstanding."Do you mean to say—" asked the latter."Yes, that is precisely what 1 do say," returned Mark, nodding."Well, you are a cool hand," said Mr. Reynolds, with a touch of respectful admiration, adding, after a pause, as though it were an outcome of his remark, as indeed it was, "Quinion did not like it at all.""He will probably like something else worse before he has done with me," observed Mr. Barry, with careless superiority."Do you think he will want to see Stirling?""Yes, I do. I suspect I shall have a note to that effect in the morning.""There is nothing I should like better than to fight it out," aids Mark valiantly.Mr. Reynolds shook his head. "We haven't a leg to stand on," he answered."Nether has Amos," retorted Mr. Barry, in reply to which statement the solicitor shook his head again."That is what I have always said, and what I intend to stick to," went on Mark. "If you only repeat a thing often enough and with sufficient confidence, you will come eventually to believe it yourself.""I should think that depended on the nature of the thing," objected Mr. Reynolds."Nature has nothing whatever to do with the matter," persisted Mr. Barry. "There would be no use in Art if it did not entirely supersede Nature. Anyhow, I have indicated the tactics to be observed with regard to Amos—'the wicked man, you know.'"Unfortunate Mr. Benaron was precisely in a like plight with that oft-quoted individual. All through his career he had tried to eschew law when law assumed the form of publicity.He believed in mild and gentle squeezing of the human orange till every drop of juice was extracted.Persuasion is so much better than force. Very few of his clients were in a position to go to law when matters came to a final settlement—most cases, indeed, were never settled at all.After Mr. Benaron had received one way or other not only a thousand, but a hundred thousand per cent, the time arrived when that gentleman was seen to the best advantage.He could then be Christian, forgiving to an extent, generous beyond the dreams of fancy. He was wont to say to some foolish pigeon left without a feather, "I will never say another word about your debt to me. I know you would pay me if you could." Nay, he, even more than once, was known to give to the naked, ruined wretch out of his "own property."And then he would thank God he was not like Gideon or Ephraim in the City, who, after taking all he could get, still wanted more."Ah! I might have been a rich man," he was in the habit of saying, "but for my tender heart. It is death to me to see the trouble these foolish young fellows bring on themselves.""In which case," said Mark Barry on one occasion, "you must have died many deaths."The enmity between these worthies arose over some bill transactions which resulted in the disgrace and suicide of a young officer who was to have been married to Mark's sister. Ever since the barrister had, figuratively speaking, been thirsting for the usurer's blood; and though in the matter referred to Mr. Benaron knew it was impossible for any old ashes to be raked into fire, he had an uneasy feeling that somehow some-where Mark might have a rod in pickle for his benefit.There were things which, if they could but be proved, or, indeed, if they could not be quite proved, would touch him in his tenderest point. He had thought to frighten Terence, and bring him at once within reach of the holy influences of Soho. As a rule, writs do frighten people; there is a majesty about the mandates of Victoria, when thus received, which seems almost equivalent to being collared by a policeman; and as Mr. Conway boasted no more stoicism than his fellows, it had seemed reasonable to suppose that the Royal command would at once bring him to his knees.But, so far from being on his knees, Terence appeared to be standing very erect indeed. This alone was extremely disappointing, for Mr. Benaron had expected better things from a man under such deep obligations to himself; but when to this was added Mr. Reynolds' calm attitude of indifference, and that detestable smile, which always seemed to say, "Ah, if you knew what I know you would not be gambolling about, unaware a wolf is watching you!" he became so uneasy as to be anxious."I do not like pushing matters to extremity," he said to Mr. Quinion."Neither do I," answered that gentleman. "I always told you I felt certain they had something in reserve.""And yet I am so perfectly in the right.""That will not prevent Mr. Barry from making you appear entirely in the wrong."Mr. Benaron looked down with a slightly troubled look on his usually calm countenance ere he answered:He is a dangerous fellow, that—a pestilent fellow!""He is when on the other side.""On any side! I should not care to have him on mine."I would rather have him for me than against me," returned Mr. Quinion with conviction. "Well, what do you say? Had I better see this agent man or not?""What do you say? that is more the question."Mr. Benaron was clearly getting very anxious indeed.The lawyer did not answer for a minute; then he suggested:"Suppose you were to see him yourself? As you wish to arrange matters in an amicable way, why not propose a friendly and informal meeting? It is a thing I don't much like; for it always seems to me a man, when once he barks, ought to be prepared to bite, and bite sharp. However, as you clearly do not want to go on, we may as well know what this agent has to say. If Reynolds had not wished us to see him, he would not have mentioned his name.""Very well, I am in your hands," said Mr. Benaron resignedly; and thus it came about that Mr. Quinion despatched a note, written "without prejudice," proposing he and his client should meet the agent for Calgarry either at his own or Mr. Reynolds' office. "After leaving you," he said, "it occurred to me I had better let Mr. Benaron know the gentleman mentioned was in London. As I told you, though my client does not think he has been well treated, he has no vindictive feeling whatever towards Mr. Conway—quite the contrary; and I am sure I could easily persuade him to give time if once his position were recognised.Very triumphantly Mr. Reynolds showed this note to Mark. Before doing so he had despatched an answer (also without prejudice), appointing a time for the great powers to meet, but refraining from taking any notice of Mr. Quinion's feeler about a compromise."Remember I disapprove altogether of these irregular proceedings," said Mark, with great distinctness. "When a man serves a writ he ought either to go on with the matter or drop it. The proper time for negotiations is before service, not after.""But, my dear sir!" expostulated Mr. Reynolds."O yes; I know all you would say—exceptional circumstances, unfortunate position, and so forth; but what I say is, fight it out to the end. Remember that is my advice.""Which is very good, I daresay; but please recollect the point I insist on is that the time for asking your professional assistance has not yet arrived, and, frankly, I do not want it ever to arrive in this case.""No doubt you understand your own business," answered Mark, as if a little hurled, "and I do not much care how you manage it; only pray bear in mind I protested against any olive-branch being held forth for Amos to seize.""Having delivered himself of which statement with much dignity, Mark departed, his hat considerably to one side, and a curious expression on his face that puzzled Mr. Reynolds a good deal.Some thought of asking Mr. Barry to make a fifth at the friendly little party had crossed his mind, but in view of that gentleman's uncompromising attitude the lawyer decided they were likely after all to get on better without him.When the day and the hour arrived, however, Mr. Barry came up to time almost as punctually as any of those invited to be present.He appeared with laurels clustering thick around his fore-head, for by sheer dint of talk and audacity he had won another case literally in a canter.Carelessly supercilious to the two lawyers, he nodded in a distant sort of manner to Mr. Stirling, and then playfully addressing Mr. Benaron as Shylock, asked him if he was expecting to get his pound of flesh."I expect to get my money," answered the gentleman from Soho."Which you shall never have, if I can prevent it," replied Mark."Are you come in the character of Portia?" inquired Mr. Stirling, which suggestion caused a laugh. "Because, if so, you ought to act more up to the character."For an instant Mr. Barry stared at the speaker as if astonished at his assurance, but then he bowed and said, "Faith, you are in the right, sir. I am only here to watch matters, so I will speak no further word till it is asked for. Now, go ahead."After that the "palaver" began. Mr. Stirling told all he knew about the state of Calgarry, about the depreciation of property, the absolute impecuniosity of Mr. Conway, the total uselessness of trying to get money out of the bogs and stones of Donegal."Where, I assure you, Mr. Benaron," he added, "there are no gold mines, even if we had capital to work them.""But the estate can be sold," remarked Mr. Benaron."It can, at a price," answered Mr. Stirling, " were Mr. Conway willing to sell—which, however, he is not.""I apprehend the option is not with him," said Mr. Benaron."Yon mean that you will force him to fight?""I should feel most reluctant to do so.""Or perhaps," suggested Mr. Stirling, "you think of keeping him hanging between heaven and hell till all the spirit has died out of him; but I fancy we can prevent that""Hear, hear!" exclaimed Mr. Barry."My attitude towards Mr. Conway is, spite of all that has passed, most friendly," said Mr. Benaron, "and if he will only meet me fairly I am quite prepared to give him time.""For the whole of the debt?""For the whole of the debt."Mr. Stirling smiled a little sarcastically."I do not think that will do," he said."What do you mean?" asked Mr. Quinion."He means, of course, that we don't admit the debt," explained Mr. Reynolds."Then, gentlemen, you leave me no alternative?" asked Mr. Benaron."That is exactly the position in a nutshell," answered Mark; "we leave you no alternative.""If Mr. Reynolds and Mr. Quinion will pardon my remark," observed Mr. Benaron, "it does seem to me a suicidal policy to spend a small fortune in fighting a matter which might be arranged so amicably.""We do not want to fight," answered Mr. Reynolds."I beg your pardon, that is precisely what we do want," put in Mark."It seems to me," ventured Mr. Stirling, "that the old ground is being traversed and re-traversed. in a very useless sort of manner; that is a matter, however, of which, being no lawyer, I am, perhaps, scarcely a judge; but there is a point on which I have formed a very decided opinion, and with your permission, Mr. Reynolds, I will now mention it.""I do not like to give permission till I know what the point is," answered Mr. Reynolds cautiously."It relates to the insurances—to the heavy insurances—on Mr. Conway's life. May I proceed?""What do you say, Mr. Barry?'' asked Mr. Reynolds."You are not going to put a weapon into the hands of the enemy, are you?" said Mr. Barry jocosely."I hope not.""Then let us hear your remarks.""You may imagine, Mr. Benaron," proceeded Mr. Stirling, thus encouraged, "as recently appointed agent for the Calgarry estate, I feel a very serious responsibility rests upon me.""I can well understand that," said Mr. Benaron politely."And with the feeling of responsibility strong upon me, I shall use every means in my power to induce Mr. Conway to let those insurances lapse."Mark Barry dropped the newspaper he had been pretending to read, and looked at Mr. Stirling in genuine astonishment; so did Mr. Quinion and Mr. Reynolds. Mr. Benaron alone betrayed no surprise or disquietude."Pardon me," he observed, "but as regards those insurances Mr. Conway has no choice.""In other words, it is your intention for the future, as heretofore, to pay the premiums on his behalf, and charge him with the amount? Several of them are coming due now.""Yes, and he has no power of evading those premiums except by paying me my debt.""A man can always find one way to avoid paying anything he does not want to pay.""And that is?""Bankruptcy. I am sorry, Mr. Reynolds, to have said what perhaps I ought not to have done. But about these insurances I feel so strongly that I cannot hold my peace. No man ought to go about—particularly in Ireland—with such a price on his head."If Mr. Stirling had thrown a shell amongst the company, a greater sensation could scarcely have been produced. In a moment Mr. Barry was on his feet, asking furiously,"What do you mean, sir, by saying ' particularly in Ire-land'? Have you the audacity to imply that Mr. Conway's life is not as safe there as in England?" while both Mr. Benaron and Mr. Quinion essayed to speak, but their words were borne away by the barrister's indignation as chaff is borne before the wind."As you ask me," said Mr. Stirling, when peace was restored, in a perfectly unmoved manner, and in a voice which only changed into a stronger Scottish accent, "I do not think Mr. Conway's heavily-insured life is so safe in Ireland as in England, and for this reason: it could be ended there with much greater impunity than here. If some day there appeared in the Times a statement that he had been found dead with a bullet through him, it would be at once concluded the crime was agrarian. Suspicion would fall on the tenantry—""Stop!" interposed Mr. Benaron. "Are you aware your words imply that I would connive at MURDER?""If my words bear any such meaning to your mind I cannot help, however much I may regret, your interpretation," returned Mr.Stirling. "I say no man is safe who has such a price on his head. You, Mr. Benaron, are doubtless superior to such a temptation; but supposing you were to fall into difficulties—""I cannot suppose such a thing," interrupted the other."And that one of your creditors," pursued Mr. Stirling calmly, "were—unlike you—bound by no scruples, and, perhaps, hard pressed himself—""Mr. Reynolds, I appeal to you," insisted Mr. Benaron."I think the subject had better drop, Mr. Stirling; I do indeed," said the solicitor."Very well: only I ask you to take notice that I protested and do protest against those insurances with all the might I possess, and I shall not rest till I have delivered Mr. Conway from what I cannot but consider a very dangerous position. As I have disburdened my mind of one great source of anxiety, and answered Mr. Benaron's question to the best of my ability, perhaps I had better leave. If I have given offence I am sorry; but my conscience would not let me keep silence. I will go now, Mr. Reynolds.""No, you won't—and nobody shall go till we have come to some conclusion about this matter," declared Mark determinedly. "My cousin, though nearly seven-and-twenty, is, in comparison with all of us, a mere stripling, and I do not intend to let him be run down by a pack of wolves, or left to creep through life with such a sword of Damocles as these iniquitous debts suspended over his head."Mr. Benaron rose. "Our interview has not proved quite a success, Mr. Reynolds," he said, "though I believe we both meant that good should come of it. I feel it due to myself to end it now.""Why did you come here, then," asked Mark, "if you neither wanted to hear the truth nor intended to make any proposition when you had heard it?""I came here," answered Mr. Benaron, with great command of temper, "hoping Mr. Conway's friends had thought of some plan whereby they could extricate him from his difficulties, and would discuss it temperately. Had I known my intentions were to be misjudged and my conduct commented on in such language as you and Mr. Stirling have been pleased to use, I should have stayed away.""I heartily wish you had," said Mr. Quinion, in a sort of parenthesis."If any language of mine has been the cause of hindering a better understanding, I am honestly sorry," observed Mr. Stirling, answering the first speaker; "but I think in common fairness my situation with regard to this matter should be considered. I come fresh into a strange agency in a strange part of the country, and find myself confronted with almost every conceivable difficulty. I want to be faithful to an employer who has done me the honour to explain his circumstances, and I can but repeat what I said before, that I shall employ every means to prevent Mr. Conway continuing those insurances. There is no necessity for them now. They were all very well, perhaps, while the late owner of Calgarry lived; but he is dead, and Mr. Conway has come into the property—""Which you tell me is valueless.""It will need years of hard work to make it worth much; and we certainly shall not mend matters by recklessly flinging the money out of one pocket that we may manage to scrape into the other.""There is no object in prolonging this discussion," said Mr. Benaron stiffly. "I shall certainly keep Mr. Conway's life insured till he or the law gives me my due.""Shylock at his best," observed Mark."But you are not the only creditor, sir," persisted Mr. Stirling, unmindful of the interruption."The more reason why I should look sharply after myself," retorted Mr. Benaron."In the case of Reuben against Pittis," went on Mr. Stirling, trying desperately to make his view of affairs intelligible, "the question of insurance cropped up. You can't remember that, Mr. Barry; it was before your time. But my father had a great deal to do with it."Mr. Stirling, as he spoke, turned towards Mark, who was not looking at him, however, but straight past the agent at Mr. Benaron, over whose face there had come suddenly a gray shadowy pallor."What case was that? I never remember to have met with it," asked Mr. Barry.It was the case of a young idiot who had been raising money on the anticipation of his grandfather's death. They were not so particular about insurance matters in those days, and the grandson managed to insure the old man's chances as against his. Nice arrangement, wasn't it?""Do you think the history of affairs that happened in the dark ages will assist us much in the present instance?" inquired Mr. Benaron, with a strained smile."I think it might, for, in some ways, it was on all fours with Mr. Conway's case. My father was factor to old Mr. Pittis of Blairwinning, and when he got an inkling of the way things were in—""Even as a matter of politeness, Mr. Quinion, is it necessary for us to stop any longer?" asked Mr. Benaron."We have stopped too long already," replied Mr. Quinion; "our only course, I see, is now to push matters on as rapidly as possible.""I suppose, Mr. Reynolds, we shall be able to get time to go into the account," said Mr. Stirling; "I have only been able to glance at it, yet that glance showed me—"With an impatient gesture Mr. Benaron moved towards the door."You will have whatever the law allows you—no less, no more," he said defiantly."So will you! What is sauce for the goose, etcetera," retorted Mark."Before I leave I wish to say I believe the whole matter might have been amicably arranged had it not been for the presence of Mr. Barry, and the interference of this—this—gentleman.""He means that, but for us, they would have flayed Conway clean, and sold the skin," explained Mark, for the benefit of all whom it might concern."I greatly regret that a meeting in your office suggested by myself should have terminated in such a painful scene," said Mr. Quinion, with elaborate politeness, to Mr. Reynolds."I regret it too," answered that gentleman; "there seems nothing to be done now except allow the law to act as umpire.""There is no other course open. Good-afternoon, Mr. Reynolds—good-afternoon, gentlemen;" and Mr. Quinion followed his client, who had already, without any ceremony of leave-taking, left the room.Scarcely had the door closed after him before Mark, taking Mr. Stirling by the arm, asked eagerly,"Now what the deuce was Reuben v. Pittis?""It was a bad case—a very bad case indeed—but the whole of the circumstances were never made public, as the matter was arranged after coming into court.""Confound those arrangements!'' exclaimed Mr. Barry, who had, however, spite of their strain on his principles, assisted to compass several."I happen to know to know all about the matter, though, went on Mr. Stirling, "because my father had a great deal to do with it. Old Mr. Pittis despatched him to London, and he managed to find out circumstances which practically caused the arrangement I spoke about""Who was Reuben?""Only the ostensible plaintiff; a fellow named Aaron was the moving spirit."Mark executed a pas seul."Heaven and earth! why did you not tell me all this long ago?" he asked. "Our friend Amos is Aaron's son—his only son.""You do not mean that?""Don't I! you'll see.""How strange, how very strange! It was quite without design I mentioned the case at all to-day, though, for some reason or other, I have had it much in my mind lately.""You drew at a bow at a venture, eh?" interposed Mr. Reynolds, emerging from the depths of despair, into which the exit of Mr. Quinion had plunged him."Just so," answered Mr. Stirling, quite simply. As for Mark, his exultation was so great it almost reduced him to quietness."Hast thou found me, O mine enemy?'' he said to him-self. Then with a delighted grin he answered,"Yes, Amos—yes, my friend—I have."CHAPTER XIX.SORELY DISAPPOINTED.AFTER the Scriptural pleasantries which ended the last chapter, Mr. Barry lost no time in carrying the ally who had come up to turn the tide of battle off to his chambers in Old square, where he insisted on receiving an exhaustive report of " Reuben v. Pittis."When he put his heart in a matter, Mark was one of the best of listeners, which could not be considered other than fortunate, since Mr. Stirling was at times the most prolix of narrators."Reuben against Pittis" had been the one great event preserved in the Stirling archives, and Mr. Barry heard the agent at his prosiest when descanting upon its many iniquities and peculiarities.With knitted brow, sitting in the most unprofessional of attitudes—nursing his right ankle on his left knee—Mark listened to the stream of earnest Scotch, and at the same time hooked with his swift keen brain each fish as it floated past.Mr. Barry was one of those men about whom it is impossible to predicate anything.He might make a spoon, he might spoil a horn: he might sit on the Bench, he might trail his barrister's gown through mud unspeakable, and end his career in prison or exile.So many who, after starting life with as great advantages, social, intellectual, physical, as he, have failed in the race because of some weakness or vice perfectly capable of being cured at an early stage in their career, that it seemed, to quote his own expression, a mere "toss up" whether he would sober down before it was too late, or finally, taking the bit between his teeth, bolt for a terrible locality of which Mr. Barry too often spoke with the freedom of intimate acquaintance.Quite certainly, with talents such as his, and plenty of courage and confidence to back them (lacking which often-times the finest genius may be constrained to beg its bread) there were not many positions beyond his reach, if only—only—But, unhappily, that "only" meant so much that the few wise friends Mark possessed felt chary about prophesying for him any stable success.There were times when even Letitia had her doubts. She would almost have torn any other person's eyes out who had ventured to express an adverse opinion concerning her husband's future; but yet, undoubtedly, at intervals she wished Mark could see more clearly the beauty and holiness of conforming to English ideas (wrong though most of them might be, and undoubtedly were).Upon the other hand, many "medium people" (that is, people who can see as far as their neighbours, though without setting themselves up to possess any specially keen gift of sight) inclined to the opinion that a man capable of doing so much, and giving up so much, as Mark Barry had done and given up might accomplish wonders.Brought up in utter idleness, he had buckled to work with a will when the pressing need came. Born to expect a fortune, and bred in such habits of recklessness as would have rendered it easy for him to spend two or three—nevertheless, the day he understood his position he faced it without flinching.To many and many an Irish gentleman the potato blight came as did the Deluge to those of old time. Up to that period they ate, they drank, they married and were given in marriage; and then in a moment the flood was on them. The long pleasant years of feasting and spending, of credit and mortgaging, were over, and suddenly—in a minute, as it seemed—a day of terrible reckoning arrived.Plenty there were who endured their reverses with pitiable patience, but few could be found possessed of courage and strength enough to recognise their danger and do battle with it."Not one in ten," said Mark Barry afterwards, "need have gone to the wall had they only taken their hands out of their empty pockets and turned to with a will;" but it was hard for those who, for generations, had never done anything, nor thought of doing anything, to run counter to their traditions, and regard life seriously instead of as a play.Mr. Barry's father, for instance, need not have let his property slip out of his fingers had it been possible to look at the state of his affairs rationally, alter his style of living, and put his shoulder to the wheel.Every possession passed from him because he would do none of these things, or let any one else do them for him.As a landowner in Ireland, he was ruined for precisely the same reason that thousands are bankrupt each year in England—he got faint and tired. Anything seemed to him better than the life he was leading; and as he had no knowledge of how much worse it was possible for a life to be, he let everything go from him, and walked from his mortgaged acres into lodgings, where, after having sounded those depths of humiliation men who have once held a good position are perhaps alone able to plumb, he died quite resignedly, leaving his widow and two daughters a charge on his son.Ere that event happened, however, Mark had shown the stuff he was made of. He lost no time in useless lamentations, but at once set to work to make money. What he went through in the struggle he never told any one, not even his wife."It was a tough fight," he explained—and with that statement his reminiscences began and ended; but the experiences of those days always made him assert that the man who did not think his property worth a battle was unworthy of having any."Stick to your land; it is easier and pleasanter to starve on your own ground than on any other person's," was one of his favourite axioms; and thus it chanced that he joined issue with his wife on the subject of Calgarry."Sell!" he repeated. "Are you mad, Lettie? How long do you suppose it would take Terence to run through three times over all he could get for it? And he would be nobody then. The Nun, did you say? My dear child, go and nurse your baby, and don't talk folly! If that good woman has taken a fancy to Terence, getting rid of Calgarry won't get rid of her so long as he has a halfpenny to waste or spend. Besides, there is no money can make up to a man for the loss of his estate. Once it is gone, he knows it was meat and drink, wife, child, friends, and parents to him.""I believe," declared Lettie in a fury, "if you could only get that horrid place of your father's back again you would not care if I and the babies were dead and buried!""There is no hope of my ever having to make a choice," answered Mr. Barry, in a tone of regret; "and as for the rest, if you and the babies were dead I would take very good care you were buried.""And I will take remarkably good care you never have a chance of doing anything of the kind!" retorted Lettie; and she went off, banging the door after her, resolutely refusing Mark's proposal to "kiss and be friends.""No, Conway shall not make ducks and drakes of Calgarry through any d—d foolery if I can prevent him," he said to Mr. Stirling, when that gentleman called upon him after his arrival in London; and when to this feeling was added an absolute detestation of the chief creditor, it will be understood that Mark was very much in earnest about the affair.To the last word he heard Mr. Stirling's narrative, then he sat for a few minutes silent before he remarked:"Amos won't let the matter come into court if he can help it; but I think that is the only pull we have. After all, though your case was a confoundedly bad one, it never got threshed out; and it happened a long time ago, and it was not this man, but his father. Juries are getting to like retrospective mud-throwing less and less. Be hanged, if I don't think after a while there will be a statute of limitations for rascality as well as for debt, and that we sha'n't be allowed to rake up any scandal about even the worst of scoundrels after a few years! What we must do now, I am afraid, is make a proposal. I'll talk things over with Reynolds, and get him to write a letter. Meanwhile, you need not stay here any longer. You and Conway had better go back to Donegal, and plant your crops and find tenants, or whatever your hands find to do. Yes, you may as well start at once. I'd rather Conway was out of London—and you too now, for that matter.""We'll go, then," agreed the agent; "but won't you let Mr. Conway have a word with Miss Dutton while he is here? No man could have been more docile, but I am sure he is fairly wearying for a sight of the lady. Quite natural, too. Put it to yourself, Mr. Barry; it is hard for him to be in the same town with the girl he loves and not see her.""Some day, perhaps," retorted Mark, "he will find it harder to be in the same town and have to see her. However, if you and he leave in the morning, tell him he is at liberty to drive—drive, mind you—to Sir Henry's this evening. It is as well, perhaps, he should go there—help to keep the soup warm.""There seems little likelihood of it cooling on his side," said Mr. Stirling."Ah! I was thinking of the other side," answered Mark."Do you not think she is fond of him, then?""I do not know. She is remarkably fond of herself.""And yet he is a man I should have imagined any woman might fancy.""I do not consider myself an utter idiot, or you either," answered Mr. Barry; "but I believe it would take some one a vast deal cleverer than either of us to discover what this woman fancies. There is something about Terence she does like, I suppose, or she would not let the affair drift on. I confess, however, I cannot imagine what that something is—not himself, I am very sure.""How I wish I could see her!""Seeing her would not help you much to a conclusion. She is very handsome, though," Mark added reflectively, "and she has such a deuce of a lot of money.""So I understand," remarked Mr. Stirling, thinking, as he spoke, how very useful some of that money would prove at the present juncture.Perhaps Mr. Barry conjectured what was passing through the agent's mind, for he said,"If Conway married her to-morrow, however—or rather, to put the matter differently and better, if she married Conway, say the day after to-morrow—Calgarry would not be a halfpenny the better for all her money.""No! how is that?""Wherever Miss Dutton is she will want all her money for herself—and more, too, if she can get it. On the whole, I imagine Terence may find himself just as well without her; but that is neither your business nor mine.""It certainly is not mine," returned Mr. Stirling, a good deal crestfallen."And you may take your oath I don't intend to make it mine," rejoined Mark. "And now, if Conway is to see his young woman to-night, you had better be getting back to him. I've a mass of work to get through before I go home, so you will forgive my not asking you to stay. Good-bye, old fellow; you've done a lot of service by coming to London. Stick to Conway. I don't think you'll repent it, even if you are never a farthing the richer. Good-bye again; God speed you at Calgarry. I'll try my hardest to put things straight here."And the two men, both after their fashion so loyal and so strong, wrung hands and parted—the one to hasten back to Terence with a report of the day's work, and the other to reconsider this last change in the aspect of the game.No man ever heard from Mark what it cost him to give up the pleasure he had proposed to himself of baiting Mr. Benaron in the witness-box—of "putting the old blackguard through his paces," and stretching him on the rack to confess his sins, but he felt this renunciation keenly.Before Mr. Stirling's story was finished he had decided the only course to adopt in Terence's interest was to see how little Mr. Benaron would accept, and how much pressure that gentleman could be induced to exercise in the way of settling matters all round."If we brag and threaten any more, instead of doing our spiriting gently, we shall only have the others on us tooth-and-nail, tearing Conway and the estate to pieces. I wonder what Amos will let us off for? If only those confounded Scotch people had fought to the bitter end, whatever that means, what a screw I could have put upon him!"As far as I can judge, however, it was very likely six of one and half a dozen of the other. A charming scoundrel young Mr. Pittis seems to have been. Let us see: he first obtains money by misrepresentation, then he tries to repudiate the liability. When that won't do, he gets more money, and insures the life of an old gentleman, who is not the owner of Blairwinning at all. When, through a pure accident, Mr. Pittis senior discovers the pretty little game, and takes fright about his life—which would have been in a great deal more danger had Young Hopeful known for a certainty whether the elder's will were in his favour—he adopts the character of a simple innocent, and says he should have never thought of doing anything wrong if that naughty, naughty man, that vile moneylender, that infamous Jew, had not suggested sin after sin, and compelled him to commit them. Faugh! I'd like to have had the cutting of a pound of flesh off his body! No! it won't do to depend on Reuben v. Pittis, black as our venerable Aaron's share in the matter undoubtedly was."We can do better for Conway, I think, but I shall never have such a chance of getting my knife into Amos again—never! Well, we must see what can be done for Calgarry. I think it may be saved, though man never had a greater simpleton to pull out of a pit of debt than Terence. I'd rather any day have to do with fifty rogues than one fool." After which testimony to the power of wisdom, Mark heaved a deep sigh at being constrained to forego his vengance for the sake of the one worldly good he esteemed more highly.Just as, in the old days, to be in at the death, first at the winning-post, bring down his bird, land his fish, seemed to him the thing most, for the time, desirable in life; so now, when he had forsworn every triumph which could be achieved, save in his profession, a legal victory attained in his eyes the dimensions of a gloriously won battle.To victory, the next best result, halting far behind a bad second, was a successful arrangement. Defeat he could not brook. No good lawyer ought ever to be defeated, he maintained; and, in justice to Mr. Barry, it may be said he was never particular about the character of the weapons that gained him the day."I'll drop a note to Reynolds, and advise him to make an offer. Our doing so now will prove to Amos that we know our strength, and can afford to come to terms. After all, it is only going back to the point I should have started from, if that ninny had not perilled his chances by paying his foolish visit to Monksborough. Amos, you old thief, you shall see what you shall see before any of us are much older—wiser some among us could not well be."And having shaken hands with himself in this appreciative fashion, Mr. Barry settled down in earnest to his work.CHAPTER XX.ON THE WAY TO CHURCH.DRIVING even in a jingling, rackety four-wheeler over the London stones, Terence Conway, released at length from durance vile in the quiet hotel Mr. Stirling wot of, felt jubilant, like a prisoner let loose.He was in the highest spirits: he laughed out of the exuberance of his heart—he made jesting remarks, the gist of which his companion generally failed to catch. He enjoyed the ceaseless stir and hubbub of London as a child might: everything pleased—nothing disturbed him. His mind had been kept for so long a time on the stretch that, after a period of sustained despondency, the young man went at once to the opposite extreme. In the course of that happy journey he saw even the dark side of metropolitan life through rose-coloured glass, and came to the conclusion this was the best of all possible worlds, and he a most fortunate unit in it. In the fulness of his joy he had insisted on carrying Mr. Stirling off to see the dearest and most beautiful of all lovely girls; and now, seated beside the owner of Calgarry, Mr. Stirling listened to his gay talk, and thought about many things, with most of which Miss Dutton had to do.To Mr. Malet, Terence's light-heartedness would have seemed full of evil omen for his future; but Mr. Stirling felt no uneasiness. He did not want old heads on young shoulders. He had not been brought up to approve overmuch of masters making themselves too busy about affairs which it was the business of some one else to see managed properly.Just as servants like a mistress who does not adventure into the kitchen, so Mr. Stirling's sympathies were with an employer who could at a moment's notice throw the burden of an estate off his shoulders, and enjoy possession without troubling himself unduly about responsibility. The agent knew he had ever been a faithful steward, and he did feel his position was likely to be much pleasanter for the fact that Mr. Conway's temperament differed most materially from his own.Mr. Stirling asked no truer happiness, no greater enjoyment, than hard work, and plenty of it. To Terence work of any sort seemed an absolute waste of life;—inclination, duty, Philippa's excellent sermons about high aims, a desire to come up to her standard, and a secret though unacknowledged feeling that if a man had to be always considering what he ought to do, instead of what he should like to do, existence must eventually become a great bore, were almost continually now tearing the owner of Calgarry to pieces. Ever since his arrival in London he had been abjectly wretched—a prey to anxiety, a sincere penitent—a man willing to enter into almost any compact that promised to insure peace; and now in a moment his cage-door was set open, and he fluttered out into that good world of hope and love and happiness where alone he seemed to breathe."We shall soon be there," he said, in a pleasant flutter of excitement, to his companion, as they passed Tattersall's, and kept along the Brompton Road."Yes, we are close to Sloane Street now," agreed Mr. Stirling. "At which end does Sir Henry live?""Close to the Square, overlooking it.""That must make the house fine and pleasant?""It does, it does," answered Terence eagerly. "Many a happy day I have spent there watching the trees putting on their spring dress of green.""Ay, and with one beside, I suppose, watching the trees as well as you?"Terence could not help laughing. "There were generally two of us, if not more, assisting at Nature's toilette," he replied. "I wonder, Stirling, what you will think of her?""Of Nature—or of Nature's noblest work, a fine woman?" asked Mr. Stirling. "If it is the last you mean, I make no doubt I shall think the young lady as handsome as other People do.""And she is good as she is beautiful," went on the lover rapturously."Beauty and goodness do not always walk hand-in-hand; but I am sure in this case they are always out together.""And always at home together, which is better still," returned Terence, with assured conviction."Indeed, your way of it is far the most sensible," agreed Mr. Stirling. "Isn't this the place? We are in the Square." But even as he spoke the cab stopped, and Terence precipitated himself on to the pavement, and knocked loudly at the door of a modest house. It was not Sir Henry's trusty butler that answered the summons, but a maidservant, who knew Terence very well, though he did not know her.Lady Beecham was in the drawing-room, she said; and then Mr. Stirling found himself following the owner of Calgarry up a quaint old-fashioned staircase, occupying the whole middle of the house, and next instant he was bowing low to Sir Henry Beecham's wife—most of whose life chanced to be spent in saying to her liege lord: "Yes, dear," "No, dear," "How wonderful!" "Well, to be sure!"—remarks which answered their purpose better than the most exhaustive argument or learned commentary.Not that Lady Beecham was without opinions and convictions of her own, which she never hesitated to express, especially when Sir Henry chanced to be absent. She was not of those too-easily-satisfied persons who believe "whatever is, is best." Quite the contrary. Lady Beecham always, after playing some soft little verbal prelude, proceeded to inform her auditors that whatever had been was the only thing worth talking about. She belonged to that order of woman who, if her lot had been cast among our early ancestors, would have gone on painting herself blue for ever rather than throw such discredit on the wiseacres of old as take to wearing clothes or even selecting another shade of colour. For Lady Beecham, the clock of the world had stopped more years ago than she would have cared to count; and it certainly was never likely to go on again. No girls were so pretty, no men so chivalrous, no fashions so becoming, no homes so comfortable, as the girls, men, fashions, and homes of the lady's youth. For the rest, she was a kindly, simple, unselfish body—full of prejudices, possessed of no grasp of mind—who liked to see every one about her, even to a scullion-maid, happy: who loved her ease, adored her husband, and occasionally, by chance, hit upon some great truth which wiser intellects might have toiled to discover. Still, in a feeble refined sort of way, a lovely and charming woman, with a low soft voice and tender caressing manners, strangers were always delighted with her, and left Sir Henry's house with the true impression that matrimonially he had been as fortunate as many other equally worthy people are not."Why, Terence, my dear, this is a pleasure!" she exclaimed, as that young gentleman entered; and she stretched out both her white delicate hands in greeting, which he took and held while he kissed her soft cheek, that had still a pretty pink flush in it, which deepened a little with gladness at sight of "her boy."For the owner of Calgarry had been always a favourite with her. Long before there was any thought of his succeeding to such a kingdom he might have been a son of the house, so freely did its doors open to admit him. Yes, without doubt, Lady Beecham felt very glad to see his pleasant frank face now he had "come into his own.""I was in London on business, and I could not go away without even a glimpse of you," he explained; "let me introduce Mr. Stirling, who is going to put everything right for me about Calgarry.""I am most happy to make your acquaintance, Mr. Stirling," said Lady Beecham, with that sweet smile which was, in its way, famous amongst those who knew her; and then she gave a delicate jewelled hand to the agent, who took to the lady at once, as everybody did."And how is Sir Henry?" asked Terence, looking round the room in quest of something he did not find."Quite well; but I am so vexed and sorry, dear boy.""About what?" he inquired, a little nervously."Because I cannot invite you to dinner—there is, in fact, no dinner to invite you to.""Is that all?" returned Terence, relieved; "I don't think Stirling or I care much if we never had any dinner.""Speak for yourself, young man," thought Mr. Stirling; but he felt constrained to follow Terence's lead, and say dinner was a subject on which he was perfectly indifferent, which statement seemed to him hard; for he had eaten nothing since breakfast, and Terence, before hurrying away from their hotel, had assured him they would arrive at Sloane Street in time for a meal Sir Henry took care was always as good as its importance deserved."The fact is," said Lady Beecham, after listening to these statements, which long experience of mankind compelled her to receive only for what they might be worth, "this chances to be a saint's eve at Mr. Rawson's church" (as if it had been something quite different elsewhere), "and dear Philippa prefers on such occasions to have early dinners, and then a little supper in the evening. So Sir Henry has gone to his club; but I have no doubt cook can find something for you now, and if you will remain for supper we shall be delighted.""Is Philippa gone to church, then?" asked Terence, too deeply disappointed to take any notice of these hospitable suggestions."Not yet. She will be down directly. How surprised she will be to find you here!""Won't you—will you—let her know?" hesitated Terence."Certainly, if you wish; but she will not go without coming in. However—" and Lady Beecham rang the bell.Before it could be answered the door opened, and Philippa herself appeared—a glorious vision—still mourning for her dead kinsman, but in thick corded silk, the richness of which bore testimony at once to the extent of her wealth and her woe; her bonnet also was of a lighter material than when she stood in old Calgarry churchyard, and her fair face not hidden by a veil.A beautiful woman truly: no marvel both men gazed at her enchanted."Do you see who this is, Philippa?" said Lady Beecham, a little nervously."I had not the slightest idea you were here," said Miss Dutton to her lover, shaking hands with the greatest propriety and bowing graciously to Mr. Stirling; "when did you come?""A few minutes since," he answered."I was just going to send Simmons to tell you," added Lady Beecham."Now what will she do?" wondered the agent."What a pity your uncle is not at home!" again remarked that uncle's wife."Yes; but he will be back ere long," said Miss Dutton. "You are going to stop, I suppose?" to her love."Yes—I—I believe so," answered Terence; "you will be able to stay, won't you?" turning to Mr. Stirling."With many thanks to Lady Beecham for her kindness.""You are going to church?" hazarded the young man, addressing his adored one."Yes," said Philippa, with a seraphic smile, while taking up a Church Service correct in every detail of binding. "I promised Mrs. Rawson," she added, as if it had suddenly occurred to her as within the bounds of possibility that some apology might be expected: "a friend of hers is to preach on behalf of Bishop Lindsay's mission."Terence, who knew nothing of Bishop Lindsay or his mission either, stood silent, feeling a little chilled and a good deal disappointed.He never was equal to these occasions; much as he always desired to learn the language of Philippa's thought, he never had been able, perhaps for want of an instructor, to master even its ABC. For instance, this Bishop Lindsay, if he got him up it would be somebody else next time; and his ignorance about such matters made him seem so stupid!"Perhaps you would like to go with Philippa and hear the sermon, too," suggested Lady Beecham, grieved to see the rebuffed expression Terence's face wore."Yes, if I may," he answered eagerly. "May I?"—speaking to Philippa—" or would you rather—""I shall be glad to have you with me," she said sweetly. "Only I am afraid sermons tire you a little, do they not?""No; I delight in sermons," asserted the young man mendaciously."Then I think, as it is getting late, we had better—" suggested Miss Button."I am ready," said Terence, understanding the ellipsis."Do you care about sermons, Mr. Stirling?' asked Lady Beecham courteously."Only on Sundays," he answered with a quaint smile; "but I need not intrude longer. I can go back to the hotel."That, however, was a course his hostess would not hear of."Stay and keep me company," she said; "we two will nave a cosy chat all by ourselves while the young people are hearing about the mission. And that reminds me," she added—as the hall-door closed behind the lover and his fair—"I never asked that boy to have anything to eat.""I think you have done far better for him," remarked Mr. Stirling dryly; and the pair smiled at each other with such perfect understanding that the ice of fresh acquaintanceship broke at once."How does it happen you have not the brougham this evening?" asked Terence, as he and Philippa, followed by a maid and man, walked in the direction of Mr. Rawson's church —a new one, known to the initiated, the police, and postmen, as St. Hilda, Virgin and Martyr.The young man put the question more because he longed to say something than from any curiosity about the brougham; but, as it happened, he could not have selected a more suitable topic, or one that lay at the moment much nearer Miss Dutton's heart."When there is only one brougham, and several persons wish to make use of it, some one must occasionally walk," she answered in her even measured voice. "To-day I believe the horse is lame; but there is always a reason why I cannot have the carriage.""What a shame!" exclaimed Terence, not exactly knowing against whom his exclamation was levelled, but feeling sure if he had fifty conveyances, all, from a low-backed car to the family chariot, should be at her command."O! pray do not imagine I am complaining," she entreated; "only it is often so difficult to make Sir Henry understand.""He is very hard to convince," said Terence, remembering his own experiences."And do not you think aunt is the same?" asked Miss Dutton tentatively.Terence would have liked to answer "Yes" without hesitation, but he had not tried to make Lady Beecham comprehend those several things which Sir Henry could not be brought to see, and besides the memory of many, many kindnesses was too present in his mind at the moment to allow him to be false to his friends, even for the sake of pleasing his ladylove."It has not seemed so to me," he said, weakly, temporising."You have not lived with her, you know," observed Miss Dutton, as if excusing some fault in the man who adored her; "but she is really sometimes—difficult, I suppose," went on the beauty. "It is all owing to their being old; they forget what they felt when they were young.""Most old people do, I fancy," answered Terence, with a dreadful sense of disloyalty. "By the bye, what has become of Morland?""O, poor Morland—he has been such a trouble to us! You know, I have a very nice maid, so trustworthy and well educated—quite a superior person, in fact, and devoted to her religious duties. Unhappily, Morland could not agree with her; said the most dreadful things—things no woman who respected herself would have been justified in enduring—so uncle had to give him notice, and we have now a most worthy creature. That is he walking with Dickson. But I do feel truly grieved about Morland. Uncle believed there was no one like him.""He was a very faithful servant.""I am not so sure of that. He had got into uncle's ways; but whether he was faithful is, I fear, quite another question."Terence said nothing. He had an honest gentleman's dislike to seeing an old servant sent to the right-about; but who was he to doubt the soundness of his adored one's judgment? Besides, if Sir Henry had not thought Morland in fault, he would never have let him go. Nevertheless, he felt vexed, and made no comment—only wondered whether the new butler were as much devoted to his religious duties as Miss Dutton's maid, and if that were the reason General Beecham dined on saint's eves at his club."So you have been enjoying yourself greatly?" said Philippa, finding no remark was hazarded about her last statement."Where?" asked Terence. He had been through such rough waters lately, that for the time all memory of Monks-borough was wiped clean off his mind."At the Foyles'. I heard you spent a delightful time there.""I had forgotten. Yes, it was a very good time with them, and I enjoyed myself as much as I could enjoy myself anywhere away from you.""That is a very pretty speech," said Miss Dutton, who, to Terence's surprise, did not seem offended."It is a very true one," he answered earnestly."Then I think I must in return tell you something very pleasant.""That I may ask you to like me?""Why, I have always liked you.""To love me, then?" he amended."Now, Terence, what was the compact between us?""I beg your pardon—you made me forget it; only—but never mind all that. I won't offend again.""Thank you," she answered. "Now you shall hear my good news. I am likely to be quite near you this summer.""Really? Then Sir Henry intends coming to Calgarry.""I do not know—I cannot say—but, at all events, I hope to be in Donegal. It came about in the strangest way. When Mrs. Rawson and I were at Hastings we met a Mrs. Boyne, who turned out to be Captain Conway's mother—such a charming creature we became quite attached; and, as she is going to Mostrene Castle in July, she procured an invitation for me, which I have accepted. Now, are not you pleased?"It was a mild April evening, with a light south-west wind, and a suspicion of coming rain in the air, yet it seemed to Terence that he was met with a wild blast from the north, while at the same moment the ice fiends laid hold of him.Yet his sense told him there was no just cause or reason why Philippa should eschew Captain Conway's mother, or refuse an invitation to Mostrene, or affect indifference because it had been given.If she chose to be friends with the people who had ousted him—if she liked to accept a " procured " offer of hospitality from persons who had been proud to know the Conways of Calgarry on terms of more than equality in days gone by, and might possibly be glad in the future to know them on any terms again—it was not for him to object.There is always—whether we recognise the fact or not—a beginning to everything, and the beginning to a little tiny rift within the lute of his mistress's perfections came about when Terence noticed the gratified tone in which Philippa spoke of having been bidden to Mostrene."Little as any one might suppose it, pride is that weak young Conway's strong point," confided astute Mr. McKye to his father on one occasion; and it was that pride Miss Dutton's communication hurt even more than his love.But he was only conscious of a bitter chill and a feeling of cruel disappointment and mortification.The Conways of Calgarry had always thought themselves much greater folk than the Boynes—they were known all through Ulster, when the Boynes were not known anywhere. Calgarry was a cultivated estate, while Mostrene was " wild land," where any one could shoot that liked—where the mountain sheep pastured at will, and mares with foals by their sides tasted the sweets of liberty. Mostrene Castle was then an old ruin, of which only one tottering end remained.It had once, rumour said, belonged to the Swines, who seemed to have owned many and curious things in Donegal; but, however that may be, the Boynes had nothing to do with it till about 1760. Then a certain Robert, who had gone out to India from some poor home in the county Wicklow, returned laden with riches and a wife, who, though stated to be a native princess, was received doubtfully in Ireland, and called the "black."She had plenty of money, "however she came by it," as the matter was charitably put; and when Mr. Boyne bought Mostrene Castle, and began building a wonderful new erection on the old site, there "was no standing still for anything," as might well have happened had he been one of the "old stock." Mrs. Boyne's dresses and Mrs. Boyne's jewels were the talk of the county, but the county never took to her. Predjuces are as hard to kill as annuitants, and the predjudice against the native princess's colour never died away.Donegal had rarely felt more sure of anything than that the Boynes were not like other people; and this was probably one reason why they spent so little time in Mostrene, and "flung their money away" in England and other "foreign" places. Terence himself was not superior to the vulgar sentiment which deemed the Boynes' regal blood inherited from the "blackamoor" a much worse fluid than that flowing even in the veins of a peasant; and it was a great shock to him when he heard a certain ring of exultation in Philippa's voice the while she recited what great things Mrs. Boyne, widow of Bagenal Conway had done for her."You do not say you are glad," she said, finding her lover made no remark; "I thought you would be delighted.""I am delighted, of course, that you are coming to Donegal; but I wish it were to Calgarry instead of Mostrene."Miss Dutton did not. Her last visit to Calgarry had by no means been a surfeit of delights. Till the house was swept and garnished, refurnished, equipped with a proper retinue of servants, and filled with desirable guests, she earnestly hoped she might never see it. She felt, however, it would be better to defer the expression of this opinion, so she only answered:"I do not imagine my uncle means to go to Ireland this year.""No?""I fancy not; and that was the reason I thought you would be pleased to hear about Mostrene.""I am greatly afraid I shall not see much more of you than if you were in London.""What makes you say that?""I know scarcely anything of the Boynes.""But you can become intimate with them.""I am not quite sure that I should care to become intimate with them.""Now, Terence, you really must not speak in that way. It is not right. They are most kind people, and move in the best society. The girls were presented last season, and one of them is quite a belle. Personally, as you know, I do not value such matters as perhaps. I ought, but still it does seem to me persons in our rank ought not wholly to despise social and worldly advantages. They enable one to do so much more good. Mrs. Rawson says Mr. Boyne is building and endowing a church at his place in Wiltshire."I do not care where he builds one," returned Terence, stung to madness, "so long as it is not in Donegal.""And that is the very thing I was wishing he would do," said Miss Button "Now, you will not be setting yourself against the Boynes—people you acknowledge you scarcely know, and who can make themselves most desirable neighbours?""With Marmaduke Conway's mother as an agreeable reminder of all her son has cost me!""Why, Terence, what is the matter?" asked Miss Button in pained surprise. "I never before had any reason to think you were covetous or grasping!""Do you expect me to say the old Duke's will delighted me?""No; but that is all past and done with, and you must not bear malice towards Captain Conway.""Is it necessary to bear malice towards a man because one does not want to see his mother constantly?""If you could only imagine how this way of speaking grieves me!" said Philippa pathetically. "You were not nearly so bitter when we were at Calgarry.""Perhaps because I had not fully realised my position then.""But you are getting over all your troubles. Letitia told me everything was coming right.""I cannot exactly see how she should know; but, yes—things are coming right by slow degrees.""Then do try to feel kindly towards Captain Conway. You know he is not to blame.""I never said he was.""And family feuds are such dreadful things. There is the church—before we go in, do assure me that you will keep on good terms with all your relations.""I will do anything—everything, Philippa, you wish,if—""H—s—h!" whispered Philippa; and with eyes devoutly cast down, she meekly entered St. Hilda's, Terence following.CHAPTER XXI.MR. VIVIAN'S TEXT.IN those days Mr. Rawson's church was thought very High; in these it would probably be considered rather Low. We have gone on a long way since then, and public worship as well as everything else is more ornate than it used to be. Probably matters have not altered so much in reality as many excellent people imagine. Women are still women, though they are clothed by Worth; houses are still houses, spite of the fact that the world seems laid under tribute to make them uncomfortable; and religion is still religion, though black gowns have gone out, and good music is no longer considered a snare of Satan.From feelings of deep piety, a revolt against the old "high and dry" mode of conducting the Church service had long been in progress. Many earnest Christians really believed that when they had swept away "three-decker" pulpits, parish clerks, lofty pews, Tate and Brady, choirs of charity children, and other similar "hindrances to worship," a sort of millennium would ensue, and people find balm for their moral wounds, and help to amend their sinful lives, and comfort and happiness generally, in believing in the ecclesiastical millinery and upholstery, which, like all other millinery and upholstery, has since been brought to such a pitch of perfection. The "lowest Churchman" would feel astounded could he be carried back through the years and see the Church of his youth exactly as it was then. Clerical fashions have changed as much as any other: but the world itself is not very different, and the human heart remains as deceitful as ever, and desperately wicked.We are going to do away with all distinctions of rank in the house of Him before Whom all men are equal, by cutting up the old oak pews for firewood, and substituting rush-bottomed chairs; yet it is not often any one sees Dives, in his purple and fine linen, and Lazarus, with all his sores, sitting comfortably side by side. It was Mr. Rawson's boast—if so truly good a man could be said to boast—that every one who entered St. Hilda's had full and free right to choose his own place; which was probably the reason that Miss Dutton chose hers close to the pulpit, while Dickson and her pious companion remained near the door.How sweet and pure and holy Philippa looked, as she sank on her knees! How beautiful she was!—how incredible it seemed that she could be a " miserable sinner!"—that a woman like an angel, with so exquisite a complexion and such perfect features, could possibly have "left undone those things which she ought to have done, and done those things which she ought not to have done!"Gazing at her, Terence felt it was he in whom there was no health—he who had been guilty of manifold sins and wickedness, discontent, envy (of Captain Conway), hatred (of Captain Conway's clever mamma), malice (as regarded the Boynes), and uncharitableness towards the world in general.It was from Philippa's fervent and distinct following of the service that Terence—though a good Protestant (perhaps, as was wittily remarked about Lord Eldon, " a buttress of the Church rather than a pillow "—gathered, as the clergyman and choir proceeded, " where they were."Indeed, even to a much more accustomed worshipper than any Conway of Calgarry had ever been, it would have proved a matter of some difficulty to follow the reading of lights which then seemed, except to the initiated, very new and strange.The then new lights have grown dull and old since those days, but to many they were once very dazzling and distracting, and had not his fair companion been quite conversant with the order and ceremony observed at St. Hilda's, Terence must have confessed himself lost before the Nunc Dimittis.
This was not his fault, however—gladly would he have sat at Mr. Rawson's feet (with his mistress) and learnt the mysteries dear to Miss Dutton's heart, had that young lady only intimated her wish that he should do so—but Philippa in common with many other excellent persons, loved to keep her money her religion and her friends to herself. Her lover considered her harmless as a dove, but in some respects she certainly was wise as a serpent, and most assuredly, had her good-will been consulted, Terence would not have knelt at her side within St. Hilda's on that mild evening in April.He was there, however—trying his best to keep pace with the service. Wisely, he did not attempt audibly to join in it, What he had to say was uttered to God—not spoken for the ear of man to criticise. Terrible indeed would have been the discord had Conway of Calgarry confessed or implored in a key not quite in harmony with the well drilled choristers. His need, probably, was as great, his belief as sincere as that of any present, yet he did well to keep silent. The place and the circumstances affected Terence deeply. For the time being it seemed to him almost as though he and Philippa were married, and that he had come to St. Hilda's with her to return thanks for signal mercies vouchsafed.In many ways the young man was very, very far from being a perfect Christian. In most respects he failed terribly as regarded those things Mr. Rawson deemed as essential as the Lord High Chamberlain no doubt considers Court etiquette; but he had firm faith and deep veneration, and though he so often failed, so often went hopelessly wrong, it was not from any hardness of heart or disloyalty to his God.If he loved the creature more than the Creator, who is there among us that may venture to cast a stone? Beyond all things—beyond himself—he did love Philippa; but his affection was as much for the qualities he believed her to possess, or for the beauty he delighted to gaze on.He looked up to her as something higher, purer, nearer heaven than he could ever hope to be.The one humble hope of his life was that some day she might learn to love him as he loved her. He breathed a petition—not in the liturgy—praying that he might grow better worthy of being mated to so noble and beautiful a wife.By some accident her scent-bottle slipped to the ground. Absorbed in her devotions, Philippa failed to notice the mischance till Terence—whose fingers had lingered for a moment about the pretty toy—quietly restored it to her.He was rewarded by O, such a smile! A smile not unfitting even that holy place—serious, sweet, compassionate, sympathetic. Two of the choir-boys noticed that smile and nudged each other, while Terence's heart was filled with rapture. He had never won such a look from her before, and it made him unutterably happy.From that moment, all through the mystic monotoning and intoning of Mr. Rawson, and the plaintive and jubilant responding of the choir, Terence wafted onwards by the sweet low winds of fancy, was borne over golden seas in a dream barque that carried no freight save bliss.He felt unutterably content—heart and soul were for the time fully satisfied. He forgot his anxieties—his unproductive estate, his debts, Benaron—everything save that Philippa had been kind, and that she was near him.If he wished at all, it was for the service to go on thus for ever—poor foolish Terence!—and already Nemesis followed on his track, marked him as he knelt sunk in a stupor of happy forgetfulness, and went with the clergyman, whose words were to awaken him, up into the pulpit.All unconscious of what lay before him, Terence, his eyes still heavy with the sleep of bliss, looked up at Mrs. Rawson's nephew, and saw one of those faces that stamp themselves for ever after on the memory.Had his mind been as great as his faith, his brain as strong as his will, few preachers would have exercised a more powerful influence than Mr. Vivian, who, robed in a white surplice—then an infrequent departure from established custom—stood gazing over the congregation after the manner of a messenger who brings tidings of import. Where Terence sat, he could see a worn young ascetic face: sharp-cut aquiline features, which looked as though chiselled out of stone; eager brown eyes, that yet held an expression of pathetic sadness in their depths; a high thoughtful forehead, partly shaded by straight black hair, that intensified the singularity of this fresh apostle's appearance.Instantly there crept a chill over Miss Dutton's lover, the same which had seized him the while he walked beside Philippa in the mild spring evening. Even while he lifted his head the glory seemed to fade off the sea; his barque, heavily freighted with care, was tossing among stormy billows; the winds of fancy changed and brought up heavy clouds and a darkling heaven. He glanced towards Philippa, but no reassuring smile spoke peace to his heart.She was gazing with a rapt expression at the preacher, who, speaking as one having authority, gave out his text:"Rejoice, O young man, in thy youth, and let thy heart cheer thee in the days of thy youth, and walk in the ways of thine heart and in the sight of thine eyes, but know that for all these things God will bring thee into judgment."
Yes; there in a concrete form was the shadow Terence always felt following him; the shadow bound sooner or later to overtake and keep even step with him along the road of life. No need for the divine, even had he been competent to amplify those striking words of warning, to try to do so.Deep down in young Conway's nature lay a chord ready enough to vibrate in answer to them; a chord that often, even of itself, as if touched by some unseen power, sounded a note of "dismal foreboding." It was in his nature keenly to enjoy; it was also in his nature keenly to suffer; and more keenly than both to dread. His temperament's balance was so lightly poised that the scales of happiness and misery were for ever fluctuating. One moment he felt as if no one before had ever been so blessed, and the next it seemed to him as if "judgment" were close at hand.Is it to be accounted a sin to a man that he is constituted after the fashion in which it pleased God to create him?If he cannot by thought add a span to his stature, how much less can he choose the disposition he shall bring into this world with him! Ah! could the preacher only have told him something about the great problem of man's impotence and man's free will—shown where the first ended and the last began—Terence might have gone home that evening hopeful instead of wretched: comforted by assurances from Him who cannot lie, rather than crushed by the consciousness of his own weakness, daunted by the fear of self-created evils lurking to spring at his throat.But spite of his intellectual face and eager yearning eyes, and voice which held in its tones the culture of generations—his desire, which ceased not day or night, to help the weary and heavy laden, to arouse the sluggish, to warn the careless—Mr. Vivian was utterly incapable of grappling with so vast a subject.He was a player who, without any power of grasping how such a theme should be handled, essays, though possessed of no sort of expression, no facility of execution, to render one of Beethoven's sonatas. He believed himself capable—yet his sermon, save for the text, was without form and void. He would have wept tears almost of blood had any one told him he had failed during his discourse to touch one hardened heart, to soothe one troubled soul; yet it is true. The words which were none of his pierced like a sword; but he added no thought to them which either deepened the wound or poured oil upon it.Nevertheless, there was nothing—literally nothing—he would not have relinquished and done if through self-sacrifice and courage he could have saved his fellow-sinners. Privately his influence for good was incalculable. When men came to know his sweet humility, his willingness—nay, his ardent wish to abnegate self, the delight he felt it to follow, even at a vast distance, the painful footsteps of his Lord and Master—there was no sceptic but felt there must be something in a religion which could produce such results."By their fruits ye shall know them:" and the fruit this Christian bore was so beautiful and gracious it refreshed all those privileged to know how good it was.Wretched women, degraded men, had been partially healed by the virtue which went forth from him; but he could not preach—he knew no more how to preach than an infant in arms.Unlearned, unlettered, uncultured Mr. McKye, spite of his homely features, his common accent, could by some subtle power of eloquence given to him by his God, from the pulpit save souls, where this refined scholar merely mentioned the mortal diseases from which his auditors were suffering, without healing one of them.He owned no skilful hand with which to sweep the keys of man's complex heart; a child might have tried as successfully to awaken its deep and terrible harmonies. About so earnest a labourer in the sacred vineyard, it seems a cruel thing to say that he talked mere drivel. Yet the statement is correct. His sermon was made up of the stock platitudes which have befriended incompetence, probably, since men began to preach—foolish examples that could not have incited a schoolboy to emulation—anecdotes silly enough to arouse contempt instead of wonder; numerous, if not always apposite, quotations from the old fathers; and many scholarly, though useless, dissertations concerning the mistranslation of various Scriptural passages.For a time Terence listened in hopes of hearing some word of comfort, some passage that might help and strengthen; but as the stream of barren talk ran on his attention flagged, and he gave himself over to considering how swiftly judgment had overtaken his errors, and wondering how it was that, having two roads before him, he elected to take the wrong one.As the world regards such things, he had not on the whole been a bad young fellow. If he never posed for a saint, at least he did not of his own free will elect to be a sinner; retribution had not overtaken others a thousand times worse than he—who drank heavily and gambled extravagantly, who thought all women fair prey and would have duped any man. Why—O why—had the old Duke misled him? Why had his father, from the first day he stood next to the succession, rested not till he had expounded the beauty and holiness of enjoying life at whatever price? Why had he (Terence) accepted the same doctrine only too kindly, and plunged into the mire of debt for the sake of plucking a few wretched flowers growing on its surface that withered as he grasped them?Even without Mr. Conway's money, had he entered into Calgarry free, he might have been very happy. It was this awful load of liabilities, incurred out of the merest folly, for which he was being called to account. O! if he could only live the past over again: he would not borrow money; he would give a wide berth to Amos and all the Israelitish fraternity; he would consider his ways and amend his life, and refuse all invitations to Monksborough; and—Mr. Vivian's passionless discourse was over; the whole congregation had risen and sat down again; a hymn was given out, and every one present devoted his or her attention to considering how much or how little could be given to Bishop Lindsay's mission, on behalf of which Mrs. Rawson's nephew had pleaded with such exhaustive eloquence. Philippa looked sweetly at Terence, who took out a five pound note he could extremely ill spare, and placed, when the proper time came, in one of the beautifully-embroidered bags dedicated at St. Hilda's to such mundane, if necessary, uses.Then the blessing was pronounced, the choir sang the final A-men, the organist began the "Hallelujah Chorus," and everybody was free to go.As she had passed up the aisle with eyes meekly cast down, so Philippa passed back, Terence following. She did not look to right or left; she did not glance at any person within the church, or exchange a word with any one outside. Quietly she threaded her way amongst the throng, and in a moment more she and her lover were out of the crowd and pacing the almost deserted pavements of a then quite new district, maid and man walking at a discreet distance behind."I hope you have not been very much tired," said Miss Dutton softly."Tired?" repeated Terence. "O, no; not at all.""Was it not a wonderful sermon?"From any one else this remark might have been deemed satirical; but Philippa made it in perfect good faith."I am afraid I did not quite understand it," answered Terence, diplomatically."Ah! that is very likely. There were times when even I failed to grasp Mr. Vivian's meaning. He is so deep—so entirely different from the preachers one generally hears.""I suppose he is," agreed her lover. As far as he had followed Mr. Vivian's discourse, it was very different indeed from anything he had ever heard."And has he not a striking face?""Most striking," and Terence sighed—he could not have told why."His illustrations were so beautiful. That story about the young boy in Italy was simply marvellous.""It was indeed.""Bishop Lindsay must be very proud of his relative.""Is he a relative?""Yes, a second cousin. Mr. Vivian is well connected on both sides. His friends are amongst the highest in the land; but he has given up everything for the sake of doing good.""Given up his friends, do you mean?""Not all his friends; but society—wealth—advancement—home.""He looks like a man willing to deny himself," said Terence, wishing he, personally, had found it easy to do so."He has a beautiful nature. Mrs. Rawson is never weary of talking about him.""Is he married?""He will never marry.""Why not?""Because, as Mrs. Boyne sweetly says, he has espoused the Church: he has taken to himself the best bride a man can choose."Terence walked on very mute, feeling greatly subdued. He did not see his way to make any answer. He did not see his way, in fact, out of Mr. Vivian at all. His mind was full of the text; Philippa's full of the expounder. She talked on more freely than her wont about the good Mrs. Rawson's nephew did: how he gave away most of his income, reserving only enough for the barest necessaries; how he laboured among the poor and ignorant in the dreadful East End of London; how his father and mother had renounced him because he loved a full ritual; how Mr. Vivian senior was little better, if at all better, than a Dissenter; and how Mrs. Vivian a worldly woman who, having set her heart on a match between her son and a certain Miss Maynton, was almost heart-broken because he refused to second her plans."As I told you," finished Philippa, "he has relinquished parents, home, and position for conscience' sake. I could but think this evening how much he must have suffered."Terence sadly wondered whether Mr. Vivian had experienced such misery as Benaron could inflict, and then remembered a man so constituted would never have placed himself in the power of such a person.Why was not he similarly constituted? Why had he got into Benaron's clutches? Why had he no gift for preaching, or wish to labour at the East End—or comprehension of Bishop Lindsay—or fancy for living a life of celibacy—or turn for telling goody stories about Italian beggars?It was very hard, he felt, that, with all the will in the world to sympathise with Philippa's high aims and beautiful fancies, he always seemed to be grovelling on the earth, while she was soaring towards heaven. The fault was in him, he knew, but he did not see how to change his nature.He admired—he worshipped—Philippa, but he could not care for the things which lay nearest her heart. Would matters ever come right? he marvelled. How did it happen that, though he was always longing for a quiet talk with his beloved, they seemed further apart when his wish was gratified than he ever felt when other persons were present?What, for instance, was there about this Mr. Vivian that Philippa should go into ecstasies over him? He might be devoted, and unselfish, and willing to renounce society, and separate from his father and mother; yet still—"How thoughtful you are to-night!" said Miss Dutton, interrupting his reverie. "Where is your mind wandering? Have you gone back in spirit to Monksborough?""No," answered Terence, a little surprised at this fresh reference to the Foyles. "I was in spirit with Mr. Vivian, wondering why he says cowld and showld and wowld.""You ignoramus!" exclaimed his fair, laughing softly. "That is the pronunciation of the school of old English divinity to which he belongs.""Is it," said Terence, a good deal mystified, and wishing he had not spoken. "I did not know."CHAPTER XXII.SO UNSATISFACTORY.THOUGH he had dined, Sir Henry Beechara by no means despised the supper he found awaiting his return. Cheered, but not inebriated, (the General never was inebriated) by the modest quantity of sound wine he had ordered and drank at the club, his greeting of Terence and Mr. Stirling was characterised by a genial pleasure which produced an extremely cheering effect on both the owner of Calgarry and Calgarry's agent.To Terence in especial the gallant knight's warm manner was very grateful. lie had been out among the hard frost and deep snow of the friends Miss Dutton yearned after, and the forms and ceremonies her soul loved, and as the heat of a fire is pleasant after exposure to cold, so he felt a delightful glow diffusing itself over his chilled senses as he came within the influence of Philippa's guardian.The young lady herself also seemed different when seen in in the home circle. With her bonnet she laid aside some of the terrible propriety which was an integral part of the proceedings at St. Hilda's.At a church in which a millionaire carried one of the embroidered bags, and a baronet gave the clergyman such attendance as circumstances demanded, the whole congregation naturally tried to stand on the same high social platform.Terence had no fault to find with such things; but he felt glad to find himself safe on his mother earth again, only five pounds the worse for that short journey into the upper realms of fashionable religion.Lady Beecham asked a few polite questions about the sermon and the preacher, which Terence answered as favourably as he could, and Philippa as shortly as possible—though sweetly. Too well she knew both the General and her aunt were deaf adders whom it was not of the slightest use for her to try to charm. The one thing she most longed for in this world, as she told Mrs. Rawson, was "peace;'so when the subject of St. Hilda's dropped without criticism from Lady Beecham or remark from the General, every one seemed pleased.Mr. Stirling made himself unexpectedly amusing as well as agreeable. Sir Henry with a choice bottle of port produced many well-worn anecdotes, quite old acquaintances of Terence, but pleasantly new to the agent. The viands were admirable; the new butler understood his duties; and all went merry as a marriage-bell. Merry, indeed, Miss Dutton scarcely could be called, but her spirits were better than usual, and when the General spoke to Terence concerning his visit to the Foyles, and rallied him about his doings at Monksborough, Philippa's eyes said as plainly as eyes could say:"I am not hurt or convinced by what this frivolous person says. I do not believe you lost your heart to Miss Poler. You were true to me all through that gay time, I feel certain.""And Terence's eyes replied that he had been true; that he would be true for ever; that the woman did not exist, no matter how beautiful, how accomplished, how charming, who possessed the power to wean him from his allegiance."I will walk a few steps with you," said Sir Henry, when his guests, with many expressions of regret, declared they really must leave. "I am sorry you have to go so soon," he added, laying his hand on Terence's shoulder. "It is quite like old times seeing you here once more.""You must not forget us for so long again," added Lady Beecham.."It is not quite hop-step-and-jump from Donegal to London, my dear," observed the General."I have a notion Mr. Conway would not think much of travelling twice the distance with your house at the end of it," put in Mr. Stirling diplomatically."You are right there," was Sir Henry's answer. "The object makes all the difference in the way a man looks at a journey.""I shall be in London again soon, I hope," returned Terence; and with one last lingering look behind he passed into the night with his host."If you will excuse me, Mr. Conway," said the agent, when they had proceeded some half-dozen yards, "I think I'll be getting on. I want to put some matters in order to-night, that I mayn't have them on my mind in the morning; and Sir Henry and you must have a good deal to say to one another that you'll be better able to talk over wanting a third in the conversation.""I like that man," remarked the Waterloo hero, as with smiling amiability he watched Mr. Stirling's retreating figure."He has sense and tact, things you do not always meet with nowadays.""What I should have done without him I cannot imagine!" said Terence, full of gratitude."You have been wading in rather deep water lately, I am afraid.""Very deep," answered Terence."Near land now," I hope.""Mr. Stirling thinks so.""Ah, well! remember it is only on your account I put the question. From a business point of view your affairs are no concern of mine. I know you are the owner of Calgarry—a fine estate, delightful place to stay at—that is enough for me; so whenever you can induce Philippa to go to Donegal with you, I shall settle her money strictly on herself and invest it on good security not in Ireland. If you recollect, I said something to the same effect when we were strolling along the sands of Calgarry Bay.""I recollect perfectly.""And you recognised the fact that it would be impossible for me to invest her money otherwise than in the soundest manner. You made no objection to my views, I think.""No, indeed; why should I?""Why should you, indeed? Only many men might.""What I want is Philippa, not her money.""I am sure of it, though some persons would prefer the money to Philippa.""There are mere fortune hunters in all ranks who think of nothing but money," said Terence sententiously."That is too true; yet it is difficult to dissociate a girl from her money. Your feeling towards my ward is, I believe, perfectly disinterested, so far as you are aware; but yet I wonder if you have ever separated Philippa from her money?""I do not know what you mean, Sir Henry.""I mean, if she lost her money she could not dress so well; she would not look so well. You see her now surrounded by every comfort and adjunct of wealth; but if she were reduced to poverty—""Sir Henry, are you leading up to anything?" asked Terence suddenly, with his brain in a whirl. "Do you want to break it to me that Philippa's fortune has gone? If so, there is no need to beat about the bush. Dear as she has been to me while I thought her an heiress, she would be a thousand times dearer were she stripped of every penny. All I have in the world is hers—myself; Calgarry, such as it is; Calgarry, such as Mr. Stirling hopes to make the rend-roll.""Philippa's fortune is safe enough," answered the elder man. "I should not care to be the person who had to break the news to her were it not; all I was leading up to can be told in a sentence. I want to know if you are sure of yourself—sure you want her in health or in sickness, poverty or wealth. It is a very serious matter for you to undertake the whole future responsibility of such a girl.""I am quite aware of that, but I will try to discharge my trust faithfully. All I desire—hope for—long for—is Philippa.""Think again," said Sir Henry. "Pause and consider. Take the word of one who knows more than you know. Philippa poor would be a serious burden; Philippa rich, believe me, will prove a more serious one still.""It is one I am willing to bear," answered Terence, in a tone as grave as the General's own."Well, I shall not try to dissuade you, especially as I cannot even dimly see how such a marriage is likely to turn out. You may be happy—you may be wretched; but you must not blame me should your venture turn out different from what you expect.""Even should I be wretched, I shall blame no man. If through my own misfortune or fault I prove unworthy of her love—which I do not think possible, because I shall try so hard to deserve such happiness—I will know where the fault lies—and keep silence.""And you won't ask me to meddle or put matters straight?""Between me and my wife?" returned Terence, in astonishment. "Assuredly not. Come weal, come woe, I shall not trouble you.""Then how do affairs stand between you?""Exactly as they did the day you left Derry?""Have you said nothing to her this evening?""No; I was not to speak again till midsummer."Humph! Did she tell you she is going to the Boynes?""She did.""The object of that invitation is to secure her for Captain Conway.""Do you imagine so?""I am sure of it; but you need not feel very uneasy. In the first place, you know the old saying about taking a horse to the water. Mrs. Boyne may take her son to the water many times and to spare before he will propose to Philippa or any one like her; and, in the second place, we are going to have war, when he and a good many others will have even more serious matter to think of than marrying and giving in marriage. No, I do not think you need feel uneasy about him.""You seem to imagine I ought to feel uneasy about some one. Who is he? Mr. Vivian?"Sir Henry laughed, and answered; "I have no reason to suppose Mr. Vivian is in the field, or Mr. Rawson either.""Is there not a Mrs. Rawson?""Yes; she is his mother, however. I do not imagine there is any scheme afloat there; but wherever Mrs. Boyne is you will do well to be careful. I should have the matter put on some proper footing before Philippa goes to Mostrene. If you do not—""If I do not, what will happen?""That I cannot tell; but I believe you may never get affairs in fair train for your marriage if you delay much longer. Can you not stay and clinch the business now?""No; I must go home. I have promised Barry not to remain in London; and besides, I should not like to speak before the time agreed upon.""My opinion is you will do well to speak now. She is jealous. Lettie has been telling her all sorts of stories about Monksborough and the greatness and glory of the Foyles. There is only one thing in the world besides herself Philippa loves more than money, and that is rank. She wants to be a great lady. Do you suppose she would care one atom about all this ritual business if it were not the fashion? Do you imagine she would have crossed the doorstep to hear that young Vivian if his grandfather had not been a lord and his mother an earl's daughter? Do you think she regards St. Hilda's save as a ladder by which she may climb into grand society? And her doubt about you since the old Duke's death has been whether, with your embarrassments and your ideas, she could ever as your wife take her 'proper place' in fashionable life.""Sir Henry, I will not listen to this!" cried Terence, who had hitherto kept silence merely because he was too much astonished and shocked to speak."On your own head be it, then. Only, if you determine to marry her, bind her to an engagement now. She won't be content with us very much longer. I know exactly what she will do after a while. She will find some lady to live with and chaperon her. She will take a grand house in a fashionable locality. She will gather all the advanced Church party round her. She will keep you dangling on till she finds a suitor she considers more desirable, and then you may go where you like. She advised you not to sell Calgarry both because she wanted to be what the lower orders call an 'estated lady' if she married you, and also because she wished to keep you away from London till she found whether she could not make a better match.""Why do you talk in this way to me about the woman I love and honour—a woman who is but little lower than the angels?""I have talked in this way because I do not want you hereafter to think I have kept anything back from you. When we were in Ireland I did not believe she would marry you, so I said but little on the subject. Now I consider it extremely likely, if you press the point, she may marry you, because she knows you would let her do as she pleased. You have often thought in a vague sort of way—at all events, if you have not, Philippa has—that I did not wish her to marry; that the sum allowed for her support was of importance to me.""I never thought anything of the kind," answered Terence hotly."At all events, several persons have thought, and said, something very much to the same purpose; and I desire to tell you at once that, while we never formerly were much in pocket with the four hundred a year we received under her father's will, we are actual losers now. And in a word, not to pursue so unpleasant a subject, relations between Philippa and ourselves have become of late so strained I should feel thankful to hear she was going to be married to-morrow.""And I wish with all my heart she was to be married to me, that I might take her to a home where she would be prized beyond every earthly treasure.""Well, as you are so satisfied she will prove a blessing, try to secure her, in Heaven's name. All I personally desire is to see some hope of ultimate release for ourselves. I want to be able to keep my own servants without continual bickering; to drive in my own carriage when I please; have my meals at regular hours, and get rid of all this religious dissipation. I am a quiet man, Con way—a man very easily satisfied—a man given to make the best of things; but I tell you fairly, the last few months have tried me almost beyond endurance, and if ever you marry my ward you will see very little of me.""And if I ever have to choose between my wife and my friends, I shall certainly not desert the former," retorted Terence."You will assuredly be compelled to desert the latter," rejoined Sir Henry, with a good deal of acrimony. "And now, having said my ray, I will turn my face homewards. I shall expect this matter to be brought to some sort of conclusion ere long, remember.""You may depend that I will do all in my power to meet your wishes." And so, without any attempt at leave-taking—without even going through the ceremony of shaking hands—the General and Terence Conway parted, for the first time at daggers drawn, Sir Henry feeling he had acted a most disinterested part towards an extremely foolish young man, and the extremely foolish young man convinced that, on the face of this earth, there never was so selfish, prejudiced, blind, altogether intolerable, an old humbug as Sir Henry Beecham.He walked about the streets for hours after parting with Philippa's guardian. Perfectly unmindful of Mr. Barry's strict injunctions, he roamed through all sorts of places; but it was late, and by good fortune he met no one who knew him, and arrived at his hotel, pale, fagged, and moody, just when Mr. Stirling was becoming seriously uneasy at his prolonged absence."You look terribly put out about something," remarked the agent, after he had watched Terence in silence for a few minutes. "I am vexed to see you so down. Is there any way in which I can help you?""No, Stirling, no," answered the young man, touched more by his companion's manner than his words. "There are troubles for which there is no help possible.""I'd be glad to try, at any rate.""I am sure you would; but we cannot put people right, and everybody and everything seems so unsatisfactory.""Bless my soul!" muttered Mr. Stirling under his breath."You think a great deal about sermons in Scotland, don't you?" went on Terence."They take a great hold of us," answered the agent, wondering greatly.'Well, do you know a text in which Solomon tells the young man he shall be brought to account for all his doings?""I think there are a good many texts to that effect.""Did you ever hear any preacher take one of them and discourse on it?""I can't call to mind that ever I did.""O! I thought you might. I wonder if the statement is true?""You need have no doubt about that. It wouldn't be in the Bible if it wasn't true—as you will find out long before you come to die.""Before I come to die," repeated Terence dreamily; "many things will have happened between this and that.""Many! We'll put your affairs right for one thing, and you will marry, I hope, and have sons and daughters grown up about you, and—""Stirling," interrupted Mr. Conway, "you have seen Miss Dutton?""Yes, indeed, and a handsomer lady no person could wish to look at.""And good as she is beautiful.""I do not think any one so beautiful could be other than good.""Thank you; I'll go to bed now—I am tired.""I wonder what has been up?" thought Mr. Stirling, as he too sought his room. "Some flank movement of Sir Henry's, I'll be bound. My mind misgave me to-night; things at Sloane Street were not all as they seemed. Unless I am greatly mistaken, the young woman is one too many for the old General."CHAPTER XXIII.A HUNDRED TO ONE."No, Mr. Barry, either I am solicitor in this matter, or I am not.""Why, how now? Am I Giles, or am I not?" mocked Air. Barry, with irritating composure. "If he, I've lost—""Probably Giles followed your advice, and so lost many things; but I have not lost, and do not intend to lose, or allow my client to lose," interrupted Mr. Reynolds; for it was he who, at length goaded to madness, had rejected Mr. Barry's counsel, nailed his colours to the mast, and determined to assert his independence."May I inquire the cause for this change of front?" asked Mark, seating himself on the corner of Mr. Reynolds' table, and disarranging a pile of papers in order to make himself more comfortable."Whose change of front?" demanded the solicitor."Yours," replied Mr. Barry, coolly taking a piece of sealing-wax out of the inket, and beginning to break it. "When I put this Calgarry matter into your hands you would not move a step without my sanction, and applied constantly to me to know what the next move should be.""This is too ridiculous," observed Mr. Reynolds. "I have asked you for information, never for advice. So long as we were both travelling the same road, I would gladly have kept step with you; but I will not abandon the plan originally determined on at your bidding. Do you think merely because you have got tired of the game, and feel disinclined to play it out, I am to give it up?""Who says I am tired of the game?""I do," persisted Mr. Reynolds. "If you had not been you would never have suggested sending a flag of truce to the enemy. That is the worst of all you Irish—you are going to do wonders at first, but you can't hold on.""Can't we!" said Mark grimly."No, you can't; you knock under, not because you are likely to be beaten, but because you get sick of steady work. I had a gentleman here yesterday, who told me was in Ireland at the time of the famine, and he had a hole—""My good creature," interrupted Mr. Barry, "I know what you are going to tell me; but please don't. I can stand as much as any one in an ordinary way, but I really will not undertake to listen patiently again to that stock lie about the pit that never was filled. It never was filled, certainly, for a sufficient reason—because it never could be. It was the bottomless pit. Don't you see, my dear fellow, the whole thing is an allegory?""No, I don't," replied Mr. Reynolds."Ah, well, I am not bound to give you understanding. There is mystical meaning underlying that apocryphal tale, if you could only be brought to comprehend the full beauty of it. But as you were saying—""I was saying the Irish always get tired too soon—they are eternally longing for change.""In so humdrum a world I think that can hardly be accounted a sin. Besides, it is possible to have too much of a good thing—even law."Mr. Reynolds laughed; it was difficult to remain angry with Mark Barry. He was so handsome, so gay, so impudent; even the judges secretly welcomed his effrontery as a break in the deadly monotony of their lives."You are begging the question at issue," said the solicitor. "What I assert, and what I will stand to, is that the Irish cannot stick to anything as the English do.""O, if you are going to hold up the English as models, the argument must come to an end! Politeness would forbid me to say what I think of them.""But surely, Mr. Barry, you will admit, steady, patient work is the work of all others your country people detest? Even your animals do not like pursuing a straight road. I had a little horse from the county cork, and the moment he saw a mile of highway ahead of him his spirit died away, and he wanted to turn down any bye-lane rather than go on.""Small blame to him!" muttered Mark."Is not that a fair instance of what I say?""No; what we detest is useless work. We will take any short cut rather than go round four sides of a square, as the English are so fond of doing. No doubt the little horse from Cork knew there was a far quicker way to his destination than you ever dreamed of. You like work for work's sake, and we hate work for work's sake. We want to finish it out of hand and get to play.""Precisely so; that is exactly what I said. You want to finish Mr. Benaron out of hand and get to play.""No, on my soul you are wrong there," returned Mark; "it must be a long day's hunt that would tire me if Amos were the fox I was after. Personally, I could ask from Heaven no purer happiness than baiting the old villain in the witness-box; but—""But what has occurred to make you think a change of tactics desirable? Before that meeting here you believed a quiet defiance was our wisest course, in which idea I quite agreed with you, because, though we knew we had not a court card in our hand, Quinion did not know that. Now, the position has not altered since then, save that we, if anything, count more honours; yet you wish me to offer a compromise, and are angry because I decline to do anything of the sort.""The explanation, Reynolds, of what you falsely call my change of front is that I feel we are strong enough to propose terms without being accused of fear.""Then all I have to say is that, since you had any, your feelings never led you more utterly astray.""How do you make that out?""Just put the whole matter fairly before your mind. Up to this time our hold over Benaron has been that he is not aware we know really nothing much against him, except his amiable habit of charging Heaven only can tell how much per cent, for Mr. Conway seems quite unable to give us reliable information as to what he paid. Benaron is afraid because he is ignorant of what allies we may have behind us; but surely you do not imagine it will make him more afraid if we say, 'We have threatened each other long enough; let us now, for a change, make terms.' Our policy is, as I always said, a waiting one. There is no reason in the world why we should hurry ourselves.""I am anxious my cousin should have his mind settled.""Why should you be anxious? It is just as well his mind should not be settled about money matters. I had some talk with Mr. Stirling, and he will take care the lands are let and ploughed and sown as they would be if there were no such person as Benaron on earth. The great mistake people who are in trouble of any sort generally make is that they incline to believe the world stands still in consequence. And, though the earth is turning round, they refuse to turn with it, and so come to grief. Now, Mr. Stirling recognises that seed-time and harvest, darkness and night, shall never cease, no matter who is sick or who is sorry; therefore he will find tenants and improve Calgarry, let Benaron and Quinion roar like bulls of Bashan. It may seem strange, but, believe me, we are not standing on the verge of creation, looking into space, because Mr. Terence Conway has been a great simpleton.""That he was—that he is," interposed Mr. Barry, in tones of the sincerest conviction."And every day the matter is kept out of court, our position improves.""I don't see how," returned Mark, on whom, since his disappointment in that little anticipated triumph connected with Reuben versus Pittis, the mantle of some pessimist had apparently fallen."That is because cases come to you at the end; they come to me at the beginning. Every day is a gain, because in the morning we never know what it may bring forth, and in the evening Quinion never knows what it has brought forth. Mr. Stirling will look over Mr. Conway's papers, which that young gentleman seems to have preserved, not from any idea of their being necessary or useful, but merely because he was too idle to destroy them. We cannot tell what may turn up in his archives, neither is it possible for us to forecast what piece of luck fortune may have in store for us—to-morrow, say. Thus you observe, Mr. Barry, there are a thousand reasons for not showing the white feather yet, and not a single one in favour of doing so.""I suppose I must trust the affair in your hands," hesitated Mark, who began to see that in dealing with Mr. Reynolds discretion was the better part of valour."You must, if you would only kindly recognise the fact, till Mr. Conway requests me not to act for him; which brings me back to what I said at starting, that as his solicitor I must do what I consider best for him, even if I offend you.""You do not offend me. Only you are so confoundedly fond of your own way.""Ah! Mr. Barry, do you think it is good policy for the pot to call the kettle black?""I shall call you something worse than black if your policy in this matter turns out badly," said Mark, who had a way of thus switching off a discussion when it seemed likely to go against him. "I wonder what Benaron's next move will be, and how soon he is likely to make it?""Nothing will be done while he is ill, I imagine.""Ill!" repeated Mark. "Is he ill?""Yes.""How do you know?""Heard it.""But how—when—why?""I hear a good many unconsidered trifles," answered Mr. Reynolds, with the provoking reticence of a man who has really nothing more to tell."Do you call that a trifle?" asked Mr. Barry. "What is the matter with him?""Gout, it is said.""And what do you say?""It may be gout; but, if so, I think your friend's agent had some share in bringing on the attack.""Why did you not tell me he was ill sooner?""My dear sir, you gave me no opening. You assailed me the moment you entered because I had refused to reverse the whole of our former line of conduct for a mere whim. I would sooner throw the whole business up than be a party to any suggestion of the sort. My notion is, a man ought to fight to the end, if he once says he will fight; yes, even though it seems probable he may be beaten. And I mean to fight this thing through, unless Mr. Conway takes it out of my hands.""I brought the matter to you, Mr. Reynolds.""But you are not my client.""Well, we need not go over all that again," said Mark."If a man takes his friend to a doctor he does not tell the doctor what to prescribe," persisted Mr. Reynolds."The patient might often recover far more quickly if he did," remarked Mr. Barry. "However, to end this part of the subject, since you think you are so much cleverer than I, manage Conway's affairs as you like, in Heaven's name.""I am going to do so, taking any help or hint I can get as I go along thankfully; and the very first thing to which I shall turn my attention is making terms with those creditors who have not yet commenced proceedings.""In that I do not think I can be of much use to you," said Mark."You cannot be of any," replied Mr. Reynolds decidedly. "No, Mr. Barry, if we want you at all, save in the character of ' bogey,' which you have performed very well indeed, it will be later on. No one can sing all the parts even in one opera. You see what I mean?""I am neither hard of hearing nor stone blind," answered Mark, as pleasantly as though Mr. Reynolds' speech had implied a compliment. "What you want to say is, ' Don't try to be solicitor and barrister too.'""You have exactly expressed my meaning.""Precisely; ever so much better than you could have done. Well, I am off. Is there anything else you want to ask me before I go?""Nothing occurs to me.""Did you ever hear the story—""No; and I don't want to hear it," returned Mr. Reynolds. "I am busy. I have far more to do than I can get through  without listening to stories. Keep any you wish to tell for your juries; they have plenty of time to enjoy them.""Faith, there's sense in that at any rate," answered Mark; and leaving Mr. Reynolds to take what meaning he pleased out of this utterance, he said good-morning, and departed.He had not, however, traversed half the distance which intervenes between Knightrider Street and Old Square before a sudden thought caused him to stop just as he was ascending the steps leading into St. Bride's Churchyard."By Jove!" he said; "by Jove!" and he struck his umbrella on the flags, and wheeled round with a celerity which caused a printer's devil to laugh loudly, and follow the barrister, mocking in a fashion that would have resulted in condign chastisement had Mark happened to notice him. But Mark was far too much engrossed in his new idea to notice anything.Mr. Reynolds had got fairly into work when, without a preliminary knock, the door of his office opened, and a handsome mischievous face was thrust inside."Bet you fifty to one," said its owner."O, confound you, Barry!" exclaimed the solicitor. "What ill wind has blown you back here again?""Bet you fifty to one," repeated Mark, undisturbed by the coolness of his reception."Don't talk such gibberish. If you have anything to say, say it and go."By way of reply, Mark entered, and closed the door."Bet you fifty to one," he said, for the third time."On what?""Will you take it?""I don't mind if I do.""That Amos is not ill.""Is that all?""No, that is not all. I will bet you, further, a hundred to one he has gone to Ireland—to Donegal."Mr. Reynolds moved at last, laid down his pen, and looked at Mr. Barry. Mr. Barry looked at him."I should not be in the least surprised," said the solicitor, after a moment's pause.CHAPTER XXIV.MR. STIRLING'S PROCLAMATION.SOME persons like to erect a flagstaff near their dwellings, in order to inform a world, probably indifferent on the subject, that they are at home by running up a banner, which gaily intimates the fact to all whom it may or may not concern.When Mr. Conway returned to Calgarry, however, he soon found no need existed for him to announce his presence in any such fashion.The mail-car deposited him and Mr. Stirling late one afternoon at the lodge gates, and before nightfall every man, woman, and child in the barony knew "the master" had come home, and the agent with him.Then throughout that part of Donegal there ensued a gentle, nameless stir, as though a soft rain had fallen on the earth, and watered and blessed the seeds lying in its bosom. Hope and expectancy put forth tiny green leaves, full of promise, like the young blades of blessed corn just then in many a field putting timid shoots above ground.Surely now something would be done. The land would lie fallow no longer. Men would be allowed to till, and women to help; and even the children—God bless them!—might be found something to do.It had been long perfectly well known not only that Mr. Conway had gone to London, but also why; further, that the strange gentleman, whose ways and business proved at one time such a puzzle, was the new agent.About Mr. Stirling from the time Terence returned from Monksborough secrecy was not attempted—no need existed for any; but concerning the visit of that gentlemanly young man no one said anything at Calgarry—perhaps for the reason no one of the household knew anything connected with it.Birds of the air, however, have, as we are all aware, a pretty habit of repeating what goes on in kings' palaces; and when it is mentioned that the messenger from Mr. Quinion's agents in Belfast, knowing he must push on to Dunfanaghy if he wished to get bed and supper, asked for a lift to that town in the priest's gig, and next morning on his return journey, travelled by the mail-car as far as Kilmacrennan with the Dunfanaghy sergeant of police, the reader will easily under-stand how rapidly the news spread that already hawks were after Mr. Conway.At first it was believed he had left the country never to return. Other gentlemen had "done the like;" other properties had been sold, and the names of their possessors wiped clean out. Why, therefore, should a man new to the soil stay, "once trouble came upon him"?But, by degrees, wiser ideas prevailed. When Mr. McKye heard some supposed Terence meant to " make for France and stay there," he said, in his loudest pulpit tones, "No, no, no; not at all, I tell you. If ever Mr. Conway leaves here, it will be in a very different fashion;" and when, a few days afterwards, he received a letter from Mr. Stirling, stating he hoped to be at Calgarry shortly, and stay there, he "made it his business" to repeat the gist of the communication in all places where men were to be found.The tide then took a turn, and Donegal's only anxiety seemed to be how soon "anything would likely be settled about the farms." Already the people felt that Terence would be a very different person to deal with from the old Duke, and they believed if they could only " get at him " they would have things pretty well their own way, which is, all the world over, a tenant's idea of happiness.Delusions of that nature, however, received a rude shock when Mr. Stirling proved to be acting as "agent and owner all in one."The very day he returned to Calgarry, before he ate or drank, or washed or rested himself, he sallied forth to inspect the outbuildings, and see which of them he could fit up as a temporary office for the transaction of business.To all Terence's entreaties that he would use the library as a reception room he turned a deaf ear."No," he said, "you must let me have my own way. I'll need to be at it early and late for awhile, and I won't disturb your household more than I can help;" in consequence of which determination it was that those who came to see the agent were directed to a barn, where, with the slates perfectly visible and the gray stone walls bare even of whitewash, they found Mr. Stirling seated before a great kitchen-table placed in the middle of a beaten clay floor, issuing his royal proclamation."Sit down, Mr. McGurk," and the agent referred to a paper spread open at his left hand; "you want to rend the Greystone Farm, I see: that will be twenty pounds a year.""Twice too much, your honour. It's nothing but ling and stones.""Well, that is a matter for you to consider. Twenty pounds is the lowest rend for which it will be let; you can take it either from year to year or have a seven years' lease, just as you like.""Seven years! and at the end of that time you'd maybe be raising the rend on me.""At the end of seven years we shall certainly raise the rends all round.""See that, now! The old Duke—God preserve us from harm!—could say no worse than that.""Mr. Conway wishes to take an advantage of no man. If you rend the farm you rend it with your eyes open. At two shillings an acre you can make a good living out of the land, which is not all ling and stones, but as sweet sheep pasture as I would desire to see.""Ah, sir! you don't know—""Don't I? Then I ought to know, that is all.""I wouldn't mind ten pounds a year.""Perhaps you would mind five, or even three, still less.""In course I would like it for just as little as I could get it for; but I have said I'll go to ten, and I will. No one can say with truth I ever made an offer and tried to back out of it;" and Mr. McGurk waved his hat to and fro with a slow satisfied movement, as if he were purring."You will pay twenty pounds per annum, if you have it at all," answered the agent."See that, now, and the land nothing but a bare skin! Sure you couldn't stick a spade in it without touching rock.""If you want to stick a spade in it, Mr. McGurk, that settles the matter. We are not going to have the grass meddled with.""Well, this beats all! How do you suppose a poor man is to live, or rather starve, off the land, if he is not to turn it over?""If you wish for arable land, we can find you some.""That is not exactly. It's pasture I need; but what would I feed on such a barren bit of ground likely to bring me in ten pounds, to say nothing of twenty?""You probably know perfectly well. At any rate, there is the farm, which you can take if you please at twenty pounds. If you don't, you can leave.""It's an awful rend you're asking. I never heard anything to come up to it.""Why, Greystone is better worth four shillings an acre than some of the land about Mostrene is worth sixpence.""Indeed, and sixpence is just about the value of Greystone.""If you think so, I certainly should advise you not to have anything to do with it.""I never thought to meet another as sore to deal with as the old Duke! It's taking advantage of me you are, Mr. Stirling, on account of Greystone lying convenient to my bit of land.""No; the rend would be the same to any one—no less, no more.""You are terrible hard, sir—as hard as the rocks at Greystone.""When we have known each other a long time, which I hope we shall," replied Mr. Stirling, perfectly unruffled by this cutting taunt, "you will find we do not get on any the worse because I am not a fool;" and the agent took up a pen, looked at it, and dipped it in the ink, as a hint that the interview might conveniently end."Your honour'll speak a word for me to Mr. Conway?" suggested McGurk, who had watched this proceeding with gloomy interest."I shall do no such thing," was the uncompromising reply."Maybe if you told him how good a tenant I was, working hard and late—never sparing myself—spending nothing but for the bare bite and sup—always plotting and planning how I can make off enough for the next gale day, he would let me have Greystone for a shilling an acre," went on the would-be tenant, perfectly regardless of Mr. Stirling's answer.The agent laid down his pen, folded his hands together, placed them on the desk, and said:"Look here, Mr. McGurk—one word is as good as ten. If you were not mentioned in this list"—nodding to the paper at his elbow—"as a good tenant, I should have told you at once you could not have the land. The rend is a fair rend, as you very well know, and I don't intend to haggle about it. It is not my practice to say one thing meaning to do another. So, if you life to take Greystone at twenty pounds, you can have it; if not, well and good.""I never heard of anything to come up to this. Do you think, sir, a man can bind himself to such a rend as rashly and with as light a heart as he might go to the shop and buy a stone of meal?""As you ask me, Mr. McGurk—if he understands his business, I do think so.""Well, I suppose there is no help for it," said the man, rising slowly yet with an air of great determination. "I am sorry not to get the slip of grazing, it lies so handy for me; but a sum such as you say I dursn't take in hand. It would keep me lying awake all night, instead of resting myself after a hard day's labour.""And I am sorry," answered Mr. Stirling politely, "not to have you for a tenant; but I should not like you to lose your sleep, and I cannot take a shilling less.""I'll bid your honour good-morning, then.""Good-morning, Mr. McGuik," returned Mr. Stirling, rising and walking to the barn door with his visitor: a mark of attention which simply amazed the farmer, for it had ever been a principle with the old Duke and his agents to treat the tenants as if they were dirt."I think you are wrong, sir," said McGurk, as he departed; "but I wish you well.""I am sure you do," answered the other; "but I know I am right."By the time Mr. McGurk had got across the great stable-yard, built by a former Conway possessed of princely ideas on the subject of horses, and who carried those ideas into practice, he "took another thought," and decided if he did not want to lose Greystone altogether he had better go back and what he called " clinch " the bargain.Loitering about were "heaps of neighbours," each and all hungering after the soil. They were there, decently clad, and almost in rags, waiting for an interview with the agent—standing talking in groups, or sitting singly "considering matters" on barrow, cart-shaft, steps, bucket, stone, turf, creel—any thing that seemed handy for the purpose."Larry, just ask Mr. Stirling if I could have speech of him for a minute," said Mr. McGurk, who after reaching the yard gates had turned back again; "I forgot a word I had to say."Larry, a stalwart, stolid young fellow, who owned a quiet tongue and a strong arm, and had, for these and other gilts, been told off to attend on Mr. Stirling's levées and keep intruders at bay, alter cautioning Mr. McGurk to "tand by the latch and let nobody lift it," passed in himself to deliver the message."Yes, I can see him; but only for a minute," answered the agent, guarding his time against possible contingencies."I've been thinking," began the would-be tenant, "I must have that bit of ground, sir, though the rent you want is like paving it with golden guineas; you'll bate me something off it, surely.""No, Mr. McGurk—not a shilling.""Well, well, well! I never thought things would be like this when the young master came among us."Very wisely Mr. Stirling declined to be led into any further controversy, and resolutely kept silence while Mr. McGurk waited for the answer which did not come."I suppose I must make an end of the matter, then," he said at last desperately; "I'll take Greystone. As the season is so far through, you'll count the entry as from November, of course?""Your rent will begin from the first of next month," replied the agent, with calm decision."May I never, if ever I came across your honour's like!" exclaimed the man; "but I am so situated I ought to have that land even at a loss, as it will be. I'll take it for a year, and if I find I am able anyhow to make off the rent, you'll grant me a seven years' lease come next May twelvemonth.""That, practically, will be letting you the farm for eight years," remarked Mr. Stirling, who could not help smiling at the man's barefaced attempt to trap him; "but I believe I may say 'yes' to that Mr. Conway leaves me a certain discretion in these matters.""Faith, and he could not leave it with a better, if he wants to get his pockets filled;" which was a compliment of so dubious a nature, Mr. Stirling did not attempt to accept it."And when may I turn the poor beasts in, your honour?"asked Mr. McGurk, after vainly waiting for a reply."To-day, if you like; and I hope they will find the pasture better than you seem inclined to admit""There's not much to be said against the pasture, what there is of it Nobody expects meadow-grass on a bare hillside.""From your tone, any one might have thought you did," returned Mr. Stirling, who was engaged filling up a printed from. Do not go for a moment, please,"he added, as Mr. McGuck rose and looked thoughtfully into his hat. "I must trouble you to sign this before you take possession.""The Lord be between me and harm! What is it, sir?""It is only a memorandum of the terms on which we agree to let and you agree to take Greystone.""And you want me to put my name to that?""I do," answered Mr. Stirling."Well, if ever I heard anything to come up to this!""I do not intend," went on Mr. Stirling, "to have any loose verbal agreement. I am not going hereafter to have my time taken up and my temper tried by being told I said what I never thought of saying. There are certain things we do not mean to allow on this estate, and I have had a form printed which every tenant who wants to rent land here will have to sign.""Well, this is beyond the beyonds! And you expect me to put pen to that paper, when I know no more nor the dead what is in it?""I don't expect you to do anything of the sort. Read it over carefully, and if you are not satisfied, show it to any one you can trust—the priest, for instance. You go to chapel, I suppose?""No man ever saw me inside of a chapel, or ever will. I am as good a Presbyterian as yourself.""There can't be too many good Presbyterians for my taste," answered the agent."Indeed! then for that very reason you ought to let me have the bit of waste land for half what you are asking.""I will not go over that argument again, Mr. McGurk," said the agent severely. "For the other matter, as you attend meeting, you cannot do better than take that document to Mr. McKye and ask his opinion about it.""I never came across the equal of this.""That is not my fault," replied Mr. Stirling; "and now as I have a great deal to do, perhaps you will kindly go away. If you wish to rent Graystone, bring the paper back to be signed, and I will exchange it for one signed by myself.""This caps all,"observed Mr. McGurk. "I've held land the last thirty years, and it's the first time any gentleman put the disgrace on me of doubting my word.""I do not doubt your word," said Mr. Stirling, "and if I can help it no one shall mistake any word of mine. In the course of a few days I hope to have some bills posted where every intending tenant can read them, and I am besides sending advertisements to the Derry papers, so that there may be no misunderstanding as the practice which I mean to obtain on the Calgarry estate.""It's a good job any way it is maybe not just what Mr. Conway means," retorted the man, with a dash of insolence."Do not fall into any error on that point," advised the agent, who had step by step been dexterously manoeuvring Mr. McGurk to the door. "I will keep Greystone for you till twelve o'clock to-morrow, but not an hour longer. Good-morning;" and the next moment the irate Presbyterian found himself given over to the tender mercies of Larry, while Mr. Stirling attempted to finish his proclamation and a letter to the Derry editors.All day long, for many, many days, that ran eventually into weeks, would-be tenants came and talked and haggled, and " better haggled." Heaven and the saints and the Almighty were adjured to witness that the Calgarry land wasn't fit to feed a goat, let alone support a Christian.The people would have been quite content to pay the rent demanded, or even a higher sum, had Mr. Stirling asked more at first and allowed himself to be beaten down. All the traditions of the people, all their practice for generations, were diametrically opposed to Mr. Stirling's "nonsensical notions."If a man sold a cow he would waste a whole afternoon over half-a-crown, which he afterwards contentedly spent in treating himself and his friends. About Calgarry time seemed literally of no value, and to a man like the new agent, who could find employment for every second in the day, it was especially annoying to have to waste hours and hours over matters which could have been settled in ten minutes.But he remained firm to his principles, and bated not one sixpence of the price he originally demanded."They will find eventually," he said to Mr. Malet, "that it is useless trying to tire me out. Mr. Conway would give in, so I have asked him to go and see his relation the Archdeacon.""A very excellent move," answered the Vicar; "but do not most of your farmer friends purpose putting off any settlement till his return?""They have tried that on, but I told them it was quite useless. A fellow called Donelly has almost broken my heart. There is not a rule that I have laid down but he has wished to infringe, not a point he would yield without a fight. He argues by the hour—by the day together. The fact is, much as they all hate a fair rent, they hate being bound in black and white still more. Each man wants something I am not willing to concede. Beyond all, they desire to build their own cabins; and because I won't let them, they believe they are all wronged men.""You think it was worth while contesting that point?""Well worth while, though it has caused an enormous amount of bad feeling, which that leader in yesterday's paper will increase. It is very funny; the Tory editor says Mr. Conway is pursuing a wise and generous policy, while the Whig stigmatises my letter and advertisement as the most outrageous and brazen exposition of landlord despotism carried into effect by an unscrupulous agent it has ever been his lot to comment on—even in Ireland. But you have read the article, of course?""No; I have heard of, but not seen, it.""It is a very wonderful composition. The writer likens the new owner of Calgarry to Rehoboam, and says he is being guided to his ruin—not, indeed, by a young man, but by one quite old enough to know better. Duke Conway, he reminds everybody, laid a grievous yoke on the people of Donegal, who rejoiced when the tyrant died, and came with hope to the new owner, thinking he would lighten their burden, and determined to serve him loyally. Up to a certain point, everything went well: but then I came, and, advised by me, Mr. Conway now tells a downtrodden peasantry that he will add to their yoke; that whereas the man who is gone to his account chastised them with whips, he will chastise them with scorpions. They are not to be allowed the fruits of their labour because they will not be allowed to labour at all. All their rights are to be taken away; the very stones on their holdings are claimed by their landlord, who means to rule them with a rod of iron. I am going to insert the article, with my remarks on it, as a double column advertisement.""Are you? Would is not, perhaps, be prudent to let the matter drop?""No. This is only the beginning of the battle, which will have to be fully fought out some time—years hence perhaps.""I know that. I see the object you have in view. But I am not at all sure the course you are taking is strictly legal.""Mr. Donelly says it is not.""To which you answered?""That if he wished we would try the question when the time came.""And he?""Said that wouldn't help him much, because in Ireland there was one law for the poor and another for the rich.""Practically, I suppose there is," remarked Mr. Malet thoughtfully."There is; but not exactly in your sense, and so I told him. I said, ' I know there is a law for the poor; and if I am forced to it I'll try if there is not one for the rich too. We have heard such a confounded lot of talk about tenant-right that it is about time somebody considered landlord-right.' Then he made the usual remark concerning ' wanting nothing but justice,' and sang such a song over it, I could not help telling him one of Mr. Barry's stories.""What was that?""O, only about a fellow standing his trial for murder, who said to his counsel,"' All I want, your honour, is justice.'"' And that,' answered the barrister, ' is exactly what I am afraid you won't get, for the jury have a mistaken objection to hanging!'""'Did Donelly understand?""He did; he was greatly offended. He did not come near me again for two days, when, after a great deal of haggling, he agreed to take a farm at a rent which he declared was not a bit better than highway robbery. No, Mr. Malet. I have lived best part of my life in Ireland, and I know the thing the Irish like least is what you and I would call justice. Were this estate in England, and I dealing with English tenants, is there a single item in what that newspaper fellow calls my Royal Proclamation to which objection would be taken?""I don't know that there is, except the short leases.""Those are the natural outcome of Mr. Conway's straitened circumstances. We can't improve the land as we wish to do now, and of course when we have improved it we shall raise our rents.""But why don't you let the tenants improve it for themselves?""Because they won't. One tenant in fifty, perhaps, might leave his holding better than he found it; but the majority put as little as they can help into the ground and take all they can out. At the end of seven years, if we did nothing, take my word for it the rushes would be growing in the grazing land just as they are growing now; in wet weather the cows would be standing up to their hocks in water, as you can see them any day; the crops of grain would be as poor as they have always been, the dwellings as wretched, and the fields as badly fenced. I am going to change all that""I fancy I know as much of Ireland as you, and I think you will tire of the task you have set yourself before many years are over.""Perhaps I may; but I must just get rested again. What would you do if you were in my shoes?"Mr. Malet smiled; he was a man who rarely laughed."I can more easily tell you what I should not do," he answered. "I should not build, or drain, or crop, or fence, or reclaim. If I had the chance of getting tenants like McGurk and Donelly, I should not interfere much with them. You can get a very fair rental out of Calgarry as it stands, and it is extremely doubtful whether you could get a penny more if you changed it into a model farm to-morrow.""I mean to try, anyhow," said the agent valiantly."Well, I hope better fortune will reward your efforts than has attended previous attempts of the same nature. It is a difficult task for one man to civilise a nation; but if you feel you are strong enough, far be it from me to discourage you. Only I should advise you not to spend too much money in striving to compel a change time will eventually bring about by some gradual and simple process. And that reminds me. How are Mr. Conway's pecuniary affairs arranging themselves, or being arranged? Is there a chance of any satisfactory settlement?""I do not know. I suppose so," answered Mr. Stirling. "We have heard nothing since we left London, and the old proverb says no news is good news.""Humph!" remarked the Vicar."You do not seem to agree with the old proverb?""I was not thinking about that. I should like to hear whatever news there might be, whether good or bad.""We most of us would like the same, I suppose; but neither wishing nor wanting will materially hurry the course of events," answered the agent. "Won't you come up to the house, Mr. Malet? It is not very comfortable here, and I have about done business for the day.""I am comfortable enough where we are," was the reply;, and I must shortly be wending my way home. Before I go, however, there is one remark I should—What is it, Larry?""A gentleman, sir, would be glad to speak to Mr. Stirling," answered Larry, whose entrance at this supreme moment lost the world for ever that one remark with which Mr. Malet had proposed to enlighten it."A gentleman—what gentleman? Ask his name," returned the agent a little nervously."You know my name, I think," said the stranger, pushing open the door Larry had left ajar, and advancing to the table with a bow and the pleasant smile of one secure of his welcome.It is no exaggeration to say a child might have knocked the agent down at that moment."Mr. Benaron!" he said, rising and resting both hands on the table."Yes, even so—Mr. Benaron," answered Amos, in his most genial tone."Talk of an angel and you hear his wings," muttered Mr. Malet; only his quotation did not run exactly on such complimentary lines."Mr. Malet, this is—" began Mr. Stirling, in his confusion scarcely knowing what he was doing or what he meant to say.But it did not signify in the least, for while the words were still on his lips the Vicar passed by Larry and crossed the great stable-yard.CHAPTER XXV.OPINIONS DIFFER."I DID not expect to have the pleasure of seeing you so soon again," said Mr. Stirling, making a clutch at his presence of mind, and fortunately seizing it.Whatever ill wind it might have been that had blown Mr. Benaron so far out of his usual latitude, matters could not be made any worse by civility."And nothing could have been further from my idea than that we should meet again here," answered Mr. Benaron with suave composure. "Fact is, I had some premonitory symptoms of gout; and as my doctor told me to leave town, I thought I could not do better than take a run across the Channel.""There is not much gout in Donegal," said Mr. Stilling sententiously."None from overfeeding, I should think, at any rate. I know I have not sat down to a decent meal since I left London.""Then I may venture to hope your symptoms have disappeared?'"Quite; they could no more live in such a country as this than in a dead man.""From your tone, I fear your impressions of this country are not very favourable."Mr. Benaron shrugged his shoulders. "Do not let us talk of it, please," he entreated. "At the beginning Nature turned Donegal out in the rough, and has forgotten ever since such a place existed. No; in my wildest dreams I could not have imagined such stoney desolation, such grim, man-defying solitudes."The agent made no reply to this stern denunciation of Donegal. He could not see where Mr. Benaron was going, and so wisely kept his peace."If I do not give him a lead, he will have to take his jumps for himself," considered Mr. Stirling, who had quite recovered his self possession. "This visit can't mean mischief? A wonder what has passed between him and Reynolds." And a great longing for five minutes' chat with Mr. Barry came over the agent, while Mr. Benaron took his first leap in good style by saying:"I am disappointed, though not altogether surprised, to find Mr. Conway from home.""It is not with his own goodwill he is away just at present," answered Mr. Stirling; "fact is, I find I can get on here better without him for a while.""I think I understand." And Mr. Benaron added nothing further."Do you want particularly to see Mr. Conway?" asked Mr. Stirling, after a pause."If I did not, should I be in Donegal?" returned the visitor."I cannot tell. You might be exploring the country.""Or I might be exploring Siberia," retorted Mr. Benaron with infinite contempt. "No, my dear sir, if it suited my pur-pose I could pretend I came to these wilds for pleasure, but as between you and me there is no need for disguise, I tell you frankly I came to spy out the land—to discover for myself whether it was flowing with milk and honey, as the Conways, father and son, always led me to believe, or a howling desert, such as you graphically described at our last agreeable interview.""Thank you, I will; I have always had a friendly feeling towards Mr. Conway, and though we are not now on the terms I should like, I feel I can receive hospitality under his roof without any sense of treachery. But perhaps before I leave you now, you will tell me how I can get back to Dunfanaghy after dinner.""How did you come?" asked Mr. Stirling."On a jaunting-car I think they called the infernal contrivance, that was returning to Letterkenny. I suppose I can hire some sort of conveyance hereabouts.""I don't know where," said the agent."Then I had better not go for that stroll, but husband my strength. If I have to walk back I shall need it all before I can hope to see the Stewart Arms again.""You could not walk, it is not to be thought of," answered Mr. Stirling. "Let me consider—no, I don't see what is to be done. There is not a horse we have, except Mr. Conway's own riding mare, has not had a hard day's work to-day and won't have another harder day's work to-morrow; we have them all on the land, every one but Duchess. See here, Mr. Benaron, you had better make up your mind to stop the night with us. We will do our best to make you comfortable."If Mr. Benaron had looked surprised before, he looked absolutely amazed at this fresh proposition."Mr. Stirling, are you serious?" he said."Serious about what?""About asking me to stop here—to sleep under Mr. Conway's roof?""Of course I am. Though you may feel you want to turn us out of house and home, I can tell you it is not in Celtic blood to turn a stranger out to walk all the long miles that stretch between here and Dunfanaghy.""This seems very strange to me, knowing as you must know, as indeed you have said, that even in spite of my own inclinations I may find it impossible to avoid going to extremities.""We'll thresh that grain out, if need be, elsewhere. We have a power of fighting in us, but in all campaigns civilities have been exchanged. Won't you take this small civility from Mr. Conway, even if we have to fight to the death, as very likely we may ere long?""Yes, I will," said Mr. Benaron; "but clearly understand it binds me to nothing.""And if there be a less than nothing, it binds me to that," answered Mr. Stirling."Having settled which point, let me tell you I am infinitely obliged for your courtesy.""And I am obliged to you for yours."It is possible that just for a moment Mr. Benaron's arid heart was softened by the agent's kindly-meant and frankly-made offer; but, if so, that feeling soon wore off."Is not it Irish all over," he thought, "first to cheat a man out of his money, and then insist on entertaining him with it? And the agent has lived in this country so long he seems to have forgotten he ever was a Scot. Well, he has not lied, any-how, about the estate—Heaven save the mark! Good God! to think of any one calling this a property! Why, I might as well have made advances on prairie-land! I suppose that is Calgarry Bay. Building sites might be worth something if I could transport it to Ramsgate or Margate; but here—O Lord!" and Mr. Benaron disgustedly surveyed the Atlantic waves that came sweeping in on the sand."I daresay it would not be safe to bathe here either, so villas would only prove a drug," he said. "Well, this is a place!" And, turning his back on the ocean, he looked at Muckish, and the long stretch of desolate land lying between the shore and the mountain.Anything sadder than the whole prospect could scarcely be conceived. The sun was dropping slowly down to his rest, leaving long trails of gloomy cloud behind. It was not a cheerful evening; everything betokened a rainy and, perhaps, rough night. Muckish was black and threatening. Here and there the lonely expanse of country was flecked with sunshine, but over most of the landscape there lay that gray sorrowful light which is one of the peculiarities of that part of Donegal.The sea-birds were returning to their homes on that rock-bound coast, and at intervals their shrill mournful cry added an additional element of weird melancholy to the lonely scene.A man had need to be at peace with God and God's creatures to walk solitary on such an evening by the sea, with the rush of the Atlantic in his ears, and a sorrowful sunset brooding over the water. It was an hour and a spot for Memory to give back her dead, and marshal her pallid ghosts; for imagination to give form to the thousand nameless fears we can always, when peering into the dim future, conjure up out of the darkness for ourselves; and for depression to seize the heart and crush it.Mr. Benaron shivered as he went on. There was a raw chill in the air, a keen wind whistled over the barren earth, the headlands stood bare and cold against the sky, and the wash of the waves, as they swept in over the sands, sounded loud in its sad monotony."Worse places for a stroll!" thought Mr. Benaron; "that there could not be. A curse over Calgarry—I should think so, indeed; there is a curse over everything, it seems to me, in these dreary regions. How any human being can choose to live here passes my comprehension. I should go mad." And, like Sir Henry Beecham, the good Amos turned his mind with a sense of relief to the gas-lit streets of London, and to the streams of men and women constantly passing through them—whither?Ah! that was just what he did not want to consider; but the moaning sea, and the stern headlands, and the gloomy mountain, and the lonely deserted land would not allow him to forget. For, after all, even to usury—to this world's success—to money getting and money having—there comes an end. His father had gone down into the grave, and for himself there must come a time when he too would have to set out alone on a more gloomy and solitary journey than even Calgarry Bay at eventide prefigured."I will go no further," he muttered; "I wish I had not come so far." And he turned back to behold a line of mournful rocks jutting out into the ocean, where the sea was fretting itself into white foam."And this is fine scenery!"—so ran his scornful thought. "Give me the Strand—which man has made—from Northumberland House to St. Clement's Church, and whoever loves this sort of thing may have it and welcome. I wonder if the old Duke, as they call him, ever came here? Why did he bury himself among these fastnesses? He who might have lived and died in Piccadilly if he had chosen!" And greatly exercised as to what could have been Marmaduke Conway's reason for retreating to such a lair, Mr. Benaron passed onwards. If Calgarry had been the home of some wild beast he could not have entertained a greater contempt for it; and the interior of the house did not at all raise his opinion of the Conway position.It almost seemed a pity he and Miss Dutton could not have exchanged confidences concerning the "dreadful furniture," for on that point they were quite in accord.When he looked round the chamber to which he was conducted before dinner, he could not repress a thrill of exultation as he contrasted its appointments with the superior taste displayed in his own home.No Arabian bedstead, elegantly upholstered; no plate-glass doors to the wardrobe, reflecting back his own gentlemanly figure; no polished steel fender, no brilliant new carpet, no damask curtains, no modern dressing-table: everything old—old and dingy. It was precisely the same down-stairs. The dining-room seemed to him funereal with its great sideboard of Spanish mahogany, underneath which stood a huge sarcophagus big enough to have contained Duke Conway's mortal remains; a dumb-waiter occupied one corner, and a japanned plate-warmer was conspicuous on the hearthrug. On the walls hung some portraits of Conways long dead and gone; the gilding of the frames had waxed dull, and the faces on the canvas were well-nigh undistinguishable.It was a relief to turn from them to the table, lighted by a four-branched candelabra, and to note that the details seemed to promise a good dinner, which promise was abundantly fulfilled."Some fine old silver here," thought the guest; but later on Mr. Stirling reminded him that not an article of furniture, not a book, painting, or spoon, belonged to Mr. Terence Conway."He has the use of everything till it suits Captain Conway to claim his own," said the agent; "but of course you know all about that.""Yes, I know all about that," answered Mr. Benaron gloomily.He felt, as he spoke, like a banker who, after having advanced a tithe, as he supposes, of its value on a deed, finds his security worthless: or like a man who discovers the diamonds he has contrived to get into his hands are mere paste. Till the old Duke's death not a doubt had troubled the smooth surface of Mr. Benaron's faith. There was Calgarry—a known estate; and there, likewise, Mr. Marmaduke's money. There, also, was Mr. Terence Conway's baptismal certificate; and there, further, were those policies judiciously effected on his life.Mr. Benaron had come so remarkably well out of his transactions with Mr. Terence's father that he might be excused for supposing he should come off equally well when accounts between himself and the younger Conway came to be squared up.He had only done what men of his stamp are perpetually doing—viz. taking too much on trust; and while he sat in what he called "that old dungeon of a dining-room," Mr. Benaron cursed himself for having been a fool.He had believed in the picture of Calgarry as painted by the fluent tongue and roseate imagination of his first client; but he had found it very hard to believe in the gloomy land-scape sketched at his desire by Mr. Stirling.Then, too late, he thought he would see for himself: and he had seen, and he had heard.It was not his fault that he failed to get even an approximate idea of what Calgarry would fetch if brought to the hammer. In answer to his questions he could only elicit:"'Deed, it's hard to say.""Land is not what it was, even in my memory.""Yes, the Captain did want to buy Calgarry; but it was never told what he offered, nor if he offered anything.""Calgarry was not everybody's money. Likely, if he could have got a bid worth while, Mr. Conway might have been glad to get shut of the place.""Mr. Norbury had a great conceit of it on account of the game. It was in his mind, too, to do a lot of good—he had money enough and to spare—but it was said he wouldn't make a big offer for Calgarry; he wanted to get it cheap, and then lay out what he could spare on benefiting the people.""Maybe Mr. Conway is just as wise to hold on. There are heaps of properties in. the court—some of them going for an old song.""There are those as think anybody that wants Calgarry will keep a quiet tongue for a bit. It'll maybe go cheaper yet""It was a fine place once, well kept up, with plenty of tenants and cattle, and sheep by the hundred—ay, and young horses, too; but the old Duke took the notion—whatever possessed him—to lay the land waste. There wasn't one dare say him nay; and whenever he got rid of a tenant he would let the house go to wreck and ruin, and the ground too. God forgive him! He was a terrible man.""This Mr. Conway mightn't have done so bad either if he had chanced on a knowledgeable agent; but what can a gen-tleman from down in the South comprehend about Donegal? There, though, when all is said and done, what does it come to? Back to the Nun. If it isn't one thing, it's another. They won't lift the curse off Calgarry by disallowing men putting their strength into the soil.""It's like Mr. Conway will find old ways weren't the worse ways before many years have gone over his head."It was of these and similar utterances, extracted painfully and diplomatically during a three weeks' sojourn in the heart of Donegal, Mr. Benaron was thinking as he sat, after dinner, drinking the friendly tumbler of punch his gouty tendency compelled him to accept rather than that old wine of which there was but little left in the Calgarry cellars, most of the bins having been emptied, and their contents forwarded to Captain Conway. He had dined well, if plainly; he had been pressed to partake of the Madeira, worth Heaven knows how much a bottle; he had been waited on by Byrne, whose noiseless step and low voice and deferential manner had won the hearts of many guests of high degree in the old Duke's time—and yet he was dissatisfied.He looked disparagingly at what he accounted the shabby surroundings of the Conways. He did not think much of the house, or the grounds, or the furniture, or the servants. His candid opinion of Ireland was, that a less inviting country man never beheld. His feeling towards the inhabitants was one of keen antipathy; he considered himself a wronged and swindled individual. He had come across the Channel to see for himself whether Donegal was as Terence's father always led him to believe—a veritable land of Canaan flowing with milk and honey, and producing, if not grapes and pomegranates and figs, such equivalents thereto as might reasonably be expected; and this—this—was the result."It is an awful country," he afterwards declared; "cursed by God, and hateful to man. It grows nothing but stone, and mountain, and bog, and rain. 'Green Isle,' indeed! I saw nothing green on my travels, except myself, who had been such a fool as to go there!"No; he did not want to fight. Still, if he had found Calgarry a smiling plain—where corn waved, and grass grew, and cattle wandered—he would have fought even Mark Barry, if needful, "to get his own," which meant a vast amount that was not his at all, only what he regarded as his lawful perquisite.But an Irish Petrea—a stony wilderness, where the only variety was dreary bog, frowning mountain, or raving ocean; desolated by the two plagues of famine and emigration; unhappy in its soil and in its climate; given over to dirt, Rome, and whisky—who in his senses, possessed of means to buy a property elsewhere, would purchase, and such an one, so far removed from civilisation? Perhaps there was really something in that statement about the gout; perhaps Mr. Stirling's bow, drawn quite at a venture, had shot an arrow nearer some vital part of Mr. Benaron's person than he cared to hear whizzing towards him again. Whatever the reason—and doubtless there were many, with which this history has no need to concern itself—Mr. Benaron felt very much out of sorts. His credulous faith in human nature—more especially that human nature which goes borrowing—had received such a shock that he decided to take what he could get, and half determined to retire from so thankless a business as lending money.He knew a very rising young man, with as old a head on his shoulders as anybody need desire, who was on the look-out to improve his fortunes.He could trust that young man; they could row in the same boat, and it was quite on the cards that, ere long, the name of Benaron might fade out from Soho, and the name of Schloss appear elsewhere. He could make a very good income by finding the money and acting as "friend in the City" to Schloss. Yes, he did not want any more such affairs as that of Calgarry, which he now meant to settle.It is hard even for a Christian to part with any portion of the pound of flesh he holds to be his due; and Mr. Benaron was not exactly a Christian—though as much that as anything—still, "needs must when the devil drives," and he felt Mark Barry was a very nasty devil indeed. Such thoughts made Amos a little bitter, and the smile with which he opened his parallels was anything but pleasant."I feel rather inclined to congratulate myself," he began, "for having met a man as much disliked in Donegal as I am by some persons in London.""It is not much to congratulate yourself on, I should have thought," answered Mr. Stirling, a good deal surprised. "But if you are pleased, that is the main point. Is the gentleman in the same line of business as yourself?""Not exactly. He is an agent.""And if not indiscreet, may I ask who he is?""Really, Mr. Stirling, if you are unable to identify him, it would be almost a pity to enlighten you.""Do you mean me?""As you put the question so direct, I am compelled to confess I do.""Well, that need not trouble me.""I am glad you look at the position so bravely.""What would make me look at it any other way?""Agents have been shot before now.""And agents have not been shot—so there you are.""You take a very philosophical view of the situation. I hope your life is not heavily insured?""It is not insured for the benefit of my creditors, you may be sure of that, or at the rate you charged Mr. Conway. Come, I had you that time.""No. I charged nothing exorbitant for whatever advances I made; my conscience is quite clear on that score.""Then all I have to remark is, yours must be a wonderful conscience.""It is," said Mr. Benaron, with such hearty agreement that Mr. Stirling was forced to laugh."But really, you know," went on the former, with the manner of a man who has just won and taken up a trick, "you are very much disliked—in fact, I fear I may go so far as to say hated—and I should imagine it is more dangerous to be hated in Donegal than in London.""Not at all—if one man has a spite against another he can find a way to serve him out, whether it is in London or on Horn Head.""You are contradicting your argument in the matter of Mr. Conway.""The cases are different. Nobody would want to put me out of the way for the sake of the insurance money.""Not even your wife?" asked Mr. Benaron, with a ghastly cynicism."I have no wife," answered the agent."Happy individual!" exclaimed Mr. Conway's creditor."Each individual has his own notions of happiness," said Mr. Stirling sententiously, "and if it is yours to be without a wife, I have no right to quarrel with it. There is one remark, though, I think I may make. You did not come over to Donegal to tell me I am scarcely as well liked as I might be or to hint my life is in jeopardy. Now, what did bring you, if I may make so bold as to ask?""I have told you—to spy out the land.""Well, you have spied it out. I suppose you know as much about the land now as you'll ever know, unless you like to come and take a farm here.""God forbid!"ejaculated Mr. Benaron."You have said," proceeded the agent, quite unmoved by this vehement expression of distaste for Donegal, " what you came to Ireland for, and now I hope you won't be offended if I further ask what brought you to Calgarry. It was not, I conclude, to let Mr. Conway know your mind about his country and his agent?""No," answered Mr. Benaron, "it was not, though both subjects would have been mentioned incidentally, probably.""O!" said Mr. Stirling; and he said no more. "I will first give him rope enough," he thought, "and he'll have to speak out."The good Amos did not seem to find it very easy to speak out. Even when admonishing a borrower who failed to meet his acceptances, Mr. Benaron always preferred a devious to a straight rebuke, and though he had begun well with Mr. Stirling, and been plain almost to offensiveness, he experienced a difficulty in opening the real business which was the cause of his appearance in the wilds of Donegal.He sat looking at the fire idly, wondering what the future could hold for a people who burnt a fuel that never blazed. When a man is dissatisfied, there are few things which fail to give offence, and the glow of the peat seemed to fill the cup of Irish iniquity to the brim."May I ask you a plain question, Mr. Stirling?" he at last said, breaking a stillness which had become oppressive."Certainly.""Well, Mr. Conway seems to have started you in Donegal as a sort of Joseph—a long way after the original, perhaps—still, he has got you over his house, and without you no man may dare to lift up his hand or foot in all the land—""Just stop a minute, will you, please?" interrupted Mr. Stirling. "Do you want to pick a quarrel with me?""Quarrel! Dear me, no! What could induce you to think so?""Your words, which are insulting, and your manner, which is offensive. We are plain people here, Mr. Benaron, and we like to see which way we are going. Now we may proceed. You had a question to ask me. What is it?"'"Being placed so high in authority," proceeded Mr. Benaron with imperturbable calmness, "have you power in Mr. Conway's absence to attend to Mr. Conway's affairs?""I should like to know what affairs you are referring to before I answer that. If you mean his business with you, I have no authority to attend to it; but I would take it on myself to do so if I thought any good was like to come of my venturing on such a responsibility.""That is enough. You asked me a while ago what brought me to Calgarry. I will tell you. I am tired of this game the lawyers are playing, and I come to try if we cannot agree to some settlement among ourselves.""Does your lawyer know you are here?" asked Mr. Stirling.He had not expected this inquiry, and for a moment Mr. Benaron paused, considering whether it would be better to tell the truth or a lie; then he said, "There are some questions it is wiser not to put.""That is enough. He does know, and that places us at a bit of a disadvantage; but, however, go on. What is your proposal?""What is yours?""I don't know that we have any. I never heard of any. You see the land. Mr. Conway has nothing else. You can't reap when there is no corn, or sell cattle if you have none.""You can get money. How much will you pay to be done with me and Quinion?'"Answering for myself, I would pay a good deal if I could get it," replied Mr. Stirling. "If I couldn't I'd have to put up with you and Mr. Quinion, and that is about what I am afraid Mr. Conway must do.""Fighting takes money," observed Mr. Benaron sententiously."That is true, but we expect it won't be ours."Are you really so mad as to think you will get off scot-free?""I am sure I can't tell—law is very uncertain.""Do you mean that Mr. Conway will go into the witness-box and deny he had any money from me?""He could not well do that, for he had some""O! you admit he had some. Perhaps you can tell me how much?""No, but I could tell you some he hadn't.""Well, that is one step forward, at any rate. What is the amount he had not?""He had not a penny of the bills he accepted two days after he came of age.""Does Mr. Conway say that?""When you see him you can ask him, or your lawyer can. Meantime I say he had not.""Is there anything else which occurs to you?""I have not had time to go into the matter. You see, I am an agent, not exactly an accountant, and I must attend to the estate before 1 look to anything else; but I may tell you this much—I see quite enough in the affair to make me sure Mr. Conway won't come out of it second best."The way in which Mr. Stirling figuratively unsheathed his dirk, and showed he had such a weapon by him, without attempting to use it unless need should arise, was simply beautiful."Here we are, all ready," Mr. Conway's agent seemed to say; "but you need not have three inches of cold steel in your body unless you like. It is quite optional.""He won't come out of it well," remarked Mr.Benaron, after considering this."I am afraid I don't quite follow you.""What I mean is, Mr. Conway had better agree to terms with me. I always laugh if I see a novice playing with law. 'My good young greenhorn,' I think, when a man tells me he will go to his solicitor, 'you don't know that the end of these things is death.' For my part—and you know I am not young nor a greenhorn—I feel afraid to say good-morning to my lawyer when I meet him in the street, lest I should find something in his bill of costs after this style:"To advising Mr. Benaron about the weather, remarking it was certain to rain, and combating his remark that it was a good morning,—at great length.... £168"Mr. Stirling did not laugh. He had no heart left in him for laughing. He was at his wits' end to know what to say. He would cheerfully have given fifty pounds out of his own pocket if by such a sacrifice it had been possible to transport Mr. Reynolds from the great metropolis to Calgarry."Like yourself, Mr. Benaron," he observed, "I am no novice. I have seen, one way and another, a good deal of law and lawyers, and my experience of the latter has been, I am happy to say, much more fortunate than yours. My last employer's solicitors were gentlemen of the highest character, and I fancy Mr. Conway is in very good hands.""You have not yet had Mr. Reynolds' little bill?""There will be a great deal more added on it, I fancy, before any one has to pay that" answered Mr. Stirling diplomatically."There need not be, if you would only meet me in the same spirit which brought me here. I came to try to settle this matter amicably. Let us talk the business over in a business manner. I know well enough you cannot agree to any terms without Mr. Conway's consent; but you, I feel sure, may practically close the account. How much do you say?""It is impossible for me to say anything," answered the agent: "first, because I have not the power; and second, because I have not the will to do what might seriously compromise Mr. Conway.""Are you not putting your power a little too high?" asked Mr. Benaron."A very small person can often do a heap of mischief," answered the agent. "No; I should not care to make any suggestion, even if I had one in my mind to make, which I have not. But if you choose to put a figure on what is in your mind, I'll tell you what I think of it.""That is absurd," said the creditor. "I can't be buyer and seller too.""And I can't be either one or. the other; so between us it seems we are unlikely to get much further.""Well, if I must open the ball," returned Amos, with a natural modesty, "what would you think if I offered to take off ten per cent?"Mr. Stirling smiled. "You'll have to do a good deal better than ten per cent.""That is your notion.""That is my conviction."Mr. Benaron made a further statement—Mr. Stirling smiled again; and so the matter proceeded, like a cheap-jack's sale, the various offers on the creditor's part being treated by the agent with a stony contempt, which would have been infinitely annoying to Mr. Benaron if he had not fully expected it.At last he stopped. "Now," he declared, "I will not bate another farthing.""And why could you not have said that at first?" asked Mr. Stirling."Are you prepared to close at the price?" asked Mr. Benaron, ignoring this question."It is about twice too much, in my opinion," observed the agent; "but I will put it before Mr. Conway.""And advise him to closed""Yes, I'll go so far as that.""Then with your permission I think I will go to bed. Time lengthens itself out here in an extraordinary manner."Mr. Stirling did not take any notice of this remark; he accompanied Mr. Benaron to his chamber, said he hoped he would rest well, bade him good-night, and then went straight to the stables, where he bade one of the men get up at dawn, clap a saddle on Mr. Conway's mare, ride with a telegraph message to the nearest office, and wait for an answer; after that he too sought his pillow, which seemed to him that night very soft indeed.It was late the next afternoon before the man returned. Mr. Conway had telegraphed the message on to Mark, who merely answered, "Yes.""What do you think?"asked the barrister, rushing into Mr. Reynold's office, on his way to Westminster Hall; "Amos has come to his senses, and proposed a compromise, which Conway has accepted! and—suspend the exclamation of your astonishment, please, till you hear the end—Captain Conway is willing to lend a thumping slice of his legacy on Calgarry!""O!" said Mr. Reynolds. He did not seem so much delighted with the news as Mark thought he might have been."Was there ever such a lucky beggar as Conway?" went on Mr. Barry. "It is right enough what they say—there is a providence over drunken people and fools!""And in which category should you place the owner of Calgarry?""Both," answered Mark joyously. "I have seen him confoundedly tipsy—he can't carry his liquor like anybody else—no head! and as for the other, if he is not a fool, tell me!""How pleased he would be to hear the terms in which you speak of him!""That's nothing. I'm as fond of Terence as if he was my brother; and, maybe, he'll get on all right now. He can make a fresh start. 'The Devil does take care of his own,' eh, Reynolds?""You ought to know," replied Mr. Reynolds dryly.CHAPTER XXVI.GOLDEN HOURS.THERE is one difficulty in making a fresh start people always overlook, namely, that before starting a man cannot get rid of himself. For this reason it is always safe to prophesy, if a person have failed once he will fail again. He remains unchanged, though circumstances may alter. When the blight of non-success is in the human tree, how can any one expect fruit? When a bad jockey rides, it is idle to hope to win a race; and circumstances are like horses: that man who would pass the winning-post needs a good seat, a cool head, and a light hand, otherwise the best steed Heaven can send him may fail even to secure a place.The great financier who said he never would associate himself with a man that had failed merely expressed the same idea from a different point of view. Never have any business transactions with an unlucky individual; never buy an unlucky ship, nor take an unlucky house; not because there is really such a thing as luck or ill-luck, but because there must be a reason why the person, the ship, the house came to grief.One animal will fatten where another starves; one man will heap up riches where his fellow loses the little he hath. It is in the animal to fatten, in the man to grow rich; and just so it is in some natures to mar the best chances opportunity offers."He has the ball at his foot now," said Mark to his wife, speaking of Terence."Poor boy, I am so glad," answered Letitia; but they both forgot a ball may as well be a mile off as at a man's foot, if he does not know what to do with it.It really seemed, though, as if the new Conway of Calgarry meant to play his game well. At first he could scarcely believe in the extent of his good fortune.For a little while he was as one dazed. He wandered aimlessly about the place, he paced the sands, he looked at the headlands with eyes from which the shadow of a haunting trouble had been brushed away; he was gravely happy—too happy and thankful for laughter or light jest; but when he met Mr. Stirling, he smiled, and the agent smiled back well content.He was indeed in the height of his glory. No man ever felt more utterly satisfied than Mr. Stirling then. He was busy, and every one about the estate except the owner was busy too. Never, even at Gweedore, had such a sudden spurt of industry been seen as was then to be beheld any day about Calgarry. People said it would not last, and resigned themselves accordingly. The tenants even were busy in a regular sort of way, which is saying a great deal. Out on the land the women and children were hard at work, while most of the men were engaged in putting up houses and outhouses for wages, "if ever anybody heard the like!"They felt it all the harder to be paid because they could not even laugh at Mr. Stirling's folly in spending "good money for labour when he might have had every stick and stone put in place far better for nothing;" because they knew this new departure was only another form of landlord tyranny. Further, they could not have things to their mind. The sweet simplicity of their old cabins was far and away more homelike than all the English notions with which Mr. Stirling bothered them. What was the good of it all? "Where were the hens—God bless them!—so well as roosting up on the beams among the smoke? It kept vermin and disease off them; and the pigs, it was the height of folly to think they would ever thrive in a sty after having been used to the run of the house." "If Mr. Stirling had a mind to build stables and diaries and byres, he could do it if he liked, of course; but everybody knew a lean-to—not too high in the roof, and convenient to get at—was far better for the poor beasts than those cold barracks, where they would be shivering through the winter nights."Well, there was one comfort—no man, agent or no agent, could be everywhere; and before the bad weather came, he'd be tired of riding about, and would, maybe, have something better to do than putting things all wrong, and they could run up a bit of a shed beside the turf stack, where nobody would be any the wiser, and keep the cow fine and handy.Thus Donegal consoled itself. Like Brere Rabbit it "sot up and said nothing," but it thought a vast deal.It was getting its wages regularly, and could afford to remain silent; precisely as in England old women who are in the receipt of doles remain politely mute while "the dear kind ladies" instruct them in their duties, and then do exactly what they please when the ladies' backs are turned.A general opinion, however, prevailed that Mr. Stirling was an awful sort of a man. If he saw a poor fellow herding an old cow or maybe a heifer by the roadside, he was off his horse in a minute, wanting to know if he could find no better use for his time than sitting on the top of a ditch wasting his day—as if it was waste to let the poor dumb brute pick a bit of grass! They mocked quietly at the agent's notions, and remarked,"Ach! he's sthrange yit to the counthry, and he knows but little about crops or he'd never be sowing corn now. He's all on for improved breeds, too, as if his Maker hadn't put the sort of breed here fittest for the climate." Even Mr. McKye entertained the opinion that Mr. Stirling was going a little too fast."You are nearer the sea than Mountain View, remember," he said. "You'll not get those things to live.""Then they must die," answered the agent, who had the greatest belief in the soundness of his own judgment."You need never hope that those crops will ripen," remarked Mr. Malet, who from long and sad experience knew it was as useless striving to get the better of the Irish climate as to fight against the prejudices of his flock; "what will you do with them?""You will see," answered Mr. Stirling, which was about all the explanation he vouchsafed to any one.He would have told Mr. Conway his plans had he not found Terence only cared for results, and was perfectly indifferent to details. In every form and shape he hated business. If he refrained from saying in so many words "Don't pester me," his weariness when money matters came on the tapis was so evident Mr. Stirling very soon ceased to speak of them.No human being could have been nicer and kinder to another than Terence to his agent; yet it was not long ere Mr. Stirling became uneasily conscious of some vague want in his employer."Look here," said Mark Barry, when he met the agent one day by appointment at Messrs. Bray & Lucan's office in Dublin, and dined with him afterwards, "Terence is as good a fellow as ever lived, but I wouldn't advise you to trust him too far. It is in the Conways to throw people over when their turn is served. I don't say Terence has that in him, but you'll be wise to have as binding agreement with the landlord as the tenants. I'm not sure, indeed, I wouldn't trust the tenants more than the landlord. After all, what is bred in the blood must come out in the bone. That is true. I know how I have had to battle against my own blood. Men don't care to talk about such things, but they're true, no matter how much we'd like to disbelieve them. At any rate, put your position at Calgarry in black and white.""A nod is as good as a wink," and Mr. Stirling, even while he said confidently to himself, "That young fellow is as good as gold," thought it prudent to hint to his employer the advisability of some legal arrangement. He felt a great delicacy about the matter, and mentioned it to Terence with the greatest reluctance, though it was certainly his right to do so.The manner in which the young man received his request, however, increased the great liking Mr. Stirling had already conceived for him."Why did you not speak to me before?" he asked. "Of course your position ought to be put on a sure footing. You know I leave all business details to you; but in this case I will write to Mr. Bray, and ask him to draw up the sort of paper we want. You have been a very faithful friend to me, and I hope I shall never prove ungrateful." And in accordance with this statement, he directed his solicitors to deal so liberally by Mr. Stirling that the agent was fairly overcome, and set his brains to work how he could best make some return for Mr. Conway's kindness.Clearly the first thing was to put matters in good train with Miss
Dutton, and he strongly advised Terence to write at once, and, without
going into minutiæ let his love understand affairs were going
remarkably well with him."The young lady is most beautiful, and her fortune is very large," he went on; but for every advantage she brings you can lay down another. Don't be faint-hearted, and we may welcome a bride at Calgarry before the winter."If there be times, as we know there are, when the stars in their courses seem to fight against a man, so occasionally each circumstance, as it comes, proves, directly or indirectly, a chance in his favour.Just about the time when Mr. Benaron decided to pay his visit to Donegal, it happened that Mrs. Boyne of Mostrene began to feel that it might be well to set up some sort of opposition to Captain Conway's mother, who was fast growing a little more than any lady could be expected to stand. Quarrels are not always desirable in families, but it seemed to Mrs. Boyne that a friendly alliance with Calgarry would prove a check to the absurd pretensions of Mr. Bagenal Conway's widow.For this reason, after that invitation to Miss Button, of which mention has been made, she elected to call on Sir Henry and Lady Beecham, and make Philippa's personal acquaintance, taking it quite for granted she and that young lady would one day be neighbours in Donegal.This visit, which was paid with a great clatter of horses and a suitable array of servants in the Mostrene livery, impressed Miss Dutton greatly.Mrs. Boyne felt quite sure Terence had been abominably treated, and said how very glad Mr. Boyne was when he heard Mr. Conway intended to keep the property."It would be a thousand pities," she said, "for a known estate like Calgarry to pass away from the direct heir; for her part, she quite longed to go to Ireland and make young Mr. Conway's acquaintance, she thought he had behaved so well. Many a man would have disputed the old Duke's will, if only for the sake of stirring up mud and making matters disagreeable for the person who had supplanted him;" and then Mrs. Boyne and Lady Beecham talked pleasantly about Terence's past and Terence's future, and both prophesied great things, for him, and Miss Dutton's heart inclined more favourably towards her lover than it had ever done since the day when she knew he was disinherited.For this reason Terence received a much more cordial reply to his letter than he had dared to hope."Now," advised Mr. Stirling, "go to London and settle matters;" and as this advice tallied exactly with the lover's own desires, he at once followed it."Wish me joy," he wrote to his agent: "Miss Dutton has accepted me, and I am the happiest man alive.""Poor fellow!" said Mr. Stirling, as he thoughtfully folded up the hurried scrawl. "I wonder how it will turn out? After all, there is one point about which there can be no uncertainty: she has money, and we shall want all the money we can get at Calgarry."What a golden summer that seemed to the old Duke's successor! What happy months those were that sped by on the wings of a great content! what plans for good, what wise resolutions he formed! how unutterably thankful he felt! how thoroughly at peace he was with all the world, and for once with himself!It was lucky for the estate that such a glorious burst of sunshine had not succeeded to the winter's chill at an earlier period of the year, otherwise Terence felt so infinitely blessed he would infallibly have granted the tenants precisely what they pleased to ask.Never, perhaps, before had so happy a Conway watched the Garry as its waters found their way to the ocean, or paced beside the Atlantic, thanking God for everything, more especially for his wife that was to be. The Nun had no terror, no meaning for him then. If he ever remembered the ban laid on his race, it was but to feel certain it was removed.He meant to do such wonderful things for Donegal, that surely if ever there were a case in which good intentions could be accepted as an expiation for the sins of those who had gone before, this might be considered one. Save on a like cheerful occasion—perhaps, indeed, not even then—was it to be expected that similar festivities to those which had celebrated Mr. Marmaduke Conway's decease would again obtain in Donegal. Nevertheless, during the course of that pleasant summer, when all things were going well with Terence, Calgarry and Mostrene and the parts adjacent presented to an admiring world a creditable appearance of life and jollity. Riding parties, driving parties, walking parties, were sights which came to be regarded without amazement. The gates of Calgarry stood wide. "What's the good of clashing them to," asked the lodge-keeper, "when they would have to be opened again next minute?" Once more Sir Henry Beecham sauntered along the avenue in much better weather than on the occasion of his previous visit. All things looked brighter to him. Trout from the lake and salmon from the river lent a joy to life absent in the winter, whilst the knowledge that the days of his guardianship were numbered gave a peace to his soul that curious part of the General's being had lacked for some time past.Lady Beecham remained in London. She was one of those delightful old ladies who never go visiting, who, preferring their own homes to the homes of other people, stay in them to their own great advantage. But if the hero's wife were conspicuous by her absence, Letitia was in the fullest evidence—Letitia with all her babies, Mark included; for Terence, even had he wished to ignore the barrister, could scarcely have done so after the friendly part Mr. Barry had acted towards him.But Terence's heart at that time seemed large enough to take in the whole world, and to make allowances for the short-comings of every one. He was so thankful for mercies vouchsafed, he felt he could not sufficiently try to show his gratitude to God and man. He had actually overpowered Mr. Stirling with his liberality and consideration. He had "stood by the meeting-house" in a manner Mr. McKye described as "princely." He did not forget the priest or the priest's congregation; and, as has been stated, he would pretty nearly have enfranchised all his tenantry had Mr. Stirling not already settled their affairs on a far different footing.That golden summer Calgarry's master was seen at his very best, if not his very wisest. He proved a delightful host. He gave Lettie carte blanche. He virtually said to Mark, "All I have is under your hand—my horses, my carriages, my servants, my house itself;" and Mark rose equal to the occasion. He behaved himself as no one had ever known him to behave before. He forswore bad language—("——d if I didn't," he said afterwards), except amongst the grooms and stable-boys, who did not believe the horses would have understood what they meant had their ordinary conversation not been plentifully bestrewn with oaths. Mark did not swear much. He was delighted with everything. He listened to all Mr. Stirling's plans, and walked day after day over to the place where the agent's house was being built. He took Sir Henry long drives, and heard interminable anecdotes about the Duke and Boney and various other people, without breaking across the narrative. He climbed rapidly into esteem with the Boynes, and made himself quite necessary to Philippa, who, having determined to become a rival lady of the county and eventually cut out her hostess, was delighted with Mr. Barry's suggestion that she might at once make a mark by restoring old Calgarry Church."I scarcely see what necessity there is to restore it," ven-tured Terence; "not half a dozen people would ever go to it. Nineteen-twentieths of the population are Roman Catholics.""Then let us give the old Calgarry Church back to them!" exclaimed Philippa enthusiastically."I do not think you could do that," said Mark; "but I'll tell you what you might do. Get Terence to find you a site, and build them a beautiful chapel—one after your own heart. Why, Donegal would worship you!"Meanwhile, there was but one man who held himself aloof from the picnic, and boating, and dinner, and breakfast parties, which caused "such a stir" at Mostrene. Mr. Malet would have none of them. The county had never made much of him; and after the old Duke's favour was withdrawn very few persons seemed to remember his existence till Terence's reign began. Mrs. Boyne asked him to let Audna come and stay at the Castle."Such a dear sweet girl; and I am sure, Mr. Malet, the little change would be good for her.""It is very kind of you, indeed," answered the clergyman; "but Audna is too young to go visiting. She leads such a simple life; she is quite unfitted to mix with grand people.""Grand!" repeated Mrs. Boyne. "Why, we are the most primitive creatures on the face of the earth! She will feel at home with my girls at once, and you need not be afraid of trusting her to my care. Now, pray do show that you can be good-natured as well as everything else which is charming."But Mr. Malet declined to be good-natured; therefore Mrs. Boyne had to content herself with kissing her hand when her carriage met the Vicar and his daughter riding side by side along the road."I wonder if he wanted to catch young Conway?" thought the lady; but such an idea never crossed Mr. Malet's mind. On the contrary, ever since Terence's succession he constantly endeavoured to keep Audna and him apart."If the child lost her heart, I should break mine," he considered. That kiss, though given and accepted as a matter of course, had put him on his guard. Till Philippa came home to Calgarry there should not be much intimacy; and he knew perfectly well there would not be much after.But no one, except, perhaps, Letitia and Ann Patterson, missed Audna very greatly. She was essentially a flower to beautify her home rather than adorn society—a dear girl with merry little kindly ways and tender thoughts and loving sym-pathies, who sang simple ballads prettily in the twilight, and kept herself occupied and happy the whole day long. Mr. Malet was right—it would have been a pity to spoil her.Sir Henry and Mark had many long talks in those days concerning the settlements, which were to be drawn by a great firm of solicitors well versed in such matters. The General, spite of many declarations to the contrary, would not have kept Terence so completely out in the cold as his former statements implied. He seemed to think a husband had claims which ought to be considered, and hinted to Philippa that if she wished to act a little generously, her wishes should, if possible, be met."As far as I am concerned," replied Philippa sweetly, "it would be a relief if Terence had all my money; but we need not mention such a thing, for he will not hear of taking a penny. I think you can understand his feelings. I know I can.""Well, there is one certainty," answered Sir Henry, a little nettled: "if you are going to live in London half the year, you must pay your expenses there. Conway does not wish to have a town house.""O, he does," interrupted Philippa. "You are mistaken—indeed you are.""I am not mistaken, at all events, in saying he cannot afford one. But you can; so it is only fair that you should pay the piper.""He will not like my paying anything, I am afraid," she said plaintively."That is a dislike he will get over," returned the General.And so, indeed, it proved. Terence did not wish to live in London, and if they were to go there for six months in each year, he knew perfectly well some one other than himself would have to find the money.What heaps of things there were to do! A house would have to be found, and bought, and furnished, carriages to be selected, horses to be chosen. Then Philippa's trousseau was not an affair to be lightly spoken of. The details of the wedding-breakfast and the wedding also would require most anxious deliberation. The last matter Philippa seemed to wish to decide was when the marriage should take place, and that was almost the only part of the business Terence concerned himself about."I wish we could be married without so much fuss," he said one day."So do I," sighed Miss Dutton."Then why have the fuss?" asked Letitia, who chanced to be present—Philippa disliked being tête-à-tête with her betrothed—"why not do as Mark and I did? we slipped out and got married without any one being the wiser.""I know you did," said Miss Dutton, who, in common with all the rest of Mrs. Barry's acquaintances, had heard the particulars of that lady's wedding frequently."Then why not follow so good an example?""There is something due to our rank," answered Philippa."Mark's wife glared at her—"Your rank, indeed!" she thought; but she refrained from speech."No, we cannot do as we wish," said Terence, anxious to make peace; "I only wish we could.""You will give a great feast to the tenantry, I suppose?" suggested Letitia. "If you arranged to be married about Hallowe'en, we might get up a very pleasant entertainment.""What! on the eve of All Saints!" exclaimed Miss Dutton, in horror."Yes, why not?" returned the unabashed Letitia. "Terence, do you remember burning nuts in the drawing-room at Calgarry? I blazed with you splendidly till we mouldered away to ashes. I have those ashes still somewhere.""With a lock of his hair, perhaps?""No, I do not remember cutting off a lock of his hair. If he likes to give me one now, I will keep it.","Cut for yourself, then, like a good girl," said Terence; which Letitia at once proceeded to do, the while Philippa looked on with grave disapproval.CHAPTER XXVII.NORAH CREINA.THE cakes were eaten, the ale was drunk, the "quality" had left Ireland lamenting, and betaken themselves and their money to foreign parts. Miss Dutton was in Scotland with her dear friend Mrs. Rawson; Letitia alone—except for her children—in London, Mark, tired probably by his long spell of propriety, having gone on a cruise. Sir Henry found himself where he loved to be in the season or out of it and after the summer's wild revelry Donegal returned to the silence and solitude which are its usual characteristics.Terence felt like a child left behind when his schoolfellows have gone home for the holidays. He did not know what to do, or how to occupy himself. He too might have gone pleasuring, but for the fact that money was just then a great object at Calgarry. He had spent freely while his friends were with him: from the time Philippa came to Ireland till she left it his hand had never been out of his pocket. Mostrene proved in a small way a perfect morass. Its capability of swallowing money was simply marvellous. Like many another, the young man could economise well enough when he had no temptation to spend, but he had still to learn how to eke out a small income and spread his butter over the largest possible surface of bread. His practice was, indeed, to use it all up at once, and leave not a scrap for the remainder of his loaf. So money was very scarce with him that autumn, and as a natural consequence he was thrown much on his own company for society, and truth to tell he did not find that company specially agreeable."I wonder," he remarked one day to Mr. Stirling, "how it is you are so constantly cheerful?""I have not time to be anything else," answered the agent; "when a man's hands are as full as mine he can't find much leisure to grizzle in, even if he had the inclination.""That is the secret, I suppose. I wish my hands were full.""So they will be ere long. Wait until you get your house in London, and your young wife, and a seat in Parliament, and you'll find you have enough to do.""I have not the slightest desire to go into Parliament.""That will come—a great many things will come by and by that you have little thought of now.""l am sure I never should be able to make a decent speech.""My own opinion is if there were no speeches at all we should get on a great deal better, but you will find yourself able to speak right enough when the time comes. Just take two subjects and stick to them—railways and harbours. If Ireland had railways and good harbours, in another century she would be as prosperous as England.""Mr. Boyne is bitterly opposed to railways.""No doubt there was a time when people opposed high roads. It is a cruel thing the way Mr. Boyne and men like him set themselves against every proposal for improving the con-dition of those below them. To hear him talk anybody might think the earth was his and the fulness thereof, and that not another living creature had a right to lift a voice. It is all very well for him, who can afford horses and servants and carriages, to say we are better without railways, but if he had produce he wanted to sell we should hear a different tune. No, Mr. Conway; what Ireland wants is easier communication, and we'll never do much good till we have it."Pending that time Terence found it rather difficult to occupy himself. Possibly, if there had been easier communication, his plight would not have proved much better, for, after all, railway travelling is an amusement of which it is possible to tire.He had nothing to do. A man who is one day to own a large estate needs training just as much as one who is to be a mechanic; and Terence had never been trained. With all his heart he wanted to do right, but he had no idea how to set about it. If Mr. Stirling did not in so many plain words tel him not to interfere in any question which concerned the tenants, he allowed it to be clearly understood any intermeddling would be fatal to Calgarry. Terence was quite inclined to adopt this opinion; but then he felt distracted by the fact that other people thought differently.For example, all the tenants considered Mr. Stirling was dealing most hardly by them, while Mr. McKye felt certain the agent was acting foolishly by his master. Mr. Malet also seemed disposed to take the same view; and Philippa had wondered whether, "bearing all things in mind, Mr. Stirling were the best man he could have chosen to hold the scales evenly."What Miss Dutton really meant was that she doubted whether the new agent were a man likely to wring the last farthing out of an "ignorant, poverty-stricken, and priest-ridden people." But she had the happy art of very prettily sugar-coating nauseous pills. Terence did not possess that faculty: he could mentally paint the ordinary affairs of life in rainbow hues or in the very darkest tints, but his genius failed altogether to make black look like white even to himself.And, in truth, just about that time things to his mind looked very black indeed.He was enchanted at the prospect of at last calling Philippa his very own. Wandering along the sands, skimming the Atlantic in a corragh, riding under the shadow of Muckish, roaming over that desolate country in quest of game, he would half whisper to himself, "My wife!" and then, growing more courageous, say the words aloud, for the breeze to bear away.But he was not at all enchanted with the prospect of living in London on Philippa's money. Each day showed him more clearly her fortune would remain hers, not in the sense that Calgarry could remain his, but as something in which he could have no part.He had never wanted her money; but it is one thing not to want a thing, and quite another to feel one can never have it. The whole business of Philippa's marriage settlement was odious to him. He had to do so much—to give up so much. It would have been the purest pleasure to him to relinquish every possession to her of his own free will, but he did not like being forced to relinquish anything at the bidding of others.It was not the dear girl's fault of course, and he did not think it was wholly Sir Henry's; but when solicitors are paid to look after their client's interests, matters often become very stiff indeed for the other client who is disposed to let himself go to the wall. Day by day matters became more stiff for Terence. His solicitors were so satisfied the match was one for which it was worth while conceding many things, that little by little all his interests were thrown overboard, and he was left as bare of free will as the staunchest follower of Calvin.He had to resettle the estate; he had to saddle it with a jointure; he had to consent to his second son adding the honoured name of Dutton to his own; and acquiesce in an arrangement whereby that son should succeed to two-thirds of Philippa's money. In consideration also of the fact that he was not in a position to secure dowries to his daughters, he bound himself to an agreement which covenanted that, if needful, the husbands of such daughters should be called on to add "Dutton" to their own cognomen. He was to allow his wife to reside for six months out of the year in London or "elsewhere" at her pleasure, and he was to interfere in no way with her enjoyment of her fortune—with other things, all to the effect that Philippa was to be guarded at every point against her husband as if he were her natural enemy."Where is Conway in all this?" asked Mark of Sir Henry."I do not know," answered the General. "I only know where I should be were it my case—out of it.""Perhaps," said Mark thoughtfully. He was considering that, settlement or no settlement, were he in Terence's shoes it would go hard if, after marriage, he did not contrive to finger most of the cash."Whose doing is it?" he asked."Not mine," was the reply."It is a scandal. Philippa ought to be spoken to.""The whole trouble," explained Sir Henry, "arises from her deep respect for her father's memory.""Damn her father!" interrupted Mark. "If Terence had not a halfpenny of money, or a rood of ground, she could not have had her fortune tied up tighter. I don't say anything against a woman and her children being secured against a husband's extravagance or folly; but—hang it all!—fair play is a jewel, and there is no fair play in leaving a man totally out in the cold after stripping him even of his own clothing.""Messrs. Bray & Lucan do not make many objections.""No, they look only at the ten thousand a year; but I am much mistaken if we do not find Philippa a very dear bargain even at that price.""Well, she is giving him plenty of time to consider that question," replied Sir Henry. "She won't consent now to be married till after Easter.""I thought the match was to come off before Christmas.""So did we all; but it seems we were all mistaken.""Humph!" said Mark. "Do you believe, candidly now, that it will ever take place?""I do not; for the reason that she does not, and never has, cared two straws about Conway. She is not in love with him; she is always happier when he is absent than when he is near. If any one more eligible came in her way to-morrow she would find some excellent reason for giving Terence his congé.""I wonder how it is he does not see this.""He won't see it: he is besotted about her. In his eyes everything she does is right."But, besotted though Terence might be, a doubt was beginning to trouble his mind. Coyness may be an admirable quality, but it is one of which it is possible to have too much.Why could they not be married at once? What was the need for all this delay? Why did she so insist on living in London for that six months? He could be happy with her anywhere—in Donegal, on Tory Island, in a desert—and they could not be much together in London. Besides, how should he employ himself there, away from his estate, with no money, no interests, no friends?—for he had resolutely cut himself adrift from all those pleasant acquaintances with whom he had sailed so far down the river to ruin.What could a woman want more than a husband who adored her, a property like Calgarry, pleasant society such as lay within their reach, and scenery grand and romantic beyond imagination?Had Terence propounded this question to Sir Henry Beecham, he would have heard that one woman, at all events, would want very many other things. The finest view is weariness to a person mentally blind. Man's meanest work was more to Philippa than ocean or mountain, or headland or sky; Nature had no charm for her. She was as one born deficient in all love for everything which was not conventional—an accident much more common in these latter days than is generally imagined.As for Terence, the greatness and grandeur of the land in which his lot was cast had produced a wonderful impression on him. During the unrest which succeeded after Philippa's departure, he began exploring the country as he had never dreamt of doing before.It was the time of the year when Ireland looks her very best. Just as spring is the season to see England in her loveliest dress, so autumn adds another beauty to the isle of saints.Mellow then falls the golden sunshine on grain standing in stooks—on meadows dotted with the small stacks that weeping climate renders needful—on black peat piled high for the winter's use—on mountains across which light and shadow flit constantly, and headlands that seemed bathed in purple.Thankful was Conway of Calgarry then that he had not parted with his birthright—that he and no other owned the smiling land skirting Calgarry Bay—the desolate uplands to which Muckish formed a fitting background, and the heather-clad heights where the game lay hidden.There is no feeling perhaps which can be so fully satisfied as that of possession; and often as he looked over the wide tracts of barren land he called his, Terence felt the pride of ownership swelling in his breast.He tried to express something of all this when writing to Philippa. Her answer was very sweet and sympathetic. She spoke much of dear Donegal, and how she loved it; but matters nevertheless remained much as they would have done had she not loved it."She has never seen it in the autumn," thought Terence, as he stood one day in October looking from the top of Horn Head over the miles of ocean that stretched between that point and Bloody Foreland. "She has never seen this country really at all. After a time she will grow to understand and think of it as her own."He had taken the mail-car that morning from Calgarry to a point on the way to the Cross Roads, whence he could strike across to the sandhills which lie a little to the left of that house so snugly sheltered from the north winds, so pleasantly placed above what may be called the backwater of the Atlantic running inland from Dunfanaghy.In this way he was doing much of Donegal exhaustively—tiring himself out, not unpleasantly; walking immense distances, and with weary limbs lying down at night to awake refreshed and vigorous in the morning. He was learning his county by heart—a task many people might, with advanage, set themselves. He had gone westward, further than the town of Donegal, and penetrated in a southerly direction to the shores of Lough Erne—beautiful Lough Erne—but when all was said and done, his heart came back to his own especial corner of the land; and he decided, ere "the winter day" came, to know every nook and cranny of the wild desolate country that lies between Kilmacrennan and Dunfanaghy, is frowned on by Muckish, and has on one side its bounds set by the great and terrible ocean.There were those who, meeting him wandering thus aimlessly as they thought, shook their heads and said, "The Nun is driving him;" and yet never in all his still young life had Terence less fear of the Curse than then.Nature, God's helpmaid, was doing all she could for him, taking him gently by the hand and leading him, like a favourite son who had gone a little wrong (not much), quietly home.All he then needed was a woman's face on the threshold, the touch of a woman's hand in welcome—mother, sister, wife, it would not have mattered greatly which, so long as her pulses thrilled in sympathy with his own; but it was not to be yet—ah! no. Westward—drawn by what attraction who can say?—he turned his steps, walking ever and ever towards the setting sun, the glory of which lured him, as it might a child, over ling and bog, till at last he pulled up suddenly, wondering where he was.How many miles between himself and Dunfanaghy? He knew the miles that stretched between Dunfanaghy and home. He felt very tired. In the west, following the track of the setting sun, was that many-hued glory which seems extracted from the radiance of departed rainbows, but at the same time there stole up a swift cold wind in company with a black cloud—signs not to be disregarded, whether on sea or land, in Donegal. He had utterly lost his way. Without retracing every step traversed he could not even hazard a conjecture as to how to regain the tract leading to the sandhills. At no time is Donegal a promising county in which to lose one's way.Houses are few and far between, often lying long miles apart, and human beings, save on the beaten high-roads, are rarely to be met with. Certainly the great tract lying between Horn Head and Swine's Gun was not a likely place on which to meet man, woman, or child, with the sun sinking to his rest, and the shades of evening gathering in the east. Yet at that moment, when he paused to look around him, wondering what he ought to do, Terence became conscious of a figure on the horizon standing motionless. Turning his steps, he made his way through ling and heather, across stones, through boggy ground in which his feet often sank over the boot tops, towards this unexpected apparition. As he got nearer he shouted lest the forlorn hope should fail him—shouted and waved his hat, till at length, after some apparent hesitation, the girl—for it was a girl—jumped off the low wall made of loose stones on which she had been perched, and advanced to meet him with a free, graceful, springing tread."Norah Creina, by Jove!" thought Terence; "Norah Creina in the flesh!"Certainly not Lesbia. If not precisely the Norah Creina of Moore's imagination, a copy better than the original. Norah Creina young, scarcely having reached that point where the brook and river meet; Norah Creina fresh from Nature's mint, bearing stamped on her face the lovely image and superscription of her great mother.Graceful as a fawn, active as a mountain goat, scarcely bending the rushes under her light weight, springing over the soft spongy bits of morass with accustomed feet, she came on and on, till at last Terence absolutely started with surprise.He had never seen any one before so beautiful as this girl out thus late among the heather. There is beauty and beauty, and to Miss Dutton it need be accounted no disparagement to say that, though more statuesque, she was not nearly so lovely as this Donegal maiden.Norah had not the wild-rose complexion of so many Irish-women. She was dark, like the natives of Galway, and her cheeks were dyed a rich yet delicate damask. Her eyes were Irish blue (that looked, as has been said, as if they had been put in by smutty fingers), shaded by long and silky dark lashes. Over her head she wore a scarlet shawl, which had fallen back a little, and brought down with it a profusion of black wavy hair. In his dreams still Terence sees that scene reproduced—the coming night, the wild waste of desolate country, and the last rays of the setting sun falling full on that young girl's loveliness.To a woman in the better class of life the beauty of a peasant girl is a thing to be approved of from an art point of view, or condemned as a mistake socially; a man, on the contrary, does not trouble himself about either art or society. He sees the daughter of Eve is fair, and that is sufficient for him."Can you tell me the road to Dunfanaghy?" Terence asked, ere he had quite recovered from his astonishment."O, you passed it long and long ago," she said. "It lies behind you.""But I can't go back all the way," he answered, even while thinking the girl's voice did not spoil her face; though uneducated, it was low and soft and pleading—a voice to haunt the memory; it often haunts his. "There must be some other path.""I doubt if you'd find it by yourself," said the girl; "and it's no shorter. But if you'll come with me I can take you as far as our house, and then maybe my father could put you into the straight road.""Is your house far from here?" asked Terence."Not so very far; it won't take us more nor thirty minutes to get there.""And what are you doing out at this hour all alone in this solitary place?""I am used to it, sir. I wouldn't mind walking about the Head at midnight. I've come up here many a time with my father when vessels have been putting up signals at Tory, and nearer in shore, too. You didn't see a mare and colt, did you, sir, as you came along.""No—nothing of the sort.""Then they're down in the hollow someplace. We'd better step out, sir; there's a squall coming, and it will be heavy, too; the sky was awful black at the sun-going—"Even as she spoke, a few large drops of rain plashed in their faces, and, involuntarily, Terence quickened his pace, slipping and tripping over the stones and ling."Is your gun loaded?" asked the girl, after a worse stumble than usual."Yes.""Then you had better fire her. If you fall, she might go off and hurt you."It was very practical advice, and Terence followed it. Not a minute too soon, for the squall was on them, and Terence, unused to the path, made one false step in every dozen."Give me hold of your hand, sir," said Norah, "or you may do yourself a damage. It is a terrible bad road for a stranger."It was all very well to call that a road which had not been even trodden down by the sheep. Over gaps in the rude walls—over bogs—over grass so slippery, Terence had much ado to keep his footing, always keeping down hill, getting lower and lower, the pair hurried on hand clasped in hand, while the wind blew, and the rain beat on them."You'll be fairly drownded, sir," said the girl."It does not matter about me," gasped Terence; "but you—""O, it makes no odds to me! I'm used to it.'' After all, it does seem hard to consider the way Norah Creinas are buffeted in this world. On the whole, although poets flout her, it is better, perhaps, to be Lesbia."We're close at home now," remarked Norah, at last, as they turned the corner of a long low wall formed of the same rough stones, over which they had been forced to clamber so often. "Take care how you step, sir; there's a puddle there." And, next moment, half-blinded by the rain, and beaten by the wind, Terence stepped across the threshold of a cabin, where a glorious fire of peat glowed on the hearth.A woman stood before the fire, frying bacon, and a man sat on the settle, who rose when Terence entered."I am afraid you've got a bad wetting, sir," he remarked, taking the stranger's hat and letting the water drip from it. "Dear-a-dear, this is an evening to be out! Let me wipe down your coat; best take it off, though. Couldn't you get into shelter any place before the storm broke? Have some whisky—you'll take your death if you don't""I am ashamed of giving you so much trouble,'' answered Terence. "I wandered on from Horn Head and lost myself.  What I should have done had I not met your daughter, I cannot imagine.""It's just as well you met somebody," returned the man, "for it's not good walking about here after night, particularly for a stranger; but now I look at you fair, sir, aren't you young Mr. Conway? Ay, I thought I wasn't wrong. Many a time I've seen you in Dunfanaghy, pulling up at the Stewart Arms.""Which is precisely where I think of stopping for the night. Can you tell me how I am to get there?""'Deed and I can't," answered the other, "unless the weather moderates. It's hard to tell how long this means to last. You've got a roof over your head, and you won't do well to leave it while the rain comes down as it's doing now. Gracie, you're as wet as a drowned rat! Haven't you got any other clothes you can change yourself with?"So Gracie was the name Norah Creina was known by in the home circle. Terence looked after her as she vanished to "change herself," and then Mr. Walley, as his host was called, insisted on Mr. Conway putting on a suit of black he kept laid by for funerals, and in which he had, indeed, beheld the last any one saw of the old Duke.He was evidently a farmer in a much better position than farmers usually are in Donegal. The family all worked, but their labour seemed to make them comfortable. They had meal in the barrel and milk in the tub. Their rashers were cut from a fine flitch, and the potatoes looked as though a blight never had been heard of.Having tasted nothing since morning, Terence brought a fine appetite to bear on the bacon and eggs, and, contrary to his practice, allowed Mrs. Walley to mix him a stiff tumbler of punch.After the meal was finished, Mrs. Walley and Grace sat down to knit stockings, and the head of the house told his guest about his own doings."I'm from a mile of Portadown, and my wife was bred and born in Galway. I go all over Ireland, for I deal in horses." And so the talk ran on, while the rain poured down, till at last even Terence gave up the notion of going further that night.Spite of all entreaties, he declined a bed, but, wrapping himself in a rug when the others had left the kitchen, lay down on the settle, and in five minutes was sound asleep.When he awoke it was gray cold dawn; the rain was over, and the wind had lulled. Softly opening the door, he passed out into the haggard, and stood looking down at the sea which lay close below. Sheltered though the little bay was, the waves made a continual and angry moaning, which sounded in Terence's ears long after he had again stretched himself on the settle. There was something in the notion of having the wide Atlantic at his very hand which seemed very wild and eerie.Through the years he has never forgotten that night. The merest trifle recalls it to him, just as when we put a shell to our ear we can, though the sea be thousands of miles distant, hear its murmur.CHAPTER XXVIII.THE DOWNWARD PATH.IF the Nun herself had dwelt at Goblin Bay, close beside which Mr. Walley lived, she could scarcely have proved a more terrible fascination than Terence seemed to find there.As all roads lead to Rome, so it seemed that every high-way, every mountain pass, every bridle-path in Donegal had for its termination that little bay within a bay, which was almost landlocked, like many lying still further west close to Bunbeg.Whether Terence started to go to Kilmacrennan or Filcarry, Strabane or Dunfanaghy, the result was the same. If he turned his horse's head to the left when he went through Calgarry gates, he was certain ere long to remember some pressing matter which necessitated going to the right.A man had better lie to any human being than himself. In those days the number of untruths Terence told his own conscience was simply appalling.Very likely, after all, the Nun had taken up her residence at Goblin Bay for the time being, and smiled each time she saw the young man tying his mare up to the old sallow tree, which stood so convenient for the purpose; or, from her lair beside the sea, watched him coming down from the heather-clad Head, gun in his hand and dog at his heel. It needed no power of divination to tell the bird he was after, and doubtless the Nun laughed quietly in her sleeve, knowing all about the matter, and how it would end, far better than Conway of Calgarry.There was so much Terence, in his search for information, wanted to know, and which he could learn nowhere save at Goblin Bay; for instance, why the little cove was so called."Well," explained Mr. Walley, "it is by reason the way the shadows fall when the moon is at her height; they look like men and women and children chasing one another along the shore. The people here don't care to talk about such things; but there's many a one believes the Wizard and his crew come over from Tory in the fine nights, and sport themselves on the sands. You know, Tory is a queer place. Nobody knows where the stone is, and yet everybody is certain sure there is a stone in the island which, when rocked by the right person, raises an awful storm.""And you, Mr. Walley, what do you say?" demanded Terence."O, I don't say much; but I can think what I like.""Is there much smuggling going on hereabouts now?""Not at all, sir—nothing of the sort," answered Mr. Walley, who, though he kept a straight face before the world, was suspected by the Excise officers of having made as much by lucky runs as ever he did by horse-dealing. "I do not know what may have gone on, of course, in the old days; but not a one could land a cargo now, for the gaugers are everywhere. And best so. There used to be wild work on this very shore. Calgarry Bay wasn't a bit behind, either. They do say the old Duke had many a keg of the finest French brandy brought him just for holding his tongue—ay, and lace, and the best of wine; but those times are all past and gone—there's no such doings on the coast now.""There are some caves about here, aren't there, where brandy used to be stowed?""Not to my knowledge, sir, and I think I have searched from here to Horn Head as well as any one could, both by land and sea, and I never found any caves but what everybody is acquainted with. There was great talk awhile ago of some secret place, and the Excise thought to find it, and, indeed, made boast they had found it; but it was nothing but a hole, where there was once some sort of a still that hadn't been used in the memory of living mortal. No, what with the cutters on the Atlantic, and the gaugers on shore, and the sort of country this is, it wouldn't be easy to cheat the revenue now."For an honest man, Mr. Walley owned some singular possessions, amongst them a lurcher that could do everything but speak, and that certainly understood what his master said to him. He had also a most rascally little cocker, trained to the highest pitch of perfection; a collection of traps, and gins, and snares, and nets, which would not have disgraced a poaching museum. If required, he could at any moment have produced from his capacious coat-pockets ferrets equal to any emergency; and when he went south he usually took with him a wire cage full of rats, in order to complete the polite education of a number of young gentlemen who were being trained up in the way they should go at a seminary to which Mr. Walley had the entrée.Likewise, he owned an old badger that sulked in a tub, and, had he lived nearer a salmon-river, many of the appliances he kept merely as "curiosities" might have been calculated to arouse suspicion.But even in those days Ireland was a free country, though not, perhaps, so one-sidedly free as it is now, and if on some likely night a dealer in horses chanced to be in Munster and Donegal at the same time, an informer might have found the fact of such ubiquity somewhat difficult to prove.More especially in the case of a man who both ran with the hare and hunted with the hounds: who, though a Presbyterian by baptism, had married a Papist, allowed his daughter to be brought up in the same faith, and recognised her engagement to a very worthy young fellow who went to mass and made his confession regularly.On all sides he had friends, and it was besides reported he owned a "full stocking," a circumstance which did not detract from his many merits.The Irish are, as a rule, an exceedingly generous and impulsive nation. But it would be quite idle to deny that among them, as among other people, the man who has had the sense to put by for a "sore foot" is not more considered than he who limps by with no dressing of golden ointment to assuage his smart.Mr. Walley was reputed to have money—"however he came by it," a point on which Donegal did not feel disposed to be critical; and as every Irishman is a gamester and speculator at heart, none of his neighbours viewed his little peculiarities with disfavour.No one could say he ever refused to help a friend, and he reaped his reward. His friends were not near or troublesome, and their goodwill was quite at his service. He was "a decent man," so said the country-side, with "no harm in him," "fair dealing and much respected." A man as kept himself to himself, and was always careful for his wife and Gracie—which last phrase meant that he held a very tight hand over wife and daughter.Such was the individual Mr. Conway of Calgarry chose from out the world for his instructor in the lore of Donegal.Walley showed the young man where the red foxes had their home, where seals could be found, where he had been surrounded by a school of whales. He discoursed to him at length about "scarts," "arabnas," "whurrins," and "murrins," pointed out where the hares were most plentiful, and laughed at the notion of shooting rabbits."We've things better worth firing at than them in Donegal," he said with a hoarse laugh. "You'll find no better game in Ireland nor hereabouts. There's most everything your tongue could name round these parts in its season."What wonder, then, that Terence, in his dual character of an explorer and a sportsman, should find the charm of Mr. Walley's society irresistible, and feel a thirst for it continually, which only draughts from Goblin Bay could satisfy?Mr. Walley was not, however, always at home, and then the owner had to rest satisfied with Mrs. Walley's reminiscences, or such stories as Gracie's experience furnished of wreck and disaster, of stray lambs, and nests stolen by the hens amongst the heather. Tory Island also furnished an inexhaustible library of romance when other spoken romance failed. Often now, as he looks on some calm evening over the blue Atlantic at that dangerous rock, there comes to Terence Conway with the memory of his wasted youth an anguished sense of shame and remorse.For the past can never be wiped out, nor blotted even with tears wrung from the deepest founts of a man's heart!Mr. Walley's stories, relating as they mostly did to curious transactions in connection with horse-dealing, were, as a rule, much more interesting than edifying. If Terence had wished to start as a "coper," or even as a betting-man, no doubt the hints then received would have proved of inestimable value. But his tastes not tending in either direction, all the remarkable anecdotes of fair, field, and racecourse served no useful purpose whatsoever."I do not think much of that dealer fellow you have got hold of," said Mr. Stirling. "If ever a man had 'ROGUE' written across his face, he has. I'd advise you to be careful in any transactions with him.""Why," exclaimed Terence, "what is the matter with him? You told me yourself there was not a fault to be found with that pair of carriage horses.""I have not a fault to find with the carriage horses, but I have with the seller of them. Did you never hear of throwing a sprat to catch a herring? That was what Mr. Walley had in his mind, or I never was more mistaken.""Do you not think you are a little unjust?" asked Terence."No, I do not," was the uncompromising reply. "If I had been a little less sharp than I am, he would have made an excellent deal for himself yesterday. He is up to every trick of his trade, and I am heartily sorry you have ever had anything to do with him.""Well, I am not," retorted Terence. "I have got a most excellent pair of horses, and very cheap too.""You do not know what they may cost you in the long-run," said Mr. Stirling sturdily. "For one thing, you have now got a coachman of Mr. Walley's choosing.""I chose him for myself," answered Terence, "and I am sure a better driver never sat on a box.""He may be a good driver, but I would not have had a relation of Walley's about the place.""It is not Corrigan's fault that Walley is a relation.""Perhaps not, but it's his misfortune, and he is going to be married to Walley's daughter after a while, so you may as well say at once you've taken the whole family. Walley's no good, and he'll get the better of you in some way before you have done with him."Though his heart was very hot within him, Terence did not care to pursue the subject further, and he turned away for the first time with a feeling of angry and impotent hostility towards his agent.What right had Mr. Stirling to dictate what he should or should not do? It was most insolent of him to object to Corrigan, a young fellow who promised to be the smartest, likeliest, pleasantest servant that ever set foot in Calgarry stables.Why, even Ann Patterson said it did her good to see him, he was so willing, and well-mannered, and industrious. No day was too long for him, no night too short; and in his new livery he looked a credit to any establishment."He has the best of manners," remarked Ann; and Byrne, who was considered an authority on such subjects, echoed her opinion.And, indeed, even Mr. Stirling could find no fault with Pat Corrigan, save on the ground of his relationship (by marriage) with Mr. Walley.Exceedingly handsome—dark haired, dark eyed, slim, straight, active—he was the ideal of a gentleman's groom. That Terence had elected to instal him as coachman was a mere accident. A groom was what Nature meant him for. Years would have needed to pass over his head before it was likely he could quite look the part allotted to him; but that seemed the only drawback. He knew his business thoroughly. He was quick, honest, proud of his new position, and devoted to his master. He had taken to Terence at first sight, and it is no exaggeration to say before he had been in his service two months he would have gone through fire and water for him. He loved Mr. Conway—all the more, perhaps, because he firmly believed the Curse was on him.Very few persons of other persuasions, and not a single Roman Catholic, throughout Donegal doubted that. In lonely cabins, beside piled-up peat fires; on desolate hill-sides, when two men chanced to meet, THE DOOM was then talked about as it had never been before.Before a storm there is a vague something in the air which tells of the approach of danger, and so, in like manner, all through that autumn and winter there was a feeling in Donegal that Mr. Conway had got the Nun's Mark. Even the little bare-footed, bare-legged children grew to regard him strangely, as one set apart, while speculation wearied itself in wondering how and when the stroke of Fate would fall.If Captain Conway were killed in "foreign parts," as seemed very possible, and Terence died childless, the race would be at an end, and the Curse lifted.Would the new Conway meet his doom before he married? Considering how the wedding had been put off and off, it did not seem at all impossible.He was a "solitary" man and a changed since he entered into possession of Calgarry.Every one knew the Nun would never be satisfied till restitution had been made and guilt purged by alms and prayer and fasting, and as there did not seem much signs of alms or prayer or fasting with young Conway, no doubt he would be slain, or his heart broken, or he left only to run the full riot of sin, after the manner of those who had gone before him.This was the reason why Patrick Corrigan never looked in his master's face without a vague sense of wonder and pity. Lately it had grown a sad face, as more than one person noticed, thoughtful and dissatisfied; and yet the world was going fairly well with Terence, and the spring was to give him Philippa for his wife. And so the months went by, and it was February again—the second February after Marmaduke Conway's death.It had been wild weather at Horn Head—wild weather, too, in the Irish Channel, which Terence chanced to have just crossed on his return from London—where all preliminaries being at last happily settled to the satisfaction of Miss Dutton's solicitors, and presumably of Miss Button herself, nothing remained but to induce Philippa to fix the day, decide where the honeymoon should be spent, and arrange such details about their future household as it seemed necessary and expedient to determine before the marriage.Once again Philippa pushed the wedding a little further off. She had arranged to spend Easter week in Donegal with her friends the Boynes, but she was graciously pleased to agree to a proposal made by Sir Henry that the ceremony should take place exactly a month after her return home."We can then, if you wish, spend some time at Calgarry after we return from the Continent," she said to Terence with her sweetest smile, "and pay some visits before settling down in London for the winter.""At last!" thought Terence, as he walked home to his hotel that night. "At last! Would to God we had been married six months ago! Would to God I—"There was only one thing to be done, and he knew he would have to do it at once. All the long way to Holyhead—all the long way from Holyhead to Dublin—from Dublin to Derry—from Deny to Calgarry—he revolved the question which was troubling him without coming to any satisfactory conclusion. For two days he wandered about the house and paced the shore, seeming to find relief in the strong blast which buffeted him.He exchanged no confidence with any one; though the time had arrived when the old house must be swept and gar-nished, and put in order for his beautiful bride, he said nothing to Mr. Stirling on the subject; but when the third morning came he ordered his mare to be saddled."Will you want Corrigan, sir?" asked Byrne."No," answered Mr. Conway, so sharply that the old butler said afterwards to Ann Patterson, "I wonder what's gone wrong in London? The master is not like himself since he came home.""You'll find it very rough out to-day, sir," remarked Corrigan, as he held the stirrup.Terence made no reply; he only looked straight into the frank handsome face upturned to his. Talk of ghosts! Is there any need to go into the spirit world in search of them, since not a man but has one, at all events, haunting him?So long as he lives, till his feet touch the waters of that ocean across which none return, Terence will always remember Corrigan's face.Not as he saw it that February morning, however, but with the prison stain branded upon that broad open forehead, with a haunting look of patient suffering in the soft dark eyes and the thick hair thinned and streaked with white.CHAPTER XXIX.WHAT TERENCE HAD TO DO.MR. CONWAY did not turn to right or left when he passed through the Calgarry gates; instead, he rode straight forward up the road along which more than a year ago the old Duke had been borne to his rest.When he arrived at the graveyard wall he pulled in the mare, and sat for a few minutes motionless in his saddle. There before him was an epitome of the family history.He could see the vault where those lay who had sinned and caused much suffering; beyond rose the hillock on which the Nun had knelt to curse his house.Looking over the graveyard and the wild desolate land-scape, he sat the present Conway of Calgarry, living his life as his predecessors had lived theirs, writing his story on the tablets of time and eternity as they had written theirs, working out his own condemnation as they had done likewise.Gray and dark were his thoughts as the storm-swept sky—a doomed race with a ban laid on them from birth, with that ruined church and dreary burial-place as a fitting end.What would be his end?—he who had begun so badly—he who, though helped by Heaven, had deliberately chosen the worse—who, in every important act of his life, had gone wrong—so far wrong now that he never could make a quite right thing of life again.Well, there was but one course open, and he had started to take it. He would take it."Now, my lady, we must get on," he said; and Duchess, as he touched her lightly with the whip, tossed her beautiful head and broke into a canter, which ere long sobered down into a long swinging trot.He turned into the highway he had traversed that night when he walked back after his interview with Captain Conway, and rode steadily on till, after skirting Dunfanaghy, he struck the coach-road to Filcarry; then he again slackened speed, and let the mare choose her own pace till they reached Goblin Bay. Even in that quiet nook he could hear the Atlantic fuming and fretting, as if moaning its heart out. At Horn Head the waves were running in like racehorses, their manes white with foam, shouting to each other as they came wildly rushing one on the top of another, crying aloud in their savage mirth the while they hastened to hurl themselves against the awful cliffs, when they were dashed into a thousand jets of spray.A sad, dreary day, even at Goblin Bay, with a leaden stormy sky brooding overhead, and the earth lying gray and spiritless under it, like one dead.No golden sun overhead, no purple heather underfoot; nothing the same as Terence could remember it, not even his own heart, which was worst of all.He fastened his bridle to the sallow tree, as he had done so many times before; and then, crossing the haggard, where not a soul was visible, went to the front door, which was closed, and knocked upon it with his riding-whip.After a brief interval he heard some one crossing the kitchen, and next moment Grace uttered a little cry of surprise, and bade her visitor enter."Where is your father?" he asked."He's gone to Dublin about a law case," answered the girl."And your mother?""She is away at Bunbeg.""Are you all alone, then?""All, my lone," she said, lifting her eyes shyly and then dropping them again.He moved a step nearer to her."Grade," he began hoarsely, "Gracie,"—but Gracie did not speak or move."Have you not a word for me?" he asked; and then, without giving her time to answer, he caught her to his heart and kissed her passionately over and over again."My little girl," he said; "my poor little girl!""I think I am a poor little girl," she answered, and then she began to cry."Don't do that, for Heaven's sake," he entreated; "don't make what I have to say harder for me."No need to ask how it had been with them—the silence which ensued proved what it was which made speech so difficult to both.There ensued a long pause, during which she strove to stifle her sobs, and he tried to master his emotion."You know what I have come to say to you," he found voice to ask at last.She made a gesture of assent, and then added, "I heard you were in London.""Yes, I have been in London, and—"She stepped to the door and opened it."I'm choking in here," she said. "Tell me what you want outside, where I can breathe, with the fresh air blowing about me." And she led the way among the corn-ricks till they stood looking at the Atlantic tossing and fretting on the sands of Goblin Bay.Poor Norah Creina, poor child! where had the damask tint faded to? Pale and worn and drawn was the face, once fresh as morning. Heavy the eyes that had been so bright; weary the step, lighter when Terence first saw her than the fawn's; sorrowful the voice that yet still gave out some of the old music, sweet and low as the ringing of fairy bells."You're going to be married, I suppose?" she said at last, finding he did not speak."Yes—""May the Lord help me, then!"It was despair, not passion, which caused her tones to thrill with such an agony of pathos that Terence felt he could not endure that terrible reproach."But, Gracie, I never—" he was beginning, when she cut across his sentence:"No, you never—I know that; but O, what is to become of me!""What is to become of both of us?" he asked weakly."Both of us!" she repeated, not angrily, but with an unconscious scorn, which cut him to the heart. "What can it signify to you? When you are married and happy, and content, you'll never waste a thought on the girl whose heart is broken. O, what'll I do! What'll I ever do! My father'll kill me. It is the one thing he always said. If a child of his shamed herself he'd turn her out, and let her die by the road-side like a dog.""But, my darling—""No; I'm not your darling now. Never no more, for ever—O, holy Jesus, that I forgot what is to become of me! Sweet Christ, show me what to do, for there is no help in man!""Grace, are you trying to drive me mad? Do you think I could ever desert you—ever let you want?""It is not that I care for," she answered. "What's meat or drink or a roof to shelter by comparison with disgrace? If I was an honest girl do you think it would trouble me to lie down by the roadside and die there peaceably? O, I wish I'd never seen you! I wish—no, I don't; for I have loved you, loved you, loved you!" and she threw her arms over the gate against which she was leaning, and, resting her head upon them, burst into passionate weeping.He could bear it no longer. Snatching her to him, once again he kissed her as men do kiss women they love much, though not perhaps well or wisely."I'll never forget you; I'll never forsake you," he said. "You will always be dear to me. My pretty Norah, my sweet Gracie, my kind fond girl, don't cry any more. I was a brute to speak as I did. We will think what is to be done. No, love, let your head rest there. If you could read my heart you would know—"At that moment he was stopped by a noise, as though time and eternity had come together in collision; there was a roar as if of the discharge of many cannon, a wild hissing sound and a din, in comparison with which a whole park of artillery would have been silence."My God!" exclaimed Terence, while the girl extricated herself from his embrace and stood pale and trembling, scarcely less frightened than he. "What was that?""It is Swine's Gun," grasped Grace; "they say people can hear it as far as Derry.""I should think they might hear it at the other side of the world," rejoined Terence, who was still shaking in every limb. "What an awful noise! For a minute I thought the day of judgment was at hand."And then, as what he had said struck back on his ear, he and the girl looked at each other, perhaps considering whether a day of judgment were not very close at hand for them."I must go and find the mare," remarked Terence, after that pause.It is strange to think how the practical affairs of life interrupt and jostle the most terrible tragedies in which human beings play their little parts. At that instant the mare, who, more alarmed by the explosion, for such it really was, even than her master, had slipped her bridle, was disappearing in the distance, and the necessity for following her put a period to a conversation fast becoming dangerously compromising.What he might have said, what he would have promised, Terence never afterwards exactly knew himself. All he could tell was that at the end of that half-hour, during which Duchess led him a weary dance, he remembered distinctly he had come to bid Grace good-bye, and that it was needful he should adhere to his intention.As he led the mare down the hill the poor child came to meet him, with a hunted imploring look in her beautiful eyes that was inexpressibly touching—that once would have been sharp as the stab of a dagger to Terence Conway.Easy and pleasant, however, is the slope of hell, fair are the flowers growing upon it, sweet their scent, intoxicating their perfume: only when the very verge of the abyss is reached do men realise there was death in every step of the way.That knowledge had come then to the girl, but not to Terence. Upon him there was an ashamed sense of relief at having got a bad business partly over. He did not tie his mare again to the sallow tree, but putting one arm through her bridle, passed the other round Gracie's waist."Don't fret, my darling," he said; "I'll find means to let you hear from me very soon." She did not say a word."I do not like leaving you here all by yourself," he went on."That's nothing," she murmured. "All I am afraid of now is being among people.""1 must go now," he said, stooping and kissing her gently.She did not return his caress. She let his hand slip out of hers. She watched him mount and ride perhaps fifty yards; then, with a bitter cry, ran after him along the rude cart-track."I am not going to keep you," she panted. "I only want—" And she laid her small brown hands on the mare's neck and pressed her lips on the shining coat."Good-bye, good-bye, Duchess; I'll never see you more."In an instant Terence was on the ground beside her."What do you mean, Gracie? You are not going to—to—" and then he stopped, unable to finish his sentence."I am going to do nothing rash, if that is what you mean," she answered, meeting his gaze with something of the old fearlessness of their first acquaintance. "Whatever chastisement God sends me here I'll just have to bear as best I can. I'll not fly from it to be punished eternally. Do not make yourself uneasy—I'll pray the Lord to forgive us both. Maybe for His holy Mother's sake He will have mercy some day;" and crossing herself as if half afraid to make that sign, she ran back to the house and closed the door, bolting it after her.CHAPTER XXX.SWINE'S GUN.MR. TERENCE CONWAY'S conscience was of that not uncommon description which for all practical purposes is more plague than profit.A conscience of less use at any crisis no gentleman need have desired to have. It had a knack of falling half asleep at those times when it was most important a conscience should keep wide awake, and of opening its eyes precisely when the wrong winked at could not be undone. It never, like a reasonable and useful conscience, said with some decent show of determination, "You must not;" but when such an utterance could do no good, it declared, "You ought not,'' and kept on repeating those words till the listener sickened of their iteration.Now, if in the affairs of this world a conscience is to prove of any good at all, it should pursue a very different policy. Repentance, of course, is better than no conviction of sin; but prevention is much better. As child, as boy, as man, Terence had been always mourning over some lapse from virtue: but why in the world did not that stupid conscience of his contrive to keep him virtuous? Why, indeed? But then so many nice questions are involved in this matter that perhaps it is better to get on with his story.When he rode from Calgarry to Goblin Bay to tell Grace Walley they must part, conscience kindly accompanied him; and when he settled himself in his saddle after their interview, conscience, thoroughly aroused as to necessity of action on her part, mounted on the crupper."Think of that poor girl as you first saw her," ran the useless reproach, "and then consider the wreck she is. What a sinful wretch you are! what a wicked simpleton you have been! How will you ever unravel this tangle? Keep the matter quiet? Pooh! you know perfectly well there was something she wanted to tell you she felt ashamed to say. Yes, indeed; though shame between you might have been thought to be a thing of the past."All his life long this was the way in which Terence's conscience first indulged, and then punished him. He had never been taught to deny himself any cake he took a fancy to; but when it was eaten to the last scrap he straightway began to lament having touched it. As he rode home with that unwelcome companion perched behind, he bemoaned himself bitterly that he had ever met Norah Creina—poor pretty Norah, whom he ought to have spared, whom he was bound to protect by the claim the weak have over the strong, the lowly over those of high estate. What did it matter that she had met him half way? Her innocence, not her boldness, was to blame for that. She was so young, so guileless, so ignorant of the pleasantness of sin, so cloistered in her free wild life from wrong and the knowledge of how fatally easy the downward path is, that he who was not innocent or ignorant should have been as a shield to her—the hero she in her girlish admiration believed him to be, instead of the coward he was.When she took his hand in hers to guide him down the slippery hillside, she had no more notion than a child she was doing ill, and according to her lights she was doing no ill. No evil would have come of it had he only let her alone, never come backwards and forwards to Goblin Bay, never listened to her stories of warlock and witch, never put his arm round her waist, never stroked her hair, never looked in her eyes till they drooped beneath his gaze, never begun to teach her the alphabet of love, the mysteries of which Pat Corrigan in his honest simplicity believed love itself would explain to his darling as she grew a little older. The young fellow had been careful over her as a mother might; he had set his flower apart, and tended it like some rare and precious possession, and this was the end. Another had stepped and ruthlessly despoiled it of the beauty and purity which not all the dews of Heaven could ever restore to it again, while the morning dawned, and the sun rose, and the sun set in this world upon its lost glory.What was to be done? Terence did not know. In every preceding trouble of his life it had been possible for him to seek counsel—to ask for help; but in this case he could have no confidant save Grace, and she was indeed a broken reed.Why had he so sinned? Why had he been so mad? With conscience digging its spurs into him he rode on, silently revolving this question.Now that the gloss of novelty was worn off his toy, the gilding tarnished, the colour faded, he was able to ask himself why he had ever longed to possess a thing of so little account.In that hour, when his eyes were fully opened, he could only admit the bauble had never been worth the price he must pay for it. For any satisfaction or delight he was ever likely to feel, he might as well have gathered from the hedge a wild rose, which fades on the instant. Just as children in mere wantonness pluck field-flowers merely to throw away as valueless, so he had snatched this poor bud, which he did not know what to do with now he had got it.There have been cases where the greatness of the passion weighed down for the time being all other considerations; but there was nothing of the sort here. Terence had never felt a great passion except for Philippa. He had loved Grace very much; but that flame was, in comparison with an absorbing affection, a mere taper flickering to its end.Grace was a dear little thing. How fond she had been of him! She never hid her love from his knowledge—indeed, if anything, she showed it too plainly. How she worshipped him, how meek she was, how docile, and yet how tiresome he had often found her latterly! That man must be most exceptionally constituted who does not eventually weary of love and yet more love, especially when that love comes to mean great discomfort to himself. Terence did not see his way out of the maze at all. He could discern no light in the blackness which encompassed Goblin Bay. The matter must be kept secret—but then, what if it should prove impossible to do anything of the kind? A more unpleasant and difficult person to deal with than Mr. Walley, if knowledge of what had occurred ever came to his ears, Terence could not imagine.Altogether that ride back to Calgarry, with the roar of Swine's Gun still ringing in his ears, and the sight of Grace's haggard face and anguished tears before his eyes, was anything but agreeable."I shall have to do something," he thought; but the question was what—and a very important question too.The next day being Sunday, Mr. Conway went to church. He had not been to church before for a long time. So far as he possessed the smallest knowledge of his own nature, he was not a hypocrite, and while he was sinning he felt it would be wicked and hypocritical to set foot across the threshold of God's house.Now, however, that he had ceased sinning and begun repenting, he conceived there was a fitness in returning, as did the prodigal. O! that like him he might meet with a welcome, and be shown some way to safety for Grace! His mind was busy with her as he walked to church. Had she been to mass? No, she would not go to mass; and yet if she continued to absent herself, what excuse could she make?Clearly the only course was to get her from home: but how was that plan to be compassed?Mr. Malet's sermons were more scholarly than eloquent; he had none of the rugged fervour, the passion and fury, the homely faith that distinguished Mr. McKye; but the absence of these things and the presence of learning, which was quite wasted on the small flock of Evangelical sheep he tended in that Donegal wilderness, signified nothing to Terence. He was preaching his own sermon to himself, and it had for its text those words which he heard that evening when he went to service with Philippa, and which now recurred to him with somewhat of the force of a fulfilled prophecy."Come and have some dinner with me—you can call it luncheon," said Mr. Malet, as they paced together through the graveyard after coming out of church; and glad to escape from himself even for a little space, Terence thankfully consented."Where is Audna?" he asked, as he observed that covers were only laid for two."In Dublin with her aunt," said Mr. Malet."It is a long time since I have seen her.""She has been away all winter," answered the Vicar, and then the conversation dropped. Mr. Malet had his own ideas about his daughter, and those ideas certainly did not include being patronised by Philippa when that lady came to reign at Calgarry.The dinner was cold and plain, such as might have been expected in the house of a man whose means were moderate, and who had no tastes to cater for save his own; but had it been a feast spread with every dainty the result would have proved the same to Terence. He made a pretence of eating, but could not eat. He would have drunk freely, had he cared to do so with the Vicar's grave eyes upon him.They talked of many things, though Terence brought as poor a heart into the talk as he brought appetite to the food; but nothing was said about Philippa till Mr. Malet remarked:"You have been to London?"Yes," answered Terence."All right there, I hope?""O, yes," answered Terence again."When are you to be married?""Exactly a month after Easter.""Where?""In London.""How do you feel about giving up you liberty?"'Thankful."All which replies might be very satisfactory, yet were scarcely of a nature to encourage any one to pursue the dialogue further; and accordingly Mr. Malet, almost as if one subject were the natural sequence of the other, went on to speak of Swine's Gun and the tremendous effect produced on the previous day by that piece of natural artillery."Old Mr. McKye, who seems to have devoted his mind to every possible subject except his own business," went on the clergyman, "tells me those who heard the report yesterday—and that means every person not stone deaf within a radius of twenty miles—may account themselves fortunate, not merely because the noise of the explosion was much greater than it has ever been known before, but because it is extremely unlikely to recur. His theory is—and I am not at all inclined to dispute it—that Swine has long been preparing his forces for a final effect, which should transcend all previous effects. The shock of yesterday's volley was probably felt more or less over the greater part of Donegal, and Mr. McKye believes that now, to quote his own words, 'Swine will retire from business.' He is preparing an account of what he suggests has occurred for the papers, and considers, if examination subsequently confirms his idea, that he will be covered with glory.""What is his idea?" asked Terence."Put roughly, you know, the report of Swine's Gun was merely the effort made by the waves to find a vent through too small an aperture. Mr. McKye's notion is that yesterday a larger body of water had to force its way out, and in doing so blasted enough of the solid rock to open a passage sufficiently large to let any flood escape for the future without much noise. I must say the sound exceedingly resembled that of blasting. For a moment the noise was absolutely appalling. One of the coastguardsmen, who, having recently arrived from England, had never heard the gun before, ran home to his wife and child, thinking it was the last trump.""It was indeed awful," agreed Terence."I may say I was close to it—not a couple of miles off, at any rate. Old Sweeny, whom you perhaps remember—he lived close by here when you were a lad—sent an imperative message that he was dying, and could not go without seeing me, otherwise I should certainly not have been in the neighbourhood on such a day. I had got about a third of the way back to Dunfanaghy when the crash came, and I declare, what with the dismal day, the effect of the old man's death-bed confessions, and the fearful noise, it seemed to me that the end of the world might be at hand.""I am sure I thought it was," remarked Terence, who had turned very pale, wondering exactly which route Mr. Malet might have chanced to take back from the residence of old Sweeny's son."I remember once," proceeded Mr. Malet, "in the old days, just after I came here first, being invited to dinner at Calgarry, when a party of men were staying with the old Duke. It was in the late autumn, and there had been heavy gales, and though the wind calmed suddenly, the Atlantic still ran mountains high. We had just gone in to dinner, and the then Rector of Mostrene was in the act of saying grace when Swine's Gun went off."I never saw men so frightened in my life as the guests. They were all men of the world. Most of them had fought many duels, many had faced death on land and sea. Yet in one second there was a rout amongst them as if they had been a rabble army."'Don't be alarmed, my friends,' said the old Duke;' it is only one of the Donegal lions roaring.' And then he tried to explain what had happened."But he might as well have spoken to the wind; a regular stampede ensued. They must have thought an earthquake was imminent, for they started in such conveyances as could be most speedily got ready for the nearest town, and posted thence to Dublin."I never shall forget seeing those men crowding into the yard, shouting for the ostlers, running hither and thither and impeding the grooms, their faces looking strange under the influence of terror and excitement, the flashing of the stable lanterns, the stamping of the horses. The old Rector came to the hall door, and cried as they drove past:"'Gentlemen, remember when the seven angels sound their trumpets it will be vain to trust in horses and chariots;' and Mr. Conway shouted out, 'You might just as well stay here. When your Master calls for you, He won't make as much noise as Swine; but wherever you are, you'll have to answer.' I am not a man, as you know, who approves of any-thing sensational in connection with religion, and yet, remembering that evening and the terror of those present, the lives they lived afterwards, and the deaths many of them died, I should be tempted to preach a sermon on the transient effect of the most awful warnings God can give us."Terence did not speak. He was still wondering by which route Mr. Malet had returned, and whether any part of the Vicar's sentence was intended as a hint for him."Now, old Sweeny," went on the clergyman, as if arguing out some question, "how many hundred times he must have been in peril of his life! He has stood looking straight in the face of death over and over again. Yet no danger escaped, no mercy vouchsafed, made him amend his ways. Yesterday, however, he was in an agony of terror at the near approach of Eternity—ready to clutch at any straw—grasp any hand. He would not let me go till I promised to return to-morrow—when 'I'll have more to tell you,' he said; as though there was literally no end to the roll of his wickedness; but he will never tell me anything more now, for the shock of Swine's Gun killed him—so Mr. McKye informs me.""It was enough to kill any one," was Terence's trite re-mark. Old Sweeny was nothing to him, while his own affairs were very much."We have afternoon instead of evening service till the first of May," said Mr. Malet, rising, after a pause. "So I must ask you to excuse me. Shall I find you here on my return? No. Then let me tell you how glad I feel you have found your way to church again. May you walk as far as the grave-yard with me? Of course you may; I am always pleased when you give me your company."The Vicar was almost tenderly kind in his manner. Since the previous day he had been pondering a great problem, and, though far as ever from solving it, the mental exercise had made him more tolerant than usual. His mind was indeed full of a very perplexing question, and he desired, moreover, to speak a word of warning to Terence. It was one he found very hard to speak; indeed, he might be accounted a man who at all times found it quite as difficult to offer advice as to bring his tastes into unison with sensational religion.They walked together under a gray dull leaden sky till the churchyard was reached—that churchyard which, at his own expense, the Vicar kept in decent order—where he would not let nettles grow, or sheep graze, or foul weeds shroud the resting-places of the dead. At the gate Mr. Malet stopped, and said:"Good-bye again, Terence." He held the young man's hand for a moment; then, as he released it, added, "Take care.""Of what?" asked Terence."Of Goblin Bay. I do not consider the air there whole-some for you."It had come. The blow he had been expecting all the afternoon was dealt at last, and Terence, flushing to his temples, tried to look his friend in the face and failed."I never intend to go there again," he stammered."That is right," said Mr. Malet; "adhere to your resolution. Believe me, it will be better. Now I must leave you;" and he was gone, leaving Terence in a state of perplexity impossible to describe.If secrecy be the life of love, mystery is the crowning agony of all warning. What a man knows he can usually face, what he does not marches upon him accompanied by a thou-sand terrors. Why could not Mr. Malet have said either less or more, spoken out fully or else remained silent?If he had broken ground earlier Terence would probably have made an almost full confession, and received such advice as he was quite incapable of giving to himself.As matters stood he could not follow the Vicar into church and explain in what a predicament he stood, neither did he feel one whit better inclined to wait till the conclusion of service, and pour out his sorrows into an ear which certainly did not incline to over-sympathy with weak sinners like himself.No; whatever he did he must do alone, and at once. Others beside Mr. Malet might already have a glimmering of the folly that had been going on; and if matters came to the worst it would be better for Grace's father to hear the truth from Terence's own lips than from the lips of any one else. But need he ever hear the truth? He would not be an easy person to deal with, and Terence felt he would much rather not deal with him.Suppose he took Mrs. Walley into confidence? For a short time he determined to adopt this course; then another plan suddenly occurred to him, and when it did so he quickened his pace and strode rapidly on, maturing his scheme as he walked, and growing to like it better and regard it as more feasible with every step."Is Corrigan about the place, Byrne, do you know?" he asked the butler, while the latter was taking his coat and hat."Yes, sir, he's in the kitchen.""Tell him I want him; send him to the library;" and Mr. Conway, entering that apartment, threw some fresh turfs on the fire and stood before it, waiting for the coming of the handsome young fellow.CHAPTER XXXI.MASTER AND MAN."As I walked back from Mr. Malet's to-day, I thought a good deal about you, Corrigan," said Mr. Conway, standing in an inelegant attitude, with his back against the chimney-piece, and one foot placed on the brass fender the old Duke had never cared sufficiently for fashion to change.With a cynical smile he had watched the latest generation he lived to see airing its folly, pulling out high grates and replacing them with low, tearing down the wooden wainscoting that is now imitated in paper and called a dado, flinging good brass contemptuously on the dustheap and welcoming with effusion chilly steel, substituting marble for the old quaintly-carved oak chimney-pieces and overmantels, and making matters all round what is called very good for trade; but he himself changed nothing, less because he much cared for the old than because he was indifferent to the new.Now he had gone out of a world where the old order is always changing, and his successor stood on the hearth which should know its former master no more.With a great effort the new owner, having stated that un-doubted truth concerning the amount of thought he had devoted to his servant that day as he walked home from Calgarry church, finding no answer came, lifted his eyes, and met those of Patrick Corrigan.The latter were of that sunny brown we see in dogs and children with no thought and little care behind them—brimful only with affection and faith and devotion. In good truth Pat was devoted to his master, whom he trusted implicitly. He thought there never had been before, and never could be again, such a gentleman as the gentleman he served. Terence's manners were very pleasant—dependents found them especially so—and Pat Corrigan but echoed the popular sentiment when he said Mr. Conway's like could not be found in Ireland.Terence had no nasty knack of putting a grievance in his pocket, and in after clays flinging it at an unsuspecting servant's head.If things that he did not approve of were done, or things he did approve of not done as he wished, he had his say out, and there the matter ended. About a large place as about a small one, a master's temper must often be provoked, but Terence never let the sun go down upon his anger. It was not his practice to send for a man and read him a lecture, to look out for grievances, and preach a long sermon to the effect that the sooner all the people he employed mended their ways the better. With him rebuke followed offence as fast as thunder does lightning; and for this reason, if for no other, Patrick Corrigan felt sure his master had been thinking no harm about him: rather, as Mr. Conway was often considering how he could do some kindness to his people, the man did not doubt but that his employer might have been remembering his coachman wanted another stable-boy—as, indeed, he did—or stood in need of a new set of double harness (silver-plated), or a better whip; in fact, the number of things the owner of Calgarry might have been thinking they required at Calgarry could only have been reckoned by the score. Pat could have made out a list as long as his arm, but till Mr. Conway "said the word" he meant to "make shift." He knew money was not over plentiful, or likely to be till the young mistress came home, and he "would not be the one to bother his master till such times as the things as were needed about Calgarry could be had just for the asking—'lashins and lavings,' and no trouble at all."For these reasons, "and more to the back of them," Pat did not answer his master's remark, but looked at him with a fearless honest light in his sunny eyes.It was a hard light for Terence to face, but "needs must when the devil drives;" and just then about the most powerful devil that can obtain possession over a man—the instinct of self-preservation—was urging the owner of Calgarry along the road to Wrong."Yes; I thought a great deal about you," he repeated. "While I was in London—" but there Mr. Conway stopped, and, amending the form of his sentence, said, "The date for my marriage is fixed.""I am right glad to hear it, sir. God send you happiness!"Terence had to swallow a lump which rose in his throat ere he could go on. Just then his heart was full to overflowing with a feeling of most despicable self-pity. Thrice-accursed hour when he first beheld Goblin Bay! Some chance of happiness, spite of the Doom upon him, he might have had but for the evil chance which threw Grace across his path."We shall have a house in London," he went on to explain, "and we do not purpose—What I mean is this: I shall not take you to England; we intend you to keep the establishments quite separate.""Yes, sir." Pat tried to look as if he understood quite well what his master meant, though he had not the faintest idea."My wife" (what it cost Terence to say those words!) "wishes to have married men about us in London, and though she does not make a point of the coachman here not being single, I know she would be glad if—You see what I want?""I think so, sir.""Well, it came into my mind, as I walked home just now, that—You are engaged, are you not?""Yes, sir—promised.""To Walley's daughter, I think?""Yes—to the only one he has.""Then you are thinking of getting married soon?""I can't say we are, sir. She's young yet.""She will get older every day," remarked Terence with a ghastly smile."We'll all do that, sir," answered Pat, readily returning the supposed pleasantry."Then you may as well get married at once," rejoined his master, rather illogically."I doubt if her father would be willing," answered the pro-posed bridegroom. "He always told me—and I wouldn't say he is wrong—that no man should have his daughter unless he could take her to a good home. Now, in a manner of speaking, I have no home, and if I had I've nothing to put in it. I have never been able to save. While she was with me, I had to help my mother—God rest her soul;" and the poor fellow crossed himself. "After she went, I was out of work, and then when I got into work I took ill; and till I had the good for-tune to come to Calgarry it was not possible for me to save.""But you would like to be married?""Indeed, and I would that! A man's lonesome till he gets a wife—lost like when he's fond of a girl and dursn't take her; but there's no use fretting, for though Walley has money put past, he's not the man to take off his clothes before he goes to bed—and sure nobody can blame him.""I suppose not," said Mr. Conway absently. "I should have thought, though—However, we need not trouble our-selves about that; there is no necessity to ask Walley for anything, because—you have his consent, I suppose?""O yes, sir. It's with his full will we're promised.""Then you had better see him and tell him what I say. I should like you to get married at once. You can have Mullan's old house, and I will provide whatever may be required in the way of furniture.""I don't know what to say to you, sir. I never thought to come across such goodness.""I am not unselfish in the matter," returned Mr. Conway, with unintentional truthfulness. "I want to get everything settled as soon as possible, if Walley makes no objection.""There is not much fear of that.""You could get married at once?""We could, sir, at Easter.""Easter is a long way off.""We are close on Lent now.""What has that to do with the matter?""We couldn't be married in Lent.""Why not?""I don't rightly know, but people doesn't marry then."It was all Terence could do to restrain a furious exclamation. This was such a dead check, and he had felt so sure. Safety had seemed close at hand, and now who could tell what might happen within the weeks that stretched drearily out between that night and Easter? He must get Walley, who believed in nothing, to put a pressure on. If the priest re-fused to marry them, Mr. McKye would make no objection—that he would see to. The thing to attend to first was to make all sure about the wedding—to let Grace know he had opened a door of safety for her, through which she need only carry her sin, and no one ever be the wiser.He did not feel very sorry, though the man he was wronging stood before him with a grateful smile still on his face—though not one of the wicked Conways who owned Calgarry since the Nun cursed his race ever conceived a more evil deed than he, out of folly and weakness, was planning.Had any one told Terence then he was a coward and selfish, he would indignantly have denied the accusation—yet what is vice but selfishness? what is the attempt to shirk the consequences but cowardice? Though he tried to deceive himself by saying he only desired to shield Grace, if he had but plucked up courage enough to look into the depths of his heart he could not have remained blind to the truth that he was simply striving to save her because her danger was his."At all events," he said, when he spoke again, "you had better go over to Walley's, and put matters in train for the wedding. I will do all I can to help to make you comfortable.""I have no words, sir, to thank you," answered the young fellow. "Maybe some day I'll be able to show I am grateful.""I wish I had thought of this earlier," proceeded Mr. Conway, putting aside Corrigan's expressions of gratitude with a little movement of his hand, "and then you might have gone to Goblin Bay this morning. However, you can arrange to get over there to-morrow. I shall not require you."The interview was over. Next moment the door closed, and Terence stood alone breathing a deep sigh of relief. All would be right. He would hurry on the marriage if it were possible to hurry it; if not—sufficient for the day was the evil thereof; he need not anticipate any trouble; he did not mind spending money to keep matters quiet. Still, he did wish Mr. Malet had not chanced to suspect any folly. Why could not old Sweeny have chosen any other day for desiring the Vicar's presence? and why should he have sent for Mr. Malet instead of the Dunfanaghy clergyman?Certainly, ill-fortune did pursue him—Terence—in the most unaccountable way. Events seemed quite to go out of their ordinary course in order to cause him annoyance. But surely this idea of his would put everything right. He might have done wrong; indeed, he did not disguise from himself the fact that he could not well have done more wrong; but now he felt very sorry, and was trying to make matters smooth and pleasant all round. Poor Grace! he would try to make her future very easy; she and Pat might be happy in Mullan's old house. It had grown rather too small for Mullan—or rather, his family had grown too large for it—and he was moving over to the West Lodge, which Mr. Stirling decided ought, after years, to be again occupied by a gate-keeper. Mullan's cottage would do very well indeed for Pat and his wife. It was near the stable-yard, and still some little distance from Calgarry House: quite sufficiently out of the way, indeed, to enable Mrs. Corrigan that was to be to keep quite out of sight of the household—a great point. Terence felt he did not wish to see much of Grace when she became Mrs. Corrigan—or before, indeed, for that matter.Yes, Mullan's cottage would suit admirably; as a matter of fact Terence felt the whole plan, though struck out at a white heat, was better than any other plan could have been, even had he thought it over for a month; and feeling quite satisfied on this point, he ate his solitary dinner and solaced himself afterwards with what he once said, and truly, he could not stand—some punch.With his constitution, temperament, and habits, he might as well have begun to drink poison as whisky; but since the old Duke's wine left Calgarry, his successor had fallen into the habit of thinking he might as well learn to like the liquor of his country, which in those days had many advantages it does not now possess. It was cheap, for one thing; and though the economy of drinking it at all might be open to question, Mr. Conway believed he was doing a rather praiseworthy action in accustoming himself to a nightcap which cost so little.There was no one now to see how it affected him. Mr. Stirling had gone to his new house, where a widowed sister looked after the establishment and his motherless sons and daughters.The coast was being made quite clear for Philippa; and Terence, as he sipped his punch, sat ruminating over the changes he must immediately set about making at Calgarry. It would be necessary to have workmen from Dublin or Belfast; paint had not touched the walls for a quarter of a century, at any rate. He knew pretty well what Miss Dutton wanted. Was Mostrene not close at hand as an ensample?True, Calgarry was as unlike Mostrene as it was well possible for any place to be—a fact Miss Dutton felt she could never sufficiently deplore; but still, as she had at last made up her mind to marry its owner, her policy was to change it, if possible, beyond recognition. Terence did not in any way fulfil her idea of a good match; but it had been borne in upon her that it was as good as she was likely to get. Somehow, though no one could deny she possessed many excellent gifts—amongst them youth, beauty, and wealth—she did not succeed as she ought to have done.There were plenty of inquiries for her in the matrimonial market, but it had somehow got known she or Sir Henry was inclined to be stiff in the matter of money, and impecunious young men who aspire to heiresses generally prefer moneyed ladies who have more liberal views on so important a subject. Except Terence, no one had ever been in love with her; let her make what acquaintances she would, very little benefit accrued.Her own sex did not care for her. Even her greatest friend thought in her heart Miss Dutton was mean, and; for so young a person, singularly shrewd. Philippa's views as regarded her own future were large. She had thought of belted earls—whoever they may be—and in waking dreams considered strawberry-leaves would be becoming; but no duke came her way—not even a marquis sought for her sake an introduction to Sir Henry.What can a girl do when her guardians are not "in society," and when her friends know no eligible men? Every one assured her Terence was by no means a match to be despised; and though Miss Dutton had her own ideas on this subject, she felt she might as well bow to the inevitable, and make the best of a bad bargain, for which the old Duke and Sir Henry Beecham were alone responsible.One way of bowing to the inevitable was to remodel Calgarry on the new Mostrene pattern: and she had sweetly hinted to Terence that she thought the drawing-room would look lovely if decorated like Mrs. Boyne's; and O! had he noticed the paper in the dining-room? No? Well, she felt sure Mr. Boyne would not mind his riding over and looking at it; and when he was at the Castle he might as well see if did not think the pink bedchamber simply lovely; and he must not forget Mrs. Boyne's boudoir—the draperies in it were really perfection!Of these and many other utterances of a similar nature Terence thought as he sat by the upheaped turf fire, marvelling dreamily whether in the new grates that were to be Philippa would wish to burn coal, and if so, where he could best procure it; and all the time the waves washing in on Goblin Bay seemed moaning at his ear. He felt again the chill of that early morning when, in the gray light, he passed out and looked at the waters fretting below, and saw the dark rocks and the lonely desolate land, and heard the noise of the great Atlantic, where deep called to deep, and the billows were racing madly to their doom."I have been too much alone lately," he muttered at last. "I will go to Dublin for a week or so after to-morrow."After to-morrow! But how was he to pass the hours till to-morrow should be over? After to-morrow all would be well. An eternity of time seemed, however, to stretch before him till to-morrow should be over and done with and after to-morrow had-come.As one means of passing the weary hours he went early to bed—but not to sleep. He could not sleep: the din of the Atlantic seemed to fill the room—the murmur of the sea sounded like distant and continuous thunder in his ear. If for a second he dropped from sheer exhaustion into dreamland, it was but to imagine he was stumbling amid heather and stones, with a dark sky overhead, a keen wind blowing, and the rain descending pitilessly; and then he would start from that broken slumber, to find a gale shaking the doors and torrents of rain beating against the glass.A gruesome night for a man to lie awake with only troubled thoughts for company. O, that he had never seen Grace; that Walley had never had a daughter; that he had never looked in her eyes and taken her hand, and walked with her—they two together—along that broad highway, the end of which is Ruin!CHAPTER XXXII.AFTER TO-MORROW.IT was morning before Terence at last fell into a sound sleep, from which he did not awake till long after his usual hour for rising. When he rose and looked out, he saw a gray storm-swept sky, a sad earth without a vestige of a smile on leaf, or grass, or stream. The rain had fallen in torrents, and everything looked sodden and wretched. Terence shivered as he thought of the mournful waves, making music as monotonous as a death-chant in Goblin Bay; but he had one comfort: to-morrow was come—ere many hours were over, it would be after to-morrow, and he could breathe freely. Already it was late; a considerable part of the weary day had passed. Corrigan must have been on the road long previously—that was a comfort. Terence dressed himself and went down-stairs, where, after eating a wretched breakfast and looking at his letters, he considered what he should do with himself till that anxious day wore to its close.Putting on his hat, he strolled slowly down to the stables, where he heard Pat had started off early to catch the mail-car to Dunfanaghy. So far, so well; he must at that instant be sitting in Walley's kitchen, or standing in Walley's haggard, or pacing the "bit of a causeway" which ran beside the bay, telling his news. Would Walley be back? Both he and his wife were expected home on the previous evening; but if not, Grace was sure not to have gone far afield. She had a woman friend who stayed with her on those rare occasions when her parents were both absent, but she could not remain all day with the girl, so there could be no doubt that Grace would be at her post.Some of the contracting powers, at all events, Corrigan would find, and it really did not much matter which so long as the girl herself understood a way of deliverance was being provided.Terence felt he could not go far away from Calgarry till his own mind was at rest. What should he do to pass the time?—walk over and talk to Mr. Stirling about the yearling cattle; about the heifers, the young bullocks; about the sheep and the lambs, the wheat and the clover, the potatoes and the great experiment in flax, the ploughing and draining and trench-ing, the harrowing and rolling and planting and manuring, which formed the staple of the agent's conversation? No; another day, perhaps—but not that morning. He would wait till he could discuss the great changes he wanted made for Philippa, and take the Scotchman into counsel about ways and means.But how was he to occupy himself?Surely never before did day appear so long as that which was by this time half over.To read seemed impossible, to write even more so; he could walk the length of Calgarry Bay and back again—that would kill three hours at least—and then he might be able to eat some luncheon; and then—why, then the afternoon must draw on and in; and if Pat did not come back by the mail-car, he would not at the worst drive his return till very late. He was proud of his horses, and always liked to see they were cleaned, and littered, and watered, and fed properly. Nay, coachman though he felt proud to be, he never thought himself too exalted a person to "put to" his hand and attend him-self to any duty left unfulfilled.Yes; Terence felt he could not do better than take that walk along the shore. The tide was ebbing; he could keep on the sands both going and returning. They were strewn with millions of shells: empty homes now, but once each inhabited—a strange matter to consider. Deep as any one chose to dig, the result was still sand and shells—sand dry and firm to tread, though covered twice a day by the Atlantic waves; shells to which more were being added each time the water swept in upon the shore.Out near the frowning headlands the ocean broke ceaselessly over sunken rocks, and fretted itself into foam with a noise that soothed the ear by its endless repetition; the white gulls were abroad, but not a sail was to be seen.Land and sea both seemed enveloped in the gloom of a depressing despair; the dark fields stretched down to meet an ocean the colour of mud, and over all—distant headlands, shore, water, fields, and mountains—a gray sky lowered, and a sad low wind swept.The sadness was in keeping with Terence's thoughts; but not the stillness. He would have liked storm and tempest—a raving ocean and the white sea-horses running wild races in shore; instead, the tide ebbed quietly, like a dying man leaving life by almost imperceptible degrees.An unutterable melancholy took possession of this latest Conway of Calgarry. How many Conways must have paced those hands with the same tumult of unrest warring in their breasts! Was there to be no end to it? Must they for ever go on working out an inevitable doom?The very sands were full of memories. Here two Conways—brothers—who had never agreed in life, were cast up by the sea, dead; here one had been thrown from his horse, and crippled for all the future days of his existence; here that other, who brought home the fair and frail and wicked original of the picture which Mrs. Barry did not like, had measured swords with the injured husband, who, at the sun-rising, stood branded with the mark of Cain."I will have no more of this," thought Terence, as he paused by the spot whence—so ran the legend—that stain of blood would never be washed while a Conway held Calgarry. "I will go home. If we are cursed, we had better be so beside a blazing fire than this mournful ocean." And, turning, he swiftly retraced his steps, passing as he did so the spot where Sir Henry had opened his mind about Philippa.As he drew near to the stable-yard one of the men was going to his
dinner."Corrigan's back, sir," he said."What, so soon?""Yes, sir—he got a lift."Just for a moment a nameless dread came over Terence—an unreasoning fear which his senses at once put aside as absurd."Walley was not at home, so they settled nothing," he considered; "or, perhaps," he went on, "Walley was at home and they arranged matters in five minutes." But Mr. Conway did not turn into the yard."I must not seem anxious," he thought, and kept straight on.An hour passed, and Corrigan did not appear. "He is having something to eat," concluded Mr. Conway; "he will be here presently;" and even as he comforted himself with this assurance the door opened."Luncheon is ready, sir," announced Byrne. So Terence, with what appetite he might, went in to luncheon. Was there ever so endless a day? How wearisome meals were—more particularly meals which had to be eaten!When he was about to rise from the table, Byrne said, "Corrigan came, sir, just now, wanting a word with you. I told him you were engaged, and that he had better stop in the kitchen till you were at leisure, but Ann Patterson bid me let him wait in the breakfast-room."A dim sort of wonder as to why Ann Patterson had bid Byrne do anything of the sort crossed Terence's mind; but he did not stop to argue the matter out then. There was a decanter of wine close at his hand, filled not with that old Madeira judges approved of so greatly, but with a far inferior sherry Mr. Conway did not care for, and had left untouched during luncheon. Now, however, he poured out a tumblerful, and swallowed it at a draught, while Byrne, busying himself about his duties, tried to look as if he did not see.In his time he had beheld as much hard drinking as any butler need have desired; but Mr. Conway was the first gentleman he ever saw commit such a solecism, and the old man more than once expressed a hope to Ann Patterson that the new mistress would break Mr. Terence of so bad a habit."I have known him drink that Madeira as if it were clear spring water," observed Byrne: which remark happened to be painfully true; indeed, on that day, which he found so long—so very long—Terence had his hand on the decanter to help himself again, when he thought better of his intention, and crossed to the breakfast-room.Corrigan rose as he entered."You are back early," said Mr. Conway."I am, sir," was the answer; and then there came a pause.Already it was afternoon in that room which faced the east—the same room where Mr. Conway and his guests had sat at breakfast on the sweet spring morning which came borne on the wings of the west wind to Donegal—only a year before, only a year!Coming out of the stronger light, Terence at first only noticed that, in some way, his man looked different; but now he saw in what that difference consisted.Corrigan was dressed in quite shabby clothes, the sunny brightness had died out of his eyes, and his whole attitude and expression conveyed an idea of utter despondency. What could have happened? what in the world could have induced a man to go wooing in the very worst attire he owned—garments long since relegated, as Terence believed, to some old dealer?"Did you see Walley?" Mr. Conway inquired, breaking that awkward pause."I did not, sir; he was away, and his wife, too.""O, then you settled everything with their daughter?" This at a venture.Corrigan kept silent for a minute. Then he said very slowly,"Yes, I settled everything with her, but not just as you think.""How then?""We'll never get married.""Why not?" What could be coming? Terence wondered with a sick terror. What could have happened?"Because she has told me all!"It was said, and though the man scarce spoke above a whisper, the noise of Swine's Gun had not sounded so awful to Terence."She has told you all!" he repeated. He would have given anything to be able to make some other reply, but that parrot echo escaped him in spite of his own will."Ay!" The rush of tears was in that one word, though the man's eyes were dry.Terence stood silent for an instant, collecting himself; then he said,"Will you tell me exactly what you mean?""There's no need, sir; you know as well as I could tell you: the girl's heart was full, and she showed me all that was in it. I wouldn't have believed it, Mr. Conway, had another told me; I couldn't have believed it of you. It is hard enough," went on the poor fellow passionately, "to lose the only one I ever loved; but I think it's worse to know the master I served faithful would have put such a disgrace on me, just to answer his own turn."Not when Nathan said to David, "Thou art the man," could the sweet singer of Israel have been smitten with a deeper shame than Terence felt then.With everything at stake—character, home, future—weak, childish, erring Norah Creina had been more honourable than he. His first sin was bad enough, but it was white as snow when compared with his second; and he stood mute beneath the reproach of his own hired servant, as David did before the messenger of the Lord."I will go now, sir," observed Corrigan. "I have left the livery in Ann Patterson's care, and I will make up my book with Mr. Stirling. I have said nothing to living soul about why I am parting my place; there is no call for me to tell all the world I had but one ewe lamb and you took her, and thought to give her back ruined and disgraced, and that I'd never know—never be a bit the wiser." With which accusation Corrigan departed.And what an accusation that was for Terence to face now to-morrow had gone and after to-morrow had come!CHAPTER XXXIII.BEFORE THE STORM.NOTHING proves more trying to what is erroneously called a man's egotism, but which is really a man's sense of individuality, than the absolute indifference of Nature to events that are of the supremest importance to him.The sun rises and sets, seed-time and harvest come and go, the snowdrop and the rose bloom and fade, the winds howl, the rain descends, the stars shine, and the moon fulfils her appointed course, no matter who is sick or who is well, who mourns or who rejoices, who sins or who repents even with tears.It seems to most men—to those, at all events, whose sense of self-importance has not been utterly crushed by adverse circumstances—that when they are in great trouble the order of creation should stop for a time altogether, till they feel inclined to go on with it again.When eyes are dim with grief, or heavy with shame, it is hard to look without a feeling of impotent resentment at Nature pursuing her accustomed way; and it may be—indeed, very probably is—true that the vivid descriptions of hurricanes and tempests, of thunders and lightnings, earthquakes and portents, in which writers formerly revelled, were rather suggestions to Nature of the way she ought to behave under special circumstances, than any accurate account of the manner in which our impassive Mother ever demeaned herself while her children, great or lowly, were sinning or suffering.When, on the next morning after his interview with Corrigan, Mr. Terence Conway walked out of Calgarry House, it seemed strange to him that everything looked precisely as it had done twenty-four hours previously. Muckish was in the same place as of yore; the Garry had not varied its course; no whirlwind had swept over the lawns and shrubberies: the only change was in himself. His men touched their hats and spoke to him as usual; the horses were groomed, although the directing head was gone; a cart laden with Mullan's final odds and ends had just left the cottage where Pat might have lived so happily, but where he would never live now. As he thought of this a dumb rage filled Mr. Conway's heart."If the girl could but have held her tongue"—it was not "poor Grace" now with Terence. By her independent action she had removed herself out of the depths of helplessness to the platform of equality, and as she had not chosen to let him save her, she must sink or swim as best she could.As she had made her bed she must lie: no matter how much he regretted that it should be an uneasy couch, Mr. Conway did not see how he could make it more comfortable. With Walley the matter must eventually come to a question of money; and though no doubt every one concerned would have a very bad quarter of an hour with the horse-dealer, there seemed no way to escape him now."If only Grace had been wise," what a world of trouble she might have saved everybody, herself included—so ran Mr. Conway's mental argument; but beyond a certain point he could not proceed in his discourse, because he failed even to conjecture the form that world of trouble was likely to assume. He did not see how he could help her or himself. If he tried to help her again most probably she would thwart him again. A wild thought of taking Ann Patterson into his confidence and appealing to her for help occurred to him, but he rejected the idea as soon as formed; then casting about, he remembered the aid rendered so short a time before by Mark Darry and Mr. Stirling. They had been very kind then, and Terence considered that they might have been equally kind in this extremity but for his action about Corrigan. Unfortunate Conway of Calgarry! he had meant to deceive his servant with the best intentions, but he saw when it was too late the view which his truest friends were likely to take of his conduct.As he had sowed he was reaping—it was impossible to dispute that; yet it seemed to him terrible a man should be called upon to garner, whether he liked it or not, such an awful crop.And all the time Muckish was frowning over the landscape with as sullen a grandeur as ever; and as his feet drew near and nearer to the shore he saw the Atlantic flowing with as deep a depth of gloom on its waves as they had borne yesterday when the tide was ebbing. There were the gulls circling and diving as when he paced the sands before; the same gray sky lowered overhead; the same sad wind touched his cheek sorrowfully. He had not lost hope when he looked on all these things last; now his heart held only the blackness of despair. He felt he must get away from Calgarry, if only for a few days, and even then he was on his way to ask his Donegal banker, Mr. Stirling, for money.The agent had now everything exactly to his mind as regarded details—house, offices, yards, haggard, homestead, bailiff, "under a table-cloth," as he was wont often jubilantly to remark; all had been planned by him and erected under his own supervision, and the result justified his boast, that he meant to have model farm-buildings at Calgarry. They lay, long and low, under the lee of a rocky mound that Mr. Stirling had marked from the first day he passed it as a protection against the wind. Not another landlord in Donegal could point to such a collection of shed, stables, barns, and straw-yards; but then, as one of that class said truly enough:"We don't want to point to them. They are no good at all, as Conway will find out before he's much older."Mr. Stirling, however, knew, or thought he knew, better. He had seen the results of merely trying to get in rents without showing people how to make money to pay those rents; and now when, for the first time in his life, he met with an employer willing to leave all things under his hand, he meant to carry into practice his favourite theory, that on an estate the landlord's sheep ought to be the fattest, his cows the best, his milk the richest, his pigs the most sought after, his butter the finest, his hens the greatest layers, his broods of chickens the earliest."It is to be done," he said, "and I will do it." And it may as well be added at once that, though he found the work very much more uphill than he expected, still he did do it. That he never succeeded in persuading many of his Irish tenants to follow the admirable example he showed them of wisdom, thrift, patience, and industry was no fault of his, or of his Irish tenants perhaps.Habits which have their roots deep in the heart of a nation; which have grown with the centuries; which have been fostered by every evil system successive generations of legislators could devise; which well-meant help from relations in America, and the practice of repairing eleven months of shiftless "it will do well enough" with one month's hard work in England, bid fair to render inveterate, cannot be counteracted by the efforts of any one man, or, indeed, by any number of men; but though his experiments in the way of improving the distressful country have failed, even at the present moment Mr. Stirling, in common with those who know her best, does not care to hear Ireland reviled."Train up a child in the way he should go," he replies to all disparaging critics. "I suppose you'll admit Solomon had sound sense and good reason for saying, the same child, when he was old, would not depart from that way."Well, then, I'll thank you to tell me what training poor Ireland ever had. Why, she was kissed and cuffed; blessed and cursed; spoiled and kicked; one minute called beautiful, and the next devilish; according to the whim of the speaker, an angel or a demon; laughed at and scolded; patted on the back for being clever, and then punished for not knowing what she was never taught—how to work steadily."Without a thing in the shape of real disease the matter with her, she has, with perpetual doses of medicine, been brought to such a pass that she is in a worse state than England was before the Conquest; and if she ever develops a wholesome frame of mind and body in the future, it will be no thanks to the doctors, who won't let her alone. Just as children keep always pulling up the trees they plant, to see if they are growing, so nothing good is ever given a chance of taking hold of the soil here. It is heart-breaking to think of the money and thought that have been wasted in Ireland in doing harm. One mile of railroad would do more good than fifty Acts of Parliament."Thus at great length Mr. Stirling expresses his opinions—naturally a man likes a country he has laboured in and for; and as for the people, he asks pertinently if a perfect people is to be found anywhere.All through that February when Mr. Conway was so miserable, his agent, on the contrary, felt particularly happy. Things had gone better with him than might have been expected. Great part of the land was let on his own terms, at his own price; he had shown scoffers what could be done with corn that refused to ripen; he had proved that good breeds would thrive in Donegal just as well as bad if sufficient food were provided for them; he had satisfied himself that the soil at Calgarry was not a sort of Goodwin Sands, which would swallow any amount of manure and return nothing: on the contrary, he discovered the soil to be more grateful and tractable than the people."We'll do yet—we'll do wonders yet," he remarked to Terence, when the new year found the new-comers still at Calgarry, with their heads well above water; and if Mr. Conway did not receive this assurance with the enthusiasm his agent expected, Mr. Stirling set his apparent absence of joy down to the fact of his feeling dull—"as well he may, all alone in that big house, with nothing to do from morning to night, and no one to keep him company."From the shore a road had been made, which considerably shortened the distance from Calgarry Mansion to Calgarry Farm. Originally but a rough field-path, it was now so wide and smooth and straight, Mr. McKye could not resist the remark it reminded him of that one which leads to destruction. Many indeed were the jests and sneers indulged in at Mr. Stirling's expense; even those who, having gone far along the highway of progress, might have been expected to honour any explorer who went further still, set their faces steadily against the folly of stall-feeding, and the madness of ploughing up old pastures, and experimenting—of all crops in the farmer's calendar—with flax and lucerne.Nor was the local anger at all appeased when Mr. Stirling got in his flax without rotting and "sold it at a profit, and made money of his stock," though everybody knew he ought to have lost on both. Wiseacres regarded his temporary success as one of those devices of Satan which lure a man on and on to the brink of some pecuniary precipice, in order to pitch him over into those abysses of poverty that he thought to escape by being cleverer than his neighbours.Donegal might have been decently sorry had it seen the Evil One hurling Mr. Stirling to destruction; but it certainly was not even ordinarily glad to hear that his management prospered—comforting itself with the remark:"The time is young yet. He'll find before he has done with Calgarry old ways are the best ways."That pleasantry of Mr. McKye's concerning the broad road had passed into a colloquialism, and the highway from shore to farm was known far and near as Destruction.It was wide enough for two carts, had a good side-path, and might have vied with any other new road in Ireland for ugliness, which is saying a great deal. But Terence, as he turned off the shore and entered the treeless avenue, gave no thought as to whether it was beautiful or the reverse. In front of him loomed ever-present Muckish, and under its shadow, though too far away to distinguish, lay the old ruined church, surrounded by its graveyard, where lay those of his doomed race who had gone before.He was in a very bitter and gloomy frame of mind, and his mood must have been reflected in his face, for the first words Mr. Stirling, who met him, uttered were, "What is the matter?""Nothing is the matter," answered Terence—"only I feel a little out of sorts.""What has put you out of sorts?""I do not know; the weather, I suppose.""If it is only the weather, you'll get over that. I was just on my way to the house to see you.""And I was just on my way to the office to see you. I must go to Dublin this afternoon, and I want some money.""There is nothing wrong in Dublin, is there?" asked Mr. Stirling anxiously. Dublin being the source whence Calgarry derived its pecuniary supplies, there was always to the agent a certain amount of uneasiness suggested even by the mere mention of that capital.Terence laughed. "I daresay there is a good deal wrong there, as there is everywhere; but there is nothing that concerns us. No. I want to go to Dublin to make some inquiries about furniture. We shall have to begin setting our house in order immediately, Mr. Stirling.""Do you mean that in all seriousness?""I do indeed. The date for the marriage is fixed.""God be praised!" exclaimed Mr. Stirling devoutly."And as I feel in rather a vagabond humour and unable to settle to anything," went on Terence, with the air of a man every minute of whose clay was ordinarily spent in study or the discharge of business, "I mean to go up to Dublin and have a look at the furniture shops and hear what the decorators say, and then when I come back we can get to work in earnest.""When is the wedding to be?" asked Mr. Stirling."A month after Easter.""My word! we will have to put our best foot foremost, then. I am right glad. It is what I have long been wishing for."Terence did not answer. He was thinking how earnestly he wished matters had been settled and he married a year before."You are not looking just the thing, Mr. Conway," observed the agent, glancing at his companion as they strode along."Are you well enough?""I do not feel very well," was the reply; "but I shall be all right when I have had a few days in Dublin. London, you know, never does suit me.""No; you had too much of it a while ago. Have you breakfasted?""I took a cup of tea; but I could not eat anything.""This will never do," said Mr. Stirling; "we must not have you laid up when everything is promising so fair. Come into the cottage, and while I am getting the money my sister will make ready some coffee and have a cod cutlet broiled. That will perhaps tempt you—it is off as fine a fish as ever swam."Terence murmured something about being ashamed to give so much trouble, but finally allowed Mr. Stirling to have his way. They passed together into a comfortable sitting-room, where the agent wheeled a deep armchair forward to the inevitable turf fire for his guest, and then departed to order breakfast, and extract from his safe as many Bank of Ireland notes as he thought Mr. Conway ought to require. He counted them over rather reluctantly, thinking to himself:"We'll have to be careful, though we are going to marry an heiress." But when he placed the roll in Terence's hand, he remarked, as though rather repenting of his parsimony, "If there is not enough there, Mr. Conway, I've more for the fetching."Terence took the roll, and, detaching twenty pounds, put back the remainder. "That will be plenty," he said, in so dull a tone that Mr. Stirling could not help observing:"I am sorry to see you so ill like. A man in your position ought to be as gay as a lark.""Perhaps," was the answer, "I should have been gay enough had this come sooner, but the long waiting has tired me.""Better late than never, you know," replied Mr. Stirling."You'll be none the worse for this run to Dublin. I see plainly you have been taking too much out of yourself.""I suppose that is it," said Terence, not quite hypocritically; and then he attacked the good things provided with more appetite than might have been expected."What's all this about Corrigan going off in such a hurry?" asked Mr. Stirling, putting at last the question Terence had been waiting for. "He would give no reason for throwing up the place, neither would he hear of stopping—not that I wanted him to stop," added the agent."I knew you never liked him.""I liked him well enough; but I did not like his father-in-law that is to be. You are well out of the whole connection. Walley could be as dangerous a man as any in Ireland. I think, if he gave his mind to being nasty.""There was no fault to find with Corrigan; I am very sorry he would not stop.""You will get another just as good in his place—an older man—that will save all jealousy. There was a lot of jealousy about Corrigan. My only astonishment is he got leave to stay so long. He must have had some mortal affront put upon him, because he would not open his lips on the subject more than to say he was better away from Calgarry. He waited two long hours last evening till I was ready to make up his book, and then, though it was dark as pitch, he took himself off."As Mr. Stirling spoke the room he was sitting in faded away from Terence's eyes, and a vision took its place of that lonely figure plodding through the darkness, carrying a load of sorrow, going forth solitary, friendless, almost penniless, into the blackness of night, and for the first time remorse which had in it no self-pity fastened its fangs in his soul."I felt really sorry for him," went on Mr. Stirling, "for I think he had been hurt in some way as well as offended; and he was a good servant, and attached to you. Still, I am glad he is gone, and hope we shall see nothing in the future of Walley. He will not bring any more horses to me, I know."CHAPTER XXXIV.THE BEGINNING OF THE STORM.As Mr. Conway felt no doubt now as to the propriety of staying at Morrison's Hotel, he put up there as a matter of course, and from thence despatched long letters to London and Calgarry concerning upholstery and other kindred subjects, in which, truth to tell, he could not take the slightest interest.For it is a solemn fact that we cannot leave trouble behind so long as we take ourselves. It is ready for the road as soon as we are; it requires no luggage, needs no ticket; wherever we lead it follows—it does not stay at home patiently awaiting our return; nobly indifferent to such mere details, it will travel by any conveyance, in any class, so long as it can give us the pleasure of its society: all it asks is our company—but that it must have, whether we are in tune for such devoted attendance or not.If Terence thought to get rid of his particular care by leaving Donegal, he was mistaken; it did not stay a minute after him beside Goblin Bay, or even rest itself for a little at Calgarry. No; it got on the mail-car beside Terence, took share of his rug, and said to him quite plainly and cheerfully: "Now, old fellow, we are going to Dublin together." For this reason he soon began to see he might as well have stayed at home. Sticking closer than a brother, Care went to Morrison's with him, accompanied him through the streets, waited outside the furniture shops, and caught him the instant he came forth. Nay, it even went to Kildare Street, and though Mr. Bray did not know it, sat staring at him one day in his own office for full half an hour, patiently waiting that good time in the future when Grace Walley's affairs might demand and obtain a hearing, and take their place among the chronicles in those tin boxes, labelled in painted letters two inches long, "Terence Conway, Esq., Calgarry."Messrs. Bray & Lucan had by no means yet done with Terence Conway, Esq. There was a pleasant lull in his affairs, but no one knew better than he it was only a lull, and pleasant merely in outward seeming.Deeply penetrated with a sense of the great future Conway of Calgarry had secured for himself, and alive to the fact that Miss Dutton's fortune had more than once trembled in the balance, Mr. Bray assumed for the nonce a "bless you my children" manner, "and I told you everything would come right if you only showed a bold front," which would have been, under different circumstances, eminently satisfactory to his client. In quite a royal manner, though tempered with great affability, he intimated his willingness to be present at the ceremony—"to see," as Mark Barry afterwards expressed the matter, "fair play all round."As some great physicians only attend the obsequies of their highest patients, so Messrs. Bray & Lucan did not ordinarily assist at any wedding which could not be described as an "alliance."Things were made very pleasant for Terence in Dublin, and he might have enjoyed his visit enormously but for the hag Care, who would not let him out of her sight for more than a moment at a time."We may as well go home," she said at last. "We shall have to go back some time; and though you may stay away from Calgarry, other people will not stay away. Walley's wife has been with Mr. Stirling already, as you are aware, wanting Corrigan's address. It will not be long before Walley goes there too. We had better return and face whatever there may be to face. You cannot exactly tell what is going on, and we may as well know." And accordingly Terence left the delights of a capital which, though even at that time shorn of most of its former glory, was still pleasant, and took train for the bleak, black North.Mr. Stirling came to Calgarry on the evening of his return, to hear what he had done in Dublin, and to know when the Duke's old abode was to be delivered over to an army of workpeople."There is no time to lose," he remarked, "though you won't be coming here with your wife to stay for any time till the summer.""No; but everything must be finished by then," answered Terence dreamily. He was not thinking so much of marriage or wedding tour, or home or Philippa, as of Goblin Bay, as of the trouble in store for him from there. He had reached a state in which he longed to face the worst—to know no deeper depth awaited him. He wanted to see Mrs. Walley; in that direction lay safety, probably—the mother loved and would shield her child.He wished he had not gone to Dublin, but remained on the spot ready to receive Grace's mother when she came. Ought he to go over to Goblin Bay? No, he must not do that; it would be madness to set people's tongues wagging; and even in that lonely place there were, he knew now, eyes to see he had not dreamed of, ears to hear that had been quite beyond his thoughts."By the bye," said Mr. Stirling, when he rose to leave, "Mrs. Walley was over with me again yesterday, to know if you could tell her where Corrigan was gone. I said I was very sure you know nothing about him, but she feels certain he would never have left without giving you at least a notion of his whereabouts. It seems I was wrong in imagining some of the men in the yard had offended him. The whole trouble is some quarrel between him and Walley's daughter. Perhaps you guessed as much?""Yes; he gave me some hint to that effect," answered Terence. There were but nine short words in the sentence, yet a dictionary could not have cost him more labour to produce."I wish he had not. But now, mind my advice. Don't take sides; don't mix yourself up in the matter at all. You will get into a mess if you do. I am sure they are a bad lot, root and branch. Let them settle their own affairs. If you know where Corrigan is—""I have not the faintest idea where he is," interrupted Terence eagerly."That is a good hearing. Just tell Mrs. Walley so, and send her about her business. You have no call to meddle in the concerns of such people, and Walley is a dangerous scoundrel, I am sure—a man no one can be too careful about dealing with."O, if he could have helped dealing with him in the future! Mr. Stirling meant his advice well, but Terence felt it to be as useless as advice after the event usually is."Keep your stable-door locked, my friend; remember to keep it locked," people are too fond of saying, and think they have done the owner excellent service merely because he does not care to tell them it is no use locking the door when the steed is stolen.Every word of Mr. Stirling's homely counsel knocked at the door of Terence's heart and made dents in it; but what was the use? He must mix himself up in the matter; he had no choice but to meddle in the concerns of such people; he could never keep clear of Walley if ever an inkling of what was wrong came to his ears."Woe is me, for I am undone," thought the wretched young man. His only hope now was in Mrs. Walley; so those who are incapable of helping themselves go on trusting in one broken reed after another, till the inevitable result follows."Mrs. Walley would like to speak to you, sir. if you can spare her a minute." Terence was finishing breakfast when Byrne made this announcement next morning. The ball was opened, then; hostilities had begun. Who would come off the field victorious at the end?"Send her in here," said Mr. Conway. He had held his two important interviews with Corrigan, one in the library, the other in the breakfast room; so almost unconsciously he decided to try a third interior for the next scene.She came in, looking worn and jaded. She had been beautiful once—more beautiful than her daughter; but in such a climate, women who live and work hard soon lose all pretensions to good looks, and Mrs. Walley had lived hard and worked hard under the iron rule, not of poverty, but of a more inexorable taskmaster still.One glance in her haggard face showed Terence that she knew nothing yet. It held no purpose in its lines. So far, she was only anxious and worried; the whole burden rested on her. Walley had been home, but he did not stay long enough to be "bothered with women's stories" ere he was off again. Mrs. Walley felt afraid in his then state of mind to open hers to him, and the horsedealer, full of his own legal affairs, had departed, unaware anything "beyond the common" was wrong in his home.Grace's "ill looks" were satisfactorily accounted for by a "terrible cold" contracted during her mother's absence; and as colds were things Mr. Walley wisely took "no account of," the girl's swollen eyes and pale cheeks were allowed to pass without comment."Sit down, Mrs. Walley," said Terence, looking at the woman's troubled face with a compunctious qualm. "How are you?""Well, indeed, sir, I'm not very well, and that is the truth. I am sorely vexed about Pat. He has gone away for the first time without telling us where. He and Grace have parted in anger; and as she won't tell the rights of the quarrel, I want to find him. His mother was the only sister I ever had, and I was always as fond of him as if he'd been my own son—as I made sure he would be one day.""I do not know where he is," answered Terence. "He did not give me the slightest clue as to where he was going.""Then I have had my journey for nothing," said Mrs. Walley wistfully."I made sure you would be able to help me, sir.""Indeed, I would help you if I could," returned Terence."I wanted to find him," she went on, "before any word of all this came to my husband's knowledge. I hoped I could put things right. He always was a good boy, and listened to me; and if I only could have seen him I might have saved a lot of mischief. Grace says she wouldn't marry him if he came back to-morrow—that the fault is hers—that she huffed him; but it'll be hard to make her father believe that. He'll not sit quiet and see her put upon."No, Walley was not the man to sit quiet; and Terence turned faint and sick as he thought what would come if ever Walley saw cause to get up and exert himself."I do not know where Corrigan has gone," he repeated; "I wish I did." And this was true. At that awful juncture he would have liked to take counsel with Corrigan as to what could be done; but, of set purpose, the young man had disappeared that he might be asked no questions—that whatever happened might not be caused or hastened by speech of his."I am sure I am very thankful to you, Mr. Conway," said Grace's mother, humbly grateful; "and if you do hear any word of him, may I make so bold as to ask you to let me know?""I will send you a message at once,"promised Terence.""I don't know what to say to you, sir; but you've always been beyond the common good to us. I mustn't take up more of your time, so I'll say good-morning;" and she rose wearily."How did you get here?" asked Terence."By the car, sir.""And how are you going back?""Maybe I might get a lift; if not, I'll walk.""No, you must not do that," said Mr. Con way hastily. "I am sending one of the men to Dunfanaghy, and you can go with him.He will be ready presently, and meantime Ann shall give you something to eat.I am sure you are faint after coming so far, and so early." And he rang the bell and gave the poor woman into Byrne's charge; and then went down to the shore, considering what a very pretty kettle of fish there was cooking for his own delectation, and wondering whether he might not have done better to tell Mrs. Walley everything, and let the whole murder out at once.Meanwhile, Grace's mother was explaining her trouble to Ann Patterson, and, indeed, to the whole sympathetic house-hold, every member of which said the thing was beyond the beyonds, and that they wouldn't have evened it to Pat that he would have served anybody such a trick."He'll be back again before long," declared Ann Patterson, who always tried to make peace; "you'll see if he won't; and then, when you know the rights of why he went away, you'll find he wasn't so much to blame. I wouldn't fret myself; he was a good young fellow, and he has done no harm wherever he is.""But it is Gracie—our Gracie—I'm thinking about.""He'll come back to her after a bit; sure, lovers must have their quarrels—better wrangle before marriage than after, you know. He could not stay from her long—he thought Ireland did not contain her like. The maids used to laugh at him about his Grace, till sometimes he was not too well pleased.""Ay, we said to him often, 'What's your Grace more than anybody else's Grace?' and then he'd make answer, 'Ah! you haven't seen her.'" observed one of the servants.The mother looked from one to another, as if striving to take in the comfort they meant to give her."She's a purty creature," she observed at last, with a slow proud smile, "and a better daughter mother need not wish for.""Sure, then, what would you want more?" asked the woman who had spoken before. But Ann Patterson said nothing—only turned aside, and busied herself with some trifle.While she drove back to Dunfanaghy beside the same groom who had told Sir Henry the story of Eileen, Mrs. Walley heard the whole "genesis" of Corrigan's departure."He spruced himself up as if he was going to a wedding, and started to meet the mail-car. He had not a contrary word with one of us. He seemed in the height of good spirits, laughing and joking, and warning us to see after the horses, or we'd see what he would do to us when he came back.But when he did come, he had not a word to throw to a dog; it seemed as if the heart had died out of him; he went into his room and we heard him moving about, and then he went up to the house with a big bundle, and not a one of us ever set eyes on him after. He never said he was going, or God be with us, or a mortal word. The whole thing beats me entirely."It beat Mrs. Walley also—the more utterly, perhaps, because she could not, on her return home, extract a remark of any sort from Grace on the subject."We'll see what your father'll have to say to you when he comes back," she observed; and still Grace kept silence.Long after she was in bed, however, Mrs. Walley heard her crying softly, catching her breath in low gasping sobs she strove vainly to control; but at last she fell asleep, and then the mother went to sleep too.In the early dawn, however, the latter awoke, with a terrible horror overmastering her. Getting up, she stole noiselessly to her daughter's bedside, and stood looking at the girl till Grace opened her eyes and beheld who was standing there."Mother," she said pitifully, "what is it?"Then Mrs. Walley fell on her knees and wailed out in very agony, "O, my child! my mind misgives me about Mr. Conway I am afraid he has come over here once too often. Tell me if I am right; is that what is troubling you?"CHAPTER XXXV.A MORNING CALL.IGNORANT of that question asked at the day-dawning, Mr. Conway was dressing himself leisurely, when he became aware of a tapping, "like some one rapping softly," at his chamber door."What is it?" he asked."It is Ann Patterson, sir," answered his henchwoman, her homely accents coming muffled through the oak. "Can I speak a word?""Yes, come in;" and, arrayed in his dressing-gown, and with razor in hand, Terence turned to receive the housekeeper."I beg your pardon, sir," she began, "but Mrs. Walley is here again, wanting to see you; so I made bold to step up and ask if you wouldn't like me to send for Mr. Stirling?"The razor in Terence's hand shook, and the drapery of his brilliant dressing-gown—bought when he fully counted on the old Duke's money, and his own expectations were large as his tailor's hopes—trembled while he asked,"Why should I wish you to send for Mr. Stirling, Ann?""Don't be vexed with me, Mr. Terence dear; but if there are any matters to be settled between you and the Walleys, maybe Mr. Stirling could put them in better shape than your-self.""What matters," inquired her master, "do you suppose I can have to arrange with the Walleys Mr. Stirling could put in better shape than I?""It is not for me, sir, of course," said Ann Patterson, looking her young master straight in the face, "to know what correspondence you may have with anybody. I only conceited you might like me to send for Mr. Stirling. What will I tell Mrs. Walley?""Tell her I shall be down directly. No; second thoughts are best," amended Terence, nerving himself to face the worst. "Tell her to come up here.""Here, sir, to this room?" exclaimed Ann Patterson aghast."Here, to this room," returned Terence, who felt he could not wait an unnecessary moment to know what the woman wanted.It seemed to him he had not stirred hand or foot while Ann went on his errand; but he must have done both, for he had shaved, and his razor was in its case by the time his housekeeper returned, accompanied by Grace's mother."Mrs. Walley. sir," she said, in brief announcement. Then she closed the door, and left them.The first glance in Mrs. Walley's face would have told Terence she knew all, even had she not opened her batteries with,"You might have saved me this journey, Mr. Conway.""How so?""By telling me yesterday there was no call to go after Pat; that the one we wanted was yourself. This morning between the lights Gracie made her confession to me. The Lord help us!" and then she fell to crying.Terence let her cry. The trouble was not new to his comprehension.He had survived the stage when any tears could much affect him. She wept on, not demonstratively, but bitterly, her face hidden in the corner of her shawl, which, thick as it was, failed to deaden the sound of her gasping sobs.Poor woman! poor mother! a worse agony than death was rending her then.And all the time Terence was going on one of those purposeless mental excursions which had latterly become so familiar to him.There was no one to disturb the pair; they might have remained standing there till the woman's tears ran dry, had not Terence, returning suddenly from that long quest in search of something he certainly failed to find, said,"Perhaps it is best that you do know.""Best!" repeated Mrs. Walley, with a moan. "There is no best. There'll never be a best for us now while the salt tide ebbs and flows. And what to do beats me entirely," she went on, trying to control her grief. "O, sir, there's not a one in the wide world can help us but you. Sure, you'll have pity on the girl whose only fault was trusting you over-much? You always had a kind heart, Mr. Conway; you won't harden it now!""Only tell me what I can do," answered Terence eagerly, "and—""There is only one way you can right the wrong," cried the mother, a flash of hope lighting up her features. "Marry her, sir; make an honest woman of her; lift this trouble from off us, and the Lord will look down upon you, the blessed Virgin will love you, and the saints take you in their holy keeping."She was on the carpet, poor soul, before him, with her hands clasped round his knees, kissing his feet in a frenzied entreaty for mercy."You'll do it, you will do it, Mr. Conway! She'd never ask to see you again; she'd never trouble you; she'd stay content in any corner, if you take the shame off her. I came here with my heart broke. What'll I do for joy as I go home, knowing you'll right her, as I said you would!"It is always the unexpected which happens. In his wildest imaginings it had never occurred to Terence that any one could possibly conceive he should marry miserable forlorn Norah Creina. He, Conway of Calgarry; he, engaged to Lesbia; he—"Mrs. Walley, please to rise," he said, in anything but a yielding manner. "You must not kneel to me. And as for Grace—""As for Grace, sir?" She unclasped her hands and raised her head; but she did not otherwise change her position, as she repeated his words, and lifted her tear-stained face to his, dumbly praying for her child.Her coarse bonnet had fallen back, and her hair, becoming unfastened, streamed in long tresses—black, plentifully sprinkled with gray—down her back, as, unmindful of everything save Grace's trouble, she looked at the man who alone could help her.In that moment he saw her as she was, a middle-aged superior class of peasant, who had been a beauty in her own low rank. How could he ever have found an attraction in a daughter of hers? Why had he gone to Goblin Bay, sat by the Walley's fire, ate of their fare, drank of their whisky, which he always knew was not honestly come by?"Because I was mad," he thought, as the last scale dropped from his eyes, and the length and breadth and height and depth of the social gulf which yawned between Calgarry and Goblin Bay disclosed itself to him."I must ask you to get up," he repeated, taking her by the arm and compelling her to change her position." Sit down and let us talk reasonably. This is a very serious matter—""It is that!" she interpolated"But we won't mend it by refusing to look at it rationally."Though she did not know exactly what he meant, she gathered that he had no intention of doing what she asked, so she repeated doggedly,"There is only one way you can do her justice. She was young and soft, and you deceived her.""No, I never did in that way. I never deceived her at all.""Not when you said you were fond of her?""No, for I was fond of her.""And what fault has she done that you should change of that? She trusted you, and yet you say you have not deceived her. You said you were fond, and now you want to throw her off like an old glove.""I don't want to throw her off. I am quite ready to provide for her.""There is only one way you can provide for her. Put a ring on her finger and she won't ask you for bread if she was starving, or for water if she was dying of thirst.""Good Heavens! you don't suppose I should let her thirst or hunger! I want to provide for her. I mean to provide for her.""Ay, by bestowing her on the man that would, but for the shame you've brought on her, have married my girl, and kept her honest and respected all her days. Who'll ever respect her now? O Gracie, it's low, low you have fallen! Little did I think when I held you to my breast, and your baby eyes laughed up in mine, I'd ever look on you with the sore heart I've done this day!"Upon the whole Terence felt rather sorry he had not allowed Ann Patterson to send for Mr. Stirling. Personally he did not know in the least how to deal with Mrs. Walley. Grace's simple resignation, and the excessive brevity of Corrigan's parting interview, had been a bad preparation for what he was now encountering."It's well seen there's a Curse on you," proceeded Grace's mother with passionate candour; "but I never thought any part of it would fall on us. What had we done—O, what had we done—that our only child, the only one that ever called me mother, should be cut down like this? We were too proud of her, we made too much of her, and now it has come home to us! And how I'm to break this to her father, tell him our Grade's no better nor lost, I do not know! He'll murder me: he'll say it's my fault; that if I had looked after her she couldn't have come to such shame. But I never thought a gentleman like you would do her wrong. Not a Conway before you, heart-wicked as many of them, as all of them, have been, ever ruined a poor man's daughter. Even the old Duke, and there was little in the way of villainy daunted him, stopped at that.It was always noted, what-ever else the Conways might be, no girl had cause to lament seeing one of them till you came, and—O, why was it our daughter you cast your eye on!"Terence would not have answered this question if he could, but he could not. At that moment he was wishing most earnestly he had followed the excellent example set him by his predecessors, who were in the habit of pursuing their vices at a distance, or, if unfortunate circumstances compelled them to stay at home, invariably imported their pleasant sins, as they did their rare wines, from other countries.He had set himself up to be better than his predecessors, and this was what had come of it. If he had only striven to cultivate a little of the admirable sense for which his progenitors were "noted," how much better it would have been for everybody! "After all," he thought, "it is a mistake, as Mark Barry often told me, for a young man to try to be wiser than his neighbours."The good old track of original sin, wide and worn with the passage of millions of feet, is oftentimes safer than any new-fangled path leading over fantastical heights of impossible virtue, let it seem as alluring as it will.Yes, it was true, though he had done so badly, this young man had meant to do well; he had honestly wanted to make every-body happy, himself included, and behold this was the end—a woman weeping, a girl broken-hearted, and he mute, because he did not know what to say, how to undo the coil himself had wound."Mrs. Walley," he began at last, "perhaps it is a hard thing to ask you to believe, but I regret most deeply the wrong I have done, and am most anxious to make such reparation as lies in my power. If you only tell me what you want done I will provide for Grace. I am not a rich man, but I will settle a yearly sum on her, and—""It's easy talking," interrupted the woman: "but all the Queen's fortune could not give her back what she has lost. And she but a child, after a manner of speaking, that you might have spared, because she was so young and tender and ignorant of the craft of men. O my Grace, my little Grace, that I'd rather see in her coffin than as she is this day!" And the tears welled up into her eyes again, and coursed slowly down her cheeks, which were soft and lovely no longer, but all the more pathetic for that very reason.Terence was at his wits' end."What can I say or do, Mrs. Walley?" he asked. "I offer to provide for the girl handsomely, and still you seem to think I am acting like a scoundrel.""And so you are,"she returned; "and that is God's truth. There are things no money can buy and no money can pay for. What you might have done you won't; and it's proud the young lady you are set to marry will be when she knows the desolation you have brought to an honest man's house.Well, I carried a heavy heart here; but I must carry a heavier back. God help me! How am I ever to face my husband's anger when he hears my news?"Terence could not tell her this any more than he could solve any other of the many problems she had propounded. The only thing which occurred to him was to take out money, all he had in hand, and offer it to her; but she waved it from her scornfully."I won't touch it," she said. "I dursn't, even if I was willing, and I am not. We're not beggars. It wasn't charity I came to ask, but justice, and that you refuse. I'll go my sorrowful way now; but mind this, Mr. Conway, there's still Grace's father to settle with, and after him there's your Maker. Your sin will come home to you yet. You may forget, but there's One above that'll remember."Having uttered which augury, in its way as full of evil as the Nun's Curse, Mrs. Walley tucked up her hair, pulled on her bonnet, and departed, figuratively shaking the dust of Calgarry from off her feet.CHAPTER XXXVI.MR. WALLEY TAKES COMMAND."WHAT the——took you to Calgarry at all?"It was four days later. Mr. Walley, returning to Goblin Bay in a very bad humour, had duly received the communication which waited him there; and, after a furious outburst of rage, set himself down to consider at his leisure each link in the great chain of events. Naturally he looked about for some crow to pluck with his wife, and, having found one in her fruitless journey, proceeded to feather it.Grace was out. She had fled up the hillside after receiving all the vials of her father's wrath on her devoted head; and at that precise moment stood not twenty yards from Swine's Gun, considering the worst was over, and, in her weak little heart, tremblingly thanking God life, sweet life, still remained. For she did expect to be almost killed; it never entered her mind she would escape without personal violence. She had cringed from long experience expecting blows; but, though Mr. Walley swore terribly, he received his wife's tidings with, for him, wonderful patience.Grace had witnessed worse scenes over the loss of a calf, and she failed to understand what such forbearance meant.Mr. Walley's natural language did not err on the side of mildness. Whatever its faults, it was usually forcible enough, and therefore Mrs. Walley considered his question as a most ordinary one."I was that put about—that through-other," she answered; "I hardly can tell you. I went first to get news of Pat, and I went last to see if Mr. Conway wouldn't marry her.""I always did say I took a fool for a wife," returned Mr. Walley, with uncomplimentary candour; "but you're a worse fool even nor I thought you.""Why, sure, I done no harm, Dan?""That's all you know," retorted her husband, wisely declining to enter into particulars. Then, to his wife's great relief, as well as amazement, he took his pipe off the shelf, filled it, and began to smoke.He smoked for a long time in utter silence, while Mrs. Walley pursued her ordinary household avocations, venturing no observation, only occasionally stealing a look at the man seated in the chimney corner, who, with bent brows and clasped hands, remained thinking—thinking."He has a heap on his mind," she thought with a sense of exultant admiration. Yes, for the wrong done Terence had still to settle with Grace's father."Lord send he may not shed blood," prayed Mrs. Walley; "but I don't like his steadfast look and the quietness of him. In a way it would be better to hear him cursing and swearing." But apparently Mr. Walley was determined not to grant her even this small measure of relief, for when he spoke at last he said with marvellous self-control:"Now I want to know how all this began. I don't mean the courting, for I can see how that came about. When she was a child she might have been killed fifty times for all the care or thought you gave to her, and it stands to sense she needed more care and thought when she was growing to be a woman. No, that's passed and over; it's what is just beginning I want to be at.""I don't know rightly what you mean, Dan.""I didn't expect you would, rightly or wrongly either, for the matter of that," retorted Mr. Walley, with profound contempt.From Victoria down to the meanest of her female subjects he entertained the lowest opinion of women, and it was too much to expect he should veil his sentiments when addressing his wife. At all events, he did not do so, and his caustic utterances had often added another charm to those which in the evil days Terence found attracting him to Goblin Bay."Maybe you'll tell me what it is you do mean," suggested his wife humbly."Well, I'll try to drive it into you," he returned. "When you went away to Donegal town, and left Gracie here alone with only the widow Wortley coming in and out for company, and to stop the night, you had no thought anything was wrong beyond the common?""May the holy saints witness for me I never thought anything was wrong even in the common! The cows were well, and the fowls laying grand, the pigs getting on bravely, and the biggest goose sitting day and night.""Everything was right indeed but your daughter—the one thing you never thought it worth while to look after," interposed Mr. Walley with a sneer; "and so you went away and you came back and you saw Gracie was heartsore about something, and you put it to her what was it—""And she said Pat and her had a bit of a tiff, and all was over betwixt them; that it was her fault, but that, even if he came back a king's son rolling in gold, she wouldn't have him.""We'd have seen about that," commented Mr. Walley grimly."Well, I hooted her, and said that boys and girls must have their tiffs; that the best kisses always followed on after a quarrel; that Pat and her would have a fine wedding when she got old enough to take the care of a house in hand—""Yes, I see; and after that?""She seemed to dwine away. The colour went out of her cheeks, and the flesh fell off her body, and she had a look in her eyes that hurt me, because I had seen the same before when my sister Jane was going in a decline. And at long and at last I could bear it no longer, and I went off to Calgarry to see Pat and bring him here.""And you found him gone?''—very categorically."And that he'd left neither tale nor tiding behind," continued Mrs. Walley, turning a piece of potato-cake on the girdle as she spoke. "It was Mr. Stirling I saw; so then I said, if I make so bold as to ask Mr. Conway maybe he'd know more.""What did Mr. Stirling tell you?""He said Mr. Conway was away; and if he wasn't he knew no more nor himself.""And then you heard that Mr. Conway had got home again, and Sweeney gave you a lift to Calgarry on his road to Kilmacrennan, and you 'lighted at the Old Lodge and walked down the Avenue, and knocked at the very hall door itself?""I did just that, Dan; for I thought I'd maybe stand a better chance of getting speech of the master. And I saw him setting at his breakfast—silver and china all about—as grand as grand could be; and he made believe to be very sorry for me, and wouldn't let me away till I had broken my fast; and he said he was sending to Dunfanaghy, and that I must go in the cart; and anybody might have made sure he was the kindest gentleman in all Donegal, and him the biggest cheat. But what's the use of going over all the story again. Sure I've told it to you before.""That makes no odds; a good story is none the worse for twice telling. And I am greatly interested in this one. Go on. If I remember me, as you came along Larry told you the whole genesis of Pat's leaving: of how in the morning he was light as a feather.""Ay, and in a few hours later heavier nor lead. How he went off to meet the car heartsome as a bridegroom, and how when he came back he had not as much as a word to throw to a dog; how he took off his good clothes and put on the old suit which was all he had when he came to Calgarry, and went with a big bundle, they guessed afterwards was his fine livery, into the house; and how he never set foot in the yard after. And Larry said none of them could make out the rights of what had happened, and for his part he was heart sorry he was gone, for he liked him well.""Now you're coming to what I want most to hear. When you got home you told Gracie all Larry said, and laid your command on her that she should let you know what they had quarrelled about?""Yes; and not a word, good nor bad, could I get out of her, though I dared her to hold her tongue, and threatened her with what you would do on her when you came back.""And after that she went to bed, and you heard her crying very soft, and sobbing till she fell off to sleep; and then you fell off too, and slept for a while; but between the lights you woke in a fright, and it came into your mind Terence Conway was more mixed up in the matter than Pat?""That's right. And as I lay watching the streaks of dawn in the sky I seemed to put it all together, and I got up and went into Grade's room and stood looking at her changed face till she opened her eyes, and I said sudden, 'My mind misgives me Mr. Conway has been here too often.' So he had! So he had!" And as she reached the climax Mrs. Walley's tears, hitherto restrained, began to fall, and she wept bitterly."There's more I want to know, but I can wait a bit; don't hurry yourself," remarked Mr. Walley with philosophical forbearance."I'll make a finish now. I'd rather," said the mother; and she wiped her eyes and choked back her sobs, and went on: "The child was fairly taken aback; she thought she had her secret too snug and safe for any one to suspect what she was keeping hidden, and in her fright she let out the whole murder. She was like one out of her mind; but I lay down beside her and took her in my arms—O! dear, a dear—and then when she could rightly speak I got her to tell me everything.""Now you're just at what I want most to hear. See if I've the right way of it all;" and Mr. Walley laid down his pipe beside him on the settle and turned so as to face his wife, while he said slowly, as if he were repeating a lesson: "On the Saturday before you came home from Donegal, Terence Conway rode over here and gave Grace to understand he so rode for the last time—that he had been to London and was going to be married soon; that he wanted to start fair. I don't mean," noticing Mrs. Walley made a gesture of dissent, "he put his notion into just such words, but the plain English or Irish of the matter was he didn't intend being bothered with Grace any longer. Tell me if I'm wrong as I go on," he added, with the satisfied manner of a man who never had been wrong from the time of his birth onwards."'Deed you're not wrong," returned his wife, in a tone of genuine admiration. Mr. Walley, at all events, was a prophet honoured among his own people. "His talk was maybe different, but that is what it came to.""Ay, though I only heard the story once, I thought I had got it pat enough," he answered complacently. As if any human being would be at all likely in the course of an hour or so to forget such a narrative! "And she let him go without any sort of objection, and went and sat on a bare rock beside the sea.""She did so. It was then she got the cough she had when you came back the first time. I wonder she did not catch her death sitting there till she was starved with the cold.""That was on the Saturday Swine's Gun went off," continued Mr. Walley, with a legal precision which originated probably in some memory of the stiff cross-examination out of which he had quite recently not come at all triumphantly."We heard it at Donegal," said his wife inconsequently."You might have heard it if you'd been at Derry; but that's neither here nor there. What I want is to fix the time, so that we mayn't forget it.""No fear of forgetting," said Mrs. Walley."I wouldn't say so much about that," answered her husband, in a tone of one meaning to suggest she might calmly leave her head on the roadside some morning if it were loose. "But, at any rate, it was on the Saturday Swine's Gun blew off, Terence Conway came over and parted her, and early on the next Monday Pat unlatches the door and walks in, and tells Grace the whole rigmarole about his master's goodness, and all the rest of it, and that he'd like his coachman to be married to Grace—devil a doubt of that!—and would let them have Mullan's house to live in, and lend a hand with the furnishing, and not let the young couple be beat for a pound or two.""You have got it complete, Dan; let yourself alone for laying a story out.""And he kept pressing Grace to name the day, but she wouldn't; and he asked her if she had changed to him, and she didn't speak; and he said, joking like, maybe she'd seen somebody she fancied more, and told her he'd be loth to go back to Mr. Conway and tell him he'd been to Goblin Bay on a fool's errand, and come back with a fool's answer; and he kept bothering her till Grace cried out Mr Conway was the last ought to have sent him on such a journey, for that he knew well enough she could be wife to no honest man—""Ay, and she spoke so calm, for she hadn't a tear left," continued Mrs. Walley, eager to have her turn at narrative, "that he couldn't make any meaning out of her at all, and asked, 'Wasn't she making a bit of diversion?'""And then she said," broke in Mr. Walley, taking up the running, "that it would be a queer sort of diversion for any girl to Jet on she wasn't fit to go into a decent house; that as Mr. Conway had bid him come, she'd tell him why he mustn't stay: that she wouldn't be the one to act the Judas by him; that she had given all her heart, before it broke, to his master, and that he'd best go back and tell him she'd deceive no man to save herself a hundred times.""And that if her father liked to kill her for what she had done he might," added Mrs. Walley, in order to fitly cap the sentence; "for she could but die once, and she'd nearly as soon be dead as alive.""After a while Pat left, very sore and sorrowful," pursued Mr. Walley, judiciously ignoring the last remark as irrelevant; "and now your part comes in. After you had talked for a long time with Gracie—till the sun was near his rising, indeed—you got up and put on your clothes, and, never waiting to break your fast with bite nor sup, started for Calgarry. When you knocked at the hall door, Bryne told you the master wasn't up, and bid you step inside; and you waited on the mat till Ann Patterson came and spoke to you, and asked, 'Wouldn't you sit down off your feet?' and you thanked her kindly, and said you'd rather stand; and she wanted you to go into the kitchen, and you made answer you'd like best to stay where you were.""I did that," agreed Mrs. Walley, in a tone which lent emphasis to the words her husband had just repeated.There might not have been much in the words, but there was a great deal in the manner."And Ann, after looking hard at you, offered to go and see if the master was stirring, and she went; and after a while she came back and said you were to go upstairs; and she opened the door of his dressing-room, no less, and you walked in and found yourself face to face with Mr. Terence Conway.Now, how did he begin?""He never began at all. Though you might have thought it would put me about finding myself in his very bedchamber almost, standing before him dressed in the splendidest robe you ever set eyes on—splendider than even a king wears, I am right sure—""Babbles, woman! how would you know what a king wears?""Well, at any rate, it was all red and gold, and tied round his middle with a silken cord and big tassels that might have answered a bell-rope hanging down in front, and everything in the room according; a big glass you could see the whole length of yourself in, and china dishes and silver-headed bottles set out on the table, and the very air scented. But, for all that, I was not a bit daunted, and said what I'd come to say right out—that there was no need to go beyond Calgarry to find the one we wanted; that Gracie had told me the whole of her trouble; that he alone could lift up her head bowed with shame; and I went down on my bended knees and prayed him to have mercy on her for the love of God.""I said before you were a fool," repeated Mr. Walley, in that spirit of candour which often renders family intercourse so agreeable."'Deed, and I'm much afraid I was," answered his wife, who could not deny her intercession had "done no manner of good.""Women have no knowledge of any sort," said Mr. Walley with dispassionate criticism, stating what he obviously believed to be a well-known fact, "and that's the reason they always do more harm nor good when they get to meddling. But go on with your story.""There's not much more of it. Mr. Conway was very civil, and as good as said he was sorry; but as to marriage, he did not seem willing to hear of it. He offered to provide for the girl, and wanted to buy me with money; but I wouldn't take it. I told him we weren't beggars; that we asked nothing but justice; that if he wouldn't hear me he'd have to hear you. And so at long and at last I came away and walked every step of the long road home, fasting from everything but sin and sorrow."Mr. Walley mechanically took up his pipe, but immediately laid it down again."What beats me," he observed at last, "is that he did not deny the whole thing.""He couldn't do that," observed his wife."Why couldn't he?""Because it would have been a lie," she answered."Tuts! what odds does that make?" retorted Mr. Walley with supreme contempt."He did not deny it, anyhow," she said; "he had not the face." Mr. Walley smiled grimly; probably he was thinking the owner of Calgarry could not be accounted a lesser fool than his own wife."Now do you know why I have made you go over the whole story again?" he asked after a pause."Because you misdoubted you had not just got the rights of the whole of it, I suppose," answered his wife innocently."Not at all—not at all. That only shows your ignorance. I made you go over it all again so as you could swear to it if need arise.""It's law he's thinking of, and not murder," thought Mrs. Walley, with a pardonable feeling of disappointment.Where she came from passions are more vehement, if not more dangerous, than in the colder North, and she had reasoned from her knowledge of what her father's first impulse, and probable act, would have been under similar circumstances. She knew Walley too well, however, to venture on any sentence of disapproval, and taking refuge in complimentary generalities, merely remarked,"It's you has the head, Dan. It's just wonderful how you can see your way where another would be groping, or, maybe, standing still."Mr. Walley did not deign to take the slightest notice of this compliment. He was so much accustomed to adulation in his home circle that his wife's remarks merely seemed to him as words of course."I'll be starting now," he said; and, suiting the action to the word, rose and began putting on his coat."Where are you going?" asked his wife in amazement."Never you mind," he answered."But you'll surely wait till you have had a cup of tea and some of the hot cake. It's been soaking the last quarter of an hour, and there is nothing to do but spread the butter.""I'll wait for nothing," returned Mr. Walley; "and you needn't be stopping up for me. I don't know how long I'll be away, or the day or the minute I may be back. And now mind what I'm saying to you—keep a quiet tongue in your head, or it'll be worse for you, and try not to do more harm than you have done."It was not a very ardent leave-taking; yet to have seen Mrs. Walley go out, with a shawl over her head, and help Mr. Walley draw forth the old gig and harness the horse and hand him a worn piece of tarpaulin, which did duty for a rug, and hold the rickety gate open for him while he passed forth, and stand watching the crazy vehicle as it rocked its way from side to side out of sight, any one might have supposed the most affectionate husband in Donegal was leaving a home of which he constituted the delight.CHAPTER XXXVII.MR. WALLEY GOES TO HIS LAWYER.THE Love of Law and Earth Hunger run in Ireland a neck-and-neck race for the goal of Ruin. It would be impossible to say that one ever really outstrips the other, because after an Irishman has spent his last penny in law to gain a few acres of land, he will mortgage those acres up to the hilt in order to indulge in the pleasure of going to law again.In the favoured isle—which for some hitherto unexplained reason is accounted specially blessed by God—there are few misfortunes a ''good suit" cannot assuage. To most it is as satisfying as meat, as stimulating as drink, as comforting as fire, more consoling than religion, while very often it is nearer than a wife and dearer than many children.It is an interest, an excitement, an object, a speculation, an employment, all rolled into one.Like virtue, it brings its own reward; the happy possessor of a "case" has a joy the world wots not of; while he who is fortunate enough to have obtained a "favourable opinion" cherishes it as a miser does his gold.The Love of Law is indigenous to the moral nature of Irishmen as shamrock is to the soil. If Ulster, Munster, Leinster, and Connaught agree in nothing else—and it has never been said that they do—they agree in their affection for the "Courts." That affection, far more than laziness, or climate, or politics, or even religion, is the curse of the country. It is the opium, the absinthe, the champagne of Ireland; against it common sense and legislation battle in vain. It is the Monte Carlo, the Derby, the Stock Exchange of Erin, and till that pernicious weed can be dug up and burnt, and its roots destroyed, there can be no peace for England.It has caused more feuds than Green and Orange—more poverty than the potato blight—more ruin than perpetually recurring rebellion. It needs to be stamped out like the rinderpest—to be trampled down by the march of civilisation, which does not seem even to try to take Ireland on its road anywhere.Around this passion for law there springs a class of amateur lawyer, which bears the same resemblance to a respectable family solicitor that quack doctors do to those gentlemen who, having passed through The College ordeal, may eventually aspire to to be Physicians to her Majesty.Each country-side used to possess one at least of these pests—cunning, idle, ignorant, unscrupulous; wise enough to perceive a "point," and sufficiently tenacious to stick to it; with no grasp of mind to take in the whole of a case, but gifted with that order of sight which can see clearly things not worth considering, but fails utterly to perceive matters of the greatest importance. Hanging about the courts, they pick up enough legal jargon to pass for "knowledgeable" men, and by appealing to their neighbours' pugnacity, they contrive to keep alive a strife which rarely finishes till the grave closes over one of the combatants.Had circumstances not made Mr. Walley a horsedealer, he would have been this sort of hedge-lawyer. His was the kind of cleverness which has no deeper root than a conscience devoid of all scruple; and as his good roan mare left mile after mile behind at a long swinging trot, he amused himself by considering all the ins and outs of Mr. Conway's transgression, where "he would have him," how he could make him smart, and how he (Walley) might make himself a man for life if he only worked things the right way.Nature, he believed, after she fashioned him, broke the mould. No doubt she understands her own business best; but, unfortunately, this was not the case. For some occult reason Nature is found of repeating undesirable patterns; and Mr. Walley, spite his opinion to the contrary, did not at all exhaust her manufactured stock of shrewd self-conceited rogues.Night had fallen before the dealer arrived at his destination—a small town, containing a fair hotel, where he thought Corrigan might be heard of. He knew the landlord, and, leaving his mare in charge of a lad, he walked straight up to the bar, and after passing the "time of day" all round, asked confidently, "Is Pat about?"—not in the least expecting Pat was, but merely to learn if they knew anything of his where-abouts."He has taken a gentleman to Rathmelton," was the unexpected answer; "but he'll not be long away—he is a good one for not letting any grass grow under his feet.""You may say that," returned Mr. Walley in cordial approval. "From the time he was a lad he never stayed his errands.""Won't you take a seat?" asked the landlord. "A glass of whisky did you want?""If not troubling you too much.""With water?""No, thank you; water is too strong for me." After which witticism Mr. Walley tossed off his liquor, and then remarked "That is good stuff.""It is," was the reply. "You'd best sit down and rest yourself till Pat comes in.""I've further to go," answered Mr. Walley, "so I'll call as I come back, and take my chance. As I was so near, I thought I would like a word with him.""He wants somebody to speak a word to him," said the landlady, striking in, "for never was any one so changed. I am fairly sorry to see him. He goes about as if he'd no heart. What has come to him, Mr. Walley?—and why did he leave the good place where he thought he was a made man?""I haven't seen him since," was the cautious answer; "maybe if he is back before I've done my business, you'll tell him I'll look in again." And having received an assurance that his message should be delivered, Mr. Walley went out of the inn, gave the boy who was holding his horse a halfpenny, got into the gig, gathered up the reins, and set off at a trot—only to stop a minute or two afterwards before a low sort of public-house, where the accommodation was likely to suit his means and tastes much better than the inn he had just left.There he gave the mare into the care of a shock-headed ostler, whom he charged to feed and bed her down properly, and set out to walk along the Rathmelton Road to meet Pat.He had not to walk far. Ere he had got a quarter of a mile out of the town, he heard a horse and car advancing towards him, and a voice he knew exclaiming, "Ga up!" "Get along wid you, do!" "Ah, you lazy thief, I'd be as soon driving an old cow as yourself."The voice belonged to Pat, but all life had left it. Mr. Walley did not stop or accost him, but permitted car and driver to pass unnoticed; then he "turned on his step," and slowly retraced the way he had come."I need not hurry myself," he reflected; "he'll not be expecting me yet"He was right. Pat, who had received the message, did not expect Mr. Walley back for an hour or two, and considered he would have ample time to clean down his horse and get out of the way before Grace's father, having finished what-ever business brought him to that part of the world, again appeared.Mr. Walley did not go into the stable; he lounged about the gateway, exchanging remarks with idlers and passersby, till Pat appeared, when he stepped under the lamp, and said, "I'm in the nick of time, it seems; you're the very man I was wanting."Pat stopped and looked at him. By the light which flared above their heads Walley could see the change a few weeks had wrought in the once brisk and handsome young fellow. His face was wan and haggard, and his appearance careless and shabby. A handkerchief was knotted about his neck, and he wore an old coat patched in many places with different coloured cloth. A contrast indeed from the spruce trim man the Calgarry livery had "set off" so well."What do you want with me?" he asked."Some talk," was the answer. "Where can we go to be quiet?""The street is quiet enough for all you can have to say to me.""That is just what it is not," retorted Mr. Walley, "and I misdoubt me Ned McQuitty's, where I shall put up to-night, won't be much better. Come on the bridge; there won't be many to disturb us there."They went on the bridge that spanned a narrow stream, and over which one road out of the town led. It was lonely enough, and the stars shone coldly down on the swift little river, hurrying away beneath the three arches that spanned it.Mr. Walley seated himself on the rude stone parapet, and motioned Corrigan to follow his example; but the younger man took no notice of his gesture, and stood waiting for what was to come."You know what brought me here, I suppose?" began the horse-dealer."How can I know till you tell me?" replied Pat."I want to speak to you about Grace.""what have you got to say about her?""A good lot, if you'll listen to me.""O, I'll listen, if that's any good.""It is no secret to me what has parted you.""Well?""Man! you fairly doated on her once."Pat shifted his position, but remained silent."Didn't you, now?" asked Mr. Walley insinuatingly."That can make no odds," answered Pat hoarsely."It makes all the odds," returned the other. "Ones a man loves a girl it is hard to forget her.""Who says I forget her?""And if you don't forget it comes natural to forgive.""I forgive Grace as I hope to be forgiven," was the answer."Then the rest is easy; you'll mind how young she is and how soft, and you'll overlook the mistake she made, and come home with me in the morning, and all will be the same as ever it was.""Do you know what you are talking about?""Troth, do I! Grace, that you've liked all your life, and were promised to—""Yes, and she was promised to me, and what has been the upshot?""Tuts, Pat, you mustn't be hard on her; after all, what is she but a child?""That is where we were wrong, every one of us. She is no child—she's far from that; still, child or woman," and his voice softened to a tone of inexpressible tenderness, "I wouldn't be hard on Grace.""That's what I mean—that's just what I wanted to come at," said Grace's father eagerly. "You'd like to put everything straight for my girl.""Ay, that I would if I could.""You can, you know. You'd have had time to get over the first smart, and not a living creature but ourselves and the one man knows, or need ever know, anything about what's gone wrong. Let bygones be bygones, Pat; Gracie 'll make none the worse wife because the man that loved her was too generous to cast up that she had gone astray."There was a pause, during which Mr. Walley could hear the stream below fretting over the stones, while to Corrigan the sound was lost, because of the noisier torrent sweeping through his own heart.Till he could speak calmly he did rot want to speak at all. He was thinking how to answer best, how to explain what he meant, and not arouse fully the demon he knew lurked unchained in Walley's nature.Perhaps, altogether, his silence did not last a minute, but it seemed to the other man endless."Maybe I'm not right," began Pat at last; "but it seems as if you wanted me to marry Gracie.""Not at all," returned Mr. Walley, too wise to be trapped into such an admission; "I only thought, spite of all that's come and gone, you would like to marry her."Pat swallowed something in his throat bigger than Adam's apple."I'd have liked well to do that once," he answered; "but that's past and done with, and my heart is as empty of all save grief as last year's nests of birds. It is best for me to be plain with you. I'll never take a wife now; I'll live and die a bachelor.""You'd be foolish to do that," said Mr. Walley, "and you'd best think twice before refusing Grace, for she'll bring a fine fortune to you.""I never had fortune much in my mind when I first set my heart on her; and it's not for poverty I'd refuse or for riches I'd take her now. No, if she came to me this minute with a hundred pounds in her hand I wouldn't put out mine for it—I couldn't. Do you think I would marry a wife and have the thought of another man always standing between us? I'd never cast up what she's done to my poor girl; but it is not in me to forget. We're two now, and my last word is, we must stay two. I am heart-sorry—still, I can't say different.""You'll be sorrier when it is too late to say different;" and Mr. Walley paused for a reply, which did not come."Just now you mentioned a hundred pounds," he went on, "as if you considered that a heap of money.""So I do; why wouldn't I?" asked Pat, who had never owned ten."But five hundred is more.""That is very sure.""And Gracie might be worth as much as that to you.""I am glad to hear you are so rich.""I never said I was rich, but if you were wise you might be.""How might I?""Why, do you think it is five hundred pounds the man we know about would grudge to see her safely married?""You don't mean it's in your mind to take money from him?""What would hinder me? There is only one way you can make people like them suffer, and that's in their pocket; and Conway's purse shall smart for the evil he has wrought, or my name's not Daniel Walley.""I'll have neither part nor lot in the matter. I've spoken my last word, as I told you. If that was all you had to say, I wish you had left it unsaid.""Indeed, and I might just as well; but though you threw yourself out of a good place, where you could live like a fighting cock, and dress equal to any prince of the blood, and sleep soft and earn good money, I never deemed but you had some glimmering of sense left. Look at what you were and look at what you are. Well may the remark be made that you are a changed man when you'll wear a coat like that on your back, and go about as if you were a beggar—you that were a credit to look at.""It's not for you, at any rate, to cast up what coat I put on my back. I've wages to buy a coat as good as your own; but I'm saving my money till I've enough to go to America, or some other place where I'm not likely to meet man, woman, or child I have been acquainted with in Ireland.""If that is what you want, you'd best go out of this world at once; the journey will cost you nothing, and when a man has neither sense nor wit it is little use he's here. It's well seen you're no kin to me.""You're right there," answered the younger man. "Well, I'll be going," he added. "Good-night to you.""Mr. Walley did not answer. He felt far too angry. He had counted on Pat as an important factor in the scheme he contemplated; and now he would have to carry it through alone. The horse-dealer was in a most evil frame of mind as he sat alone on the bridge, listening to the sound of Pat's retreating footsteps."I'll take Calgarry on the road home, anyhow," he said to himself; and then he got up from his hard seat, and after one last look at the stream hurrying away under the starlight, turned his face in the direction of Ned McQuitty's public-house, where it was stated on the signboard "entertainment" could be had "for man and beast."Before sunrise next morning he was driving along the interminable Donegal roads to Calgarry, where the owner was not."I'm vexed not to see Mr. Con way," he said to Mr. Stirling, "for I've a horse here would suit him well.""I don't think he needs any more horses; but, at any rate, he is not at home.""When will he be back?""That I don't know.""Is he in Dublin?""I'm sure I can't say.""He has not gone to get married?""What the devil business is that of yours?" was the reply which rose to Mr. Stirling's lips; but there was something so peculiar in Walley's tone that he bit back the words ere they escaped, and substituted, "Not so far as I am aware.""When you are writing to him you might tell him about the horse.""You had better tell him yourself when he returns.""Maybe it would be best. I know you are the reverse of friendly to me, sir.""I would rather have nothing to do with any of your bargains, if that is what you mean.""Yes, that is about what I do mean; but you are wrong, Mr. Stirling. There is a horse would be cheap at any money; he has not a fault but his colour.""I do not dislike roan myself," said the agent."Ah! but the English do, and that is why I want to sell him here. If that horse was a good bay with black legs, now, I could get—indeed, I don't know what I couldn't get for him.""It is a bad job he is not bay," observed Mr. Stirling politely."It'll be a good job for the one that gets him, though," returned Mr. Walley.The agent said no more, though he mentally determined Terence should not be that "one" if he could prevent it."I'll bring him round when I think the master is back," promised Walley ere he left, which he did believing Terence had stolen a march on him, and marvelling how he should outgeneral that unlucky young man.If he had known Mr. Conway's thoughts, he could not have guessed much nearer the mark than was the case. Immediately after Mrs. Walley's last visit Terence started for London on what could but be regarded as the forlorn hope of persuading Philippa to abandon her visit to Mostrene, and fix an earlier day for the marriage.He might as well have addressed his petition to the wind."How can you be so preposterous?" asked Miss Dutton; "after all dear Mrs. Boyne's kindness, how could I be so ungrateful as to refuse to go with her to Donegal? And as for hurrying on the marriage, I could not if I would, and I certainly would not if I could. Do be more reasonable, Terence. As it is, Sir Henry thinks he will have quite a scramble to get everything ready by the date named."After which gentle rap over the knuckles, Terence, of course, could do nothing save wish that the marriage-day were come and gone, and pray no little bird of the air might carry to his queen's chamber a hint of his pretty doings at Goblin Bay.He thought he could manage Mr. Walley: he was prepared to pay a long price for any screw or screws that astute individual chose to sell him. As usual, he was very short of money, and his agent, owing to the many drains on his resources, chanced to be in like case. Still, Terence believed he could scrape together sufficient to keep Grace's father quiet. His own intentions were so excellent, he felt sure Walley would believe in his good faith, and not drive too hard a bargain. He meant fully also to make some sufficient and separate pecuniary arrangement so as to secure Grace from want: but about these matters there was no hurry. He could pay a small sum down, and the remainder might well stand over till after his marriage.His marriage! There seemed a strange unreality about the phrase; and yet it was true. The day was fixed, the guests were bidden, the wedding garments ordered, the clergymen, from the highest to the lowest bespoke, the desire of his life was about to be fulfilled, and nothing remained to do but make terms with Walley."That will be quite easy," he decided, after reading Mr. Stirling's letter, which said the dealer had brought a roan horse over for him to look at."A good-looking thing enough," went on the agent, "but I told him you had plenty of horses."Terence felt it would be almost a comfort to have to do with so wise and practical a person as Grace's father after his previous experiences.What might have been the result had he stayed at home, and met Mr. Walley before that individual's ideas had time fully to develop, it is hard to say; but as during the whole period of Mr. Con way's absence the horsedealer's notion of what was "due to him" went on growing as rapidly as Jack's bean-stalk, that interview which both had hoped would prove decisive terminated very badly."Not a farthing less," said Mr. Walley: "I'll not bate one penny.""Then it is of no use our talking any more," answered Terence; "for even had I the will I have not the means to give you what you ask.""And you going to marry thousands upon thousands!" retorted the other."Those thousands are not mine, and never will be mine," said Mr. Conway. "But let that pass; it has nothing to do with the matter. I have offered to provide for your daughter handsomely. I can do no more.""We'll see about that," answered Mr. Walley."What under Heaven do you mean?""We'll see if the law can't better matters for poor people wronged as we have been.""I know nothing about law," said Terence; and, indeed, in such a connection he did know nothing about that universal friend and foe; "but I cannot believe it will do much more for you than I am ready to do of my own accord.""That remains to be seen," replied Mr. Walley. "I'll just put to you what has happened. I'm made the talk of the country-side—at any rate, I will be. My daughter has lost a husband, who would have kept her well for life. I have lost her services. What do you make of all that?""I think, supposing always money can meet the case, that what I am willing to pay would more than cover anything you mention.""You do, do you?""Yes; and however that may be, I can pay no more." I am a man heavily burdened, as you are aware.""If you are, it's by what you spent on yourself, as all the world knows, and, burdened or not, you can get everything you need or desire. To pleasure your own fancy, you took from me what was more than houses or lands, and now you shall pay for it. I'll take the law of you, and we'll see what twelve honest men will assess my loss at.""You must do as you please," answered Terence, goaded beyond endurance."I will, and you can't prevent me," retorted Grace's father. "Now, Jet one telling serve for all. I am not going to come trailing over here again. You know my terms; and if I don't get word from you by this time to-morrow, I'll put the whole thing into a lawyer's hands.""Very well," said Terence."You'll find it anything but well if you drive me into law," declared Walley; with which threat he departed, leaving Mr. Conway to consider the position at his leisure."Let him consult a lawyer," he thought with the desperation of despair. "If he does, I must consult one too, and then—"He did not finish his sentence, but his idea was, "then it will go hard but we shall be able to put the matter off until after my marriage."It had come to that. If he could only put any publicity off till Philippa and he were one—only defer the evil day even for a few weeks—only gain sufficient time to get out of Ireland till the affair blew over! Besides, perhaps a solicitor could arrange to keep the business quiet. After all, principals were not the best people in the world to settle their differences. Upon the whole, Mr. Conway felt it a relief to know outside aid was to be invoked."He had done all he could to prevent such a necessity; and there comes a time when, for very weariness, a man is thankful to feel he is no longer responsible, that he is forced to ship his oars and float with the stream.Next day he sent no message to Walley. Neither did he remain at home to receive that individual in case he elected to pay him another visit. Instead, saying nothing to any one concerning where he was going, he rode up to Mostrene Castle, at which place Miss Dutton had arrived.When no "word," good, bad, or indifferent, reached Goblin Bay, the horse-dealer began to feel he was "being trifled with,"—to use a phrase very often in the mouths of irate creditors who want their money and cannot get it.In effect he conceived he was being trifled with so much that next morning he rose at what he called streak of day, in order to " take the mail-car for Letterkenny, where a lawyer he knew well resided. Nursing his wrath, he thought over his grievances till he could hardly contain himself, and it was in the worst of tempers he entered Mr. Morson's offices."What is wrong, Mr. Walley?" asked that gentleman cheerily. "Nothing very bad, I hope.""It's bad enough," answered Mr. Walley; and then he told his story."Conway of Calgarry, eh!" exclaimed Mr. Morson. I am sorry to hear this of him. Won't he do anything for the girl? I should have thought such a matter might have been easily arranged. Have you seen him?""I have that.""And does he make no proposal?""O, yes he made a sort of one.""What sort of one?"Mr. Morson was a person who asked plain questions and expected plain answers; therefore Walley replied with but little circumlocution, winding up by saying, "That was his offer, if ever you heard the like.""He meant it, I suppose?""He meant it right enough.""Then why didn't you take it?""Just because it's nothing near what I'm looking for.""Perhaps you expect him to buy you an estate?"Mr. Walley did not exactly expect Mr. Conway to buy him an estate, yet Mr. Morson had made a very shrewd shot at his notion."Why, man, you must be mad," went on the lawyer; "you should have closed with his offer at once.""What would I do that for when I am wanting about ten times as much?"Mr. Morson smiled and shook his head so significantly that Walley said,"I don't think, sir, you rightly understand all my girl has lost.""O, yes, I do; but these things never run into so many figures. No jury would give her more than Mr. Conway has offered, even for breach of promise.""Then I am not to get justice?""That depends on what you consider justice.""I only want my due.""But you are all wrong about the amount of your due.""I don't believe I am," retorted Mr. Walley doggedly."My good fellow, your belief won't affect the matter in the least. I don't wish to speak offensively, but I am forced to say that if you imagine you are going to make your fortune out of your daughter's misfortune, you are confoundedly mistaken. Mr. Conway's offer is a most liberal one; you can't do better than take it.""I'll have the law of him if it costs me the last shilling I have.""When your last shilling is gone you will find you had much better have kept clear of law. Judges and jurors have a way of looking at affairs of this kind from a very prosaic point of view. Mr. Conway has done your daughter a very great wrong, but he offers a very handsome reparation.""That is your notion, maybe.""I don't see how any unprejudiced person could have any other. Let your girl be what she may; she is not free from blame; and no one will believe you are either. You or her mother ought to have looked after her, Mr. Walley. Young gentlemen do not go to houses like yours for love of the parents, especially when the parents chance to have pretty daughters. My advice is, accept what Mr. Conway is ready to give without delay; once he is married he won't be so willing to repeat such an offer. He can only have made it because he wants to keep the matter quiet, and there won't exist such a necessity to keep it quiet after a few weeks.""That is the very reason he ought to be made to smart now.""That is the very reason you should take what he offers. You will never get such terms again.""I'll never believe but what twelve honest men could be found to get me justice.""You will never find twelve honest men to believe what you want is justice," retorted Mr. Morson. "Don't be an ass, Walley; take what you can get while you can, or some of these days you will be mourning over a lost chance.""I never deemed you were one of that sort, sir," said the horse-dealer reproachfully."One of what sort?""It never crossed my mind you would turn against a poor man and take the part of a rich villain.""Pooh!" returned Mr. Morson. "I tell you what the whole thing comes to, Walley: in plain words, you thought your Calgarry lottery ticket was value for a big fortune, and now that you find it is not you are angry.""Well, at any rate, I'm thinking the Calgarry ticket is worth powder and shot, come now, Mr. Morson.""It is not; it is not worth spending sixpence on—you may take my word for that."CHAPTER XXXVIII.THE STORM BURSTS.THE lock that a golden key fails to open must be stiff indeed; and though he could not be persuaded his own idea was wrong, Walley left Mr. Morson's offices in the vilest of humours and the most depressed of moods. He did not know what to do. It oftentimes seems an easier matter to give up a wide estate than a great hope. There are boundaries and fixed fences to the one, but there seem no limits to the other. Since he understood Conway of Calgarry was "under his thumb," Mr. Walley had practically regarded himself as an "estated gentleman:" not that he wanted to be one precisely, but he thought he had but to ask and to have, without stint or trouble. He did not see his way. True, lawyers were not scarce in Donegal, and the adjacent counties swarmed with them; but unless he could select his man in Belfast or Dublin, Walley felt some misgivings that they would be all in one story. Mr. Morson's temper had been so much exercised by his would-be client's persistence, that he was provoked ere the interview terminated into saying, "There is not a girl in any rank of life worth the price you set on your daughter," after which statement a very stormy five minutes ensued.The truth was, Mr. Walley did not settle the amount of his own damages so much on the worth of his daughter as what he called the "desperateness" of young Conway's fix; and he was quite wise enough to know there must come a time when that "desperateness" would not be so great. If he failed to make his hay now, he could never hope to save such another crop; but he did not see how to make it unless he could get some one on his side.Wild ideas of taking Mr. Malet into confidence occurred to him; but he had never got on well with the Vicar. Then he thought of Sir Henry Beecham, and had almost decided to go to London in quest of that great General, when the mail-car on which himself and his fortunes were jolting back to Dunfanaghy was hailed by old Mr. McKye, who, greeting the horse-dealer with a sort of tempered familiarity, climbed up and took a seat beside him.Mr. McKye, always ready to talk and to hear, spoke of the weather and the crops, and politics, and local news, till, finding Walley remained unusually silent, he asked:"You do not seem just yourself to-day. Aren't you very well?""I am well enough in health," answered Walley, "but I've a bit of bother I don't just see my way through.""That is bad; maybe a door will open for you.""I don't care how soon one does, then," was the reply, spoken in such a tone that conversation became difficult.They had passed the road leading to Mostrene, and were jogging steadily on, when a private jaunting-car met and flashed by them. It was a beautifully-appointed vehicle, as different from cars which ply for hire as an ordinary conveyance which delivers the family joint is from the dashing dog-cart, with trim groom seated behind, that whirls along English roads.A horse three-parts bred, with a noble stride, a coat like silk, plated harness that shone in the spring sunshine; a servant in the Mostrene livery—blue and silver, chocolate-coloured cushions; the Mostrene crest painted on the back; two ladies, one on each side, leaning across the well talking to each other; altogether a pleasant sight on that lonely country road. Every passenger on the mail-car lifted or touched his hat at the same moment, as if moved by one common impulse, and Mr. McKye's wrinkled old face literally beamed with smiles."That is the sort of thing I like to see," he said to his fellow-traveller. "It is a pity we haven't such gentry oftener among us. This'll be the last time, I suppose, we'll have Miss Dutton here. When she conies next—""Was that Miss Dutton?" interrupted Walley. "I did not see her face.""She was the one, on the near side, with her back to us," explained Mr. McKye. "It will be a proud day for Calgarry when she comes home as its mistress.""When is she to be married?" asked Walley."In a month's time; then they go travelling abroad. But we'll have them here before the fine weather is over.""And she really has the heap of money they say?""A quarter of a million, or thereabouts. I know it on the best authority," stated Mr. McKye, after the manner of one who could not err."Dear-a-dear! And how much do you suppose that brings her in a year?""Twelve thousand pounds, at any rate.""Every year of her life?""It seems a great deal, doesn't it?" answered Mr. McKye tolerantly."Indeed it does so—a terrible heap of money," answered the horse-dealer. "What would that give her each day?""Each twenty-four hours, I suppose you mean?" answered the other, falling in with Walley's humour, which, indeed, just suited him; "let me see." And he pulled out a piece of paper and began doing his little sum."She has thirty-two pounds twelve shillings, as near as possible, to put in her pocket every morning she rises," said Mr. McKye at last, rolling his words out with great gusto."Lord be between us and harm!" exclaimed Mr. Walley; "it's sinful, that's what it is. Many a man hasn't as much as thirty-two pounds twelve in a whole year.""Many a man has not half as much," answered Mr. McKye."It's not right—it can't be right," said the horse-dealer, who, like many other persons, was a Socialist as regarded the possessions of his neighbour, and a strict Conservative where his own belongings were concerned."If either of us found thirty odd pounds lying on the pillow every morning, I have a notion it would seem the rightest thing that ever was," returned Mr. McKye, who had more than a suspicion of Walley's little peculiarity."That might make a difference." And there came a pause, which Grace's father ended by remarking:"What gets over me fairly is why a woman with such a dreadful heap of money marries young Conway.""She would have to travel a long way before she would find his like.""But if she is that rich she might have her pick and choice among the first in the land.""And where else is Conway of Calgarry?" demanded Mr. McKye in a tone of surprised rebuke.Even nowadays there are some persons who prefer old blood to new gold, and when the century was middle-aged the sentiment which believed more in family than in money was stronger still."I see you don't just understand me," said Walley with clever readiness, putting his companion in the wrong; "but it's of no consequence. I suppose the young lady's heart s set on the marriage.""There can be no doubt of that.""It's a wonder she didn't step in and pay his debts last year.""She would if her guardian had only let her," said Mr. McKye, eagerly anxious, by means of superior information, to regain the position he had lost. "I heard she prayed and beseeched him to give all her money, if need be, to Mr. Conway, but he made answer, 'I must guard your fortune for you and your children.'""Maybe he was in the right," remarked Walley; "but still, I suppose if Mr. Conway ever wanted a few thousands he'd only need to ask and have.""I should say he wouldn't need to ask—she'll be pressing money on him; but, please God, he may have enough of his own. Though I can't say I feel quite easy about Mr. Stirling's goings-on, still the estate is improving.""So they say.""And the agent is finding the people a lot of employment.""He's paying a heap of wages.""Well, well, we must hope for the best; and, at any rate, in a month's time there'll be no call to fret over sixpences at Calgarry.""I'm thinking, then, the wedding will be here after all. Have you heard who's to tie the knot?""No; somebody in London, where they are to be married. Miss Dutton is only among us now on a flying visit: here today, and gone to-morrow. When she comes next it'll be for longer. But I must get down now. Hi, Charley! hold hard! Good-bye t'ye all!"—and a moment after Mr. McKye was left a solitary speck on the lonely road."I'm not for anything to eat," said Mr. Walley when he returned to his house about an hour later; "but I want you and Grace to come with me for a bit of a drive. Put on your things now as quick as you can, and I'll shove the horse in the shafts, and be ready before you are. Come to me in the stable for a minute when you have your bonnet tied; I've a word to say I don't want Gracie to hear."Never Eastern potentate ruled more autocratically over his subjects than did Mr. Walley over the members of his household. With them to hear was to obey. Mrs. Walley would no more have dared to refuse compliance with her husband's commands than a criminal, bound and helpless, would try to escape from the executioner. He had one simple code, "You'll just do as I bid ye," which, enforced with the blows Mr. Walley had not the slightest hesitation in dealing, proved as stringent as all the laws treated of in Blackstone."But how'll we ever get speech with the lady at all?'' asked Mrs. Walley. "Mostrene's not like Calgarry. I've heard tell of Mrs. Boyne sending even quality away without sight of her when she was not in the humour for talking.""Leave that to me," returned her husband. "There is no call for you to do anything but tell Miss Dutton how affairs are, and how we feel loth to bring Mr. Conway to open shame; but, though we are willing to keep a still tongue even while our hearts are hot and sore, we ask for some sort of justice. We can't give up our farm and our living, and go away vagabonds over the earth, unless we've money to make a home elsewhere. We wish to hide our heads in a strange land, and what would we do in any place unless we'd means to keep us?""But, Daniel dear, what would we ever do in a strange land?""Need we go unless we like, no matter what we tell her?" retorted Walley savagely. "Do what you're bid, and no fault'll be found with you. Tell her how Grace is the only child you ever had, how you're fairly broken down with grief, and then, if you need me to explain what we're willing to take to keep matters quiet, I'll be outside. Now, don't make any bungling—mind, I've warned you."The soft spring day was drawing to its close as the good roan trotted under gloomy Muckish, and so round to the height on which Mostrene Castle stood, conspicuous from all points and commanding some of the finest views in Donegal."Man alive!" murmured Mrs. Walley, as she looked up at tower and pinnacle, lines of windows, and the floating flag, which denoted "the family" was at home."What ails you now?" asked her husband, giving the roan a flick."Nothing, nothing—only it's terrible grand.""Here, take the reins a minute," said Mr. Walley, passing over this statement with supreme contempt, "and I'll go up to the house."They watched him walking away towards the back gates till he disappeared from view. Then Grace caught her mother's arm, and exclaimed,"What are we doing here?""No harm, girl," answered Mrs. Walley, though she was trembling with apprehension. "Your father wants to ask the lady a favour, that's all.""I wonder will he be long; it's dreadful cold sitting here," said Grace, shivering."Wrap a piece of my shawl round you," urged Mrs. Walley, suiting the action to the word; and so they sat, the girl huddling under the shawl, with her face resting on her mother's breast, till the horse-dealer returned, and remarking, " It'll be all right; you'd best get down here," disturbed them."Sure, there's no need for me to stir?" said Grace imploringly."Ye'd best go with your mother. Ye'll never, maybe, have the chance again of seeing as fine a house," answered Walley, lifting her out; and next moment both the women were passing along a shrubbery walk, escorted by a servant in livery.At the end of the walk they reached a glass door, which their guide pushed open and invited them to enter. Then he showed them into a small waiting-room, where saying, "Miss Dickson will be with you in a moment," he finally disappeared.Miss Dickson was Miss Dutton's own maid; but when she entered, dressed in black silk, wearing a lace collar and lace sleeves, a fine silver chain round her neck, a bow of pale pink ribbon at her throat, and carrying herself like one having authority, Mrs. Walley curtsied low, as though in the presence of Mrs. Boyne herself, and poor dazed Gracie followed her example.To look at her certainly no one could have imagined she had been engaged half an hour previously in a fierce discussion with the Mostrene butler on the vexed question of beer; yet it was greatly owing to the wild Irish notions held by that functionary as to women drinking malt liquors at all, which brought about the interview Mr. Walley desired.Great effects spring, we know, from little causes; and had Miss Dickson, mourning over the absence of her national beverage on draught inadequately replaced by Guinness's stout in diminutive bottles, not been told by a functionary, enraged by the lady's strictures on his country, that in Donegal a woman "wouldn't be thought just the thing who could drink two glasses to her dinner," Mr. Walley probably must have sought to compass his wishes by some far different method than that of an interview with Miss Dutton.As matters were, in response to Mrs. Walley's obeisance, the maid remarked, with lofty condescension, "if you come this way my mistress will see you."She took them up a back staircase, and then through two short passages which brought the party into a wide corridor, where their feet fell noiselessly upon carpets deep and soft as moss.Many doors opened off this corridor, at one of which the maid stopped and knocked."Come in," said a clear low voice; and next minute Grace was looking with dazzled eyes on the vision of a beautiful woman in evening dress.The room was warm and comfortable, a wood fire burned on the hearth, wax candles threw a soft light on rich curtains and easy-chairs, and tables on which lay books, and walls covered by a delicate paper that showed up to the fullest advantage the water-colour drawings in deep gold frames.A subtly exquisite scent pervaded the apartment; an open piano stood in one of the recesses beside the fire, and, seated at the other side, with a fan to screen her face from the blaze, sat a lady who, to Mrs. Walley's fancy, seemed nothing less than "a heavenly angel."The angel gazed kindly at the new-comers."Good evening," she began, in low trained tones. "What can I do for you?"The sweetness of this reception took Mrs. Walley fairly aback. The perfume, the luxury, the grandeur almost deprived her of the power of speech. Nevertheless, she did manage to get out, "O, your lady's ladyship's too good to me! You could do a heap for us, only—""Do not be afraid of speaking to me," entreated Philippa gently. "I will help you if it is in my power. Tell me all your trouble.""I don't know what to say," cried poor Mrs. Walley, wringing her hands; but then, as a thought of her husband standing out in the dusk waiting for the return of his ambassadress occurred to her, she added, almost in desparation, "My lady, may I speak a word to you your lone?"Philippa was in more than a gracious mood. She felt like a queen on her throne listening to the petition of her subject."Wait in the next room, Dickson," she said to that excellent young person. "I will call if I require you." And as she thus dismissed her maid, Mrs. Walley noticed jewels glistening on her white neck and sparkling amid the lace across her bosom, and glinting on her round beautiful arms. Perhaps the sight of so much wealth gave her courage; at all events, as the inner door closed behind Miss Dickson, she began:"It's just this, your ladyship. We are in sore trouble, and you are the only one—" She paused as if the words choked her, and then added, "I don't know how to go on.""My poor woman, take courage. What is your trouble? Have you got into difficulties with your landlord, or—"At that point Grace made a noiseless backward movement, which caused Mrs. Walley to catch her hand and hold it fast."You'll have to stay, my girl," she said, with a curious wail; "there is no help for either of us. We must go through with it to the end. You guess now what our trouble is, my lady, don't you? It is our Gracie—the only child we ever had, we who have always lived honest and hardworking and respected, and in debt to no man; all we want is justice; for it is hard, hard on decent people to stand up against the shame has come on us.""Has your daughter, then—" Philippa hesitated."A better one never drew breath," said Mrs. Walley, "till she was led astray. Look at her, your ladyship. Lift up your head, my darling, and show the face, so changed now, that once was bright as the morning."But her darling turned that face—bright no longer—from Miss Button's observation, and, plucking the elder woman's dress, whispered,"Come away, mother, come away.""No, my darling, I can't do that," returned Mrs. Walley. "I am here to do your father's bidding, and I dursn't stir till I've done it. Don't cry, Gracie. Sure this lady will see you righted, as far as righted you ever can be; and we'll go away where not a one need know the blight that has come upon you so young.""I deeply grieve for what I fear is your trouble," said Philippa, "and I do not like even to seem to hurry you; but I am afraid I must ask you to explain how it is possible for me to help you. Dinner will be ready in a few minutes, and—"At Miss Dutton's words once again the vision of Walley, waiting out in gathering night for her return, appeared before his wife. Already she had wasted too much time, shivering on the brink of that terrible flood into which sooner or later she was bound to plunge. She felt she must not let her opportunity slip, and therefore, all of a tremor, she exclaimed, "The way of it was this, my lady," and rushed onward to the catastrophe.Philippa had no more idea than a child of what was coming. She expected to hear some tale of villany and cruel deception which would end in an appeal for a few pounds. It was her desire to make a good impression in Donegal, to leave the memory of a trail of sweetness behind her. She thought she had discovered it needed very little money to pose as a benefactress, for she did not know that once a person begins almsgiving even in a small way, if he is at all to maintain a character for kindness and charity he must expect before he has finished to spend a great deal. Miss Button had been comprehensively blessed by about a hundred people at a cost of about a couple of sovereigns, and she was considering how large—or rather how small—an amount would be required to "right" Mrs. Walley's Gracie during the recital of Gracie's wrongs."And will not this person marry your daughter?" she asked, when the narrative seemed finished."It is not much of marriage a gentleman is thinking when he gets a poor girl into trouble," answered Mrs. Walley. "And, anyhow, he was promised before; and the lady is that fond of him my husband makes sure she would give a fortune almost to keep the shame secret.""And will she not?" inquired Philippa innocently."That is just what I have come to you to know," returned her visitor."But how can I tell you? Had you not better go to her at once?""Come away, mother, come away. Ah, don't say any more, mother darling!" entreated Grace."Who can tell me better nor your ladyship?" returned Mrs. Walley, deaf to her daughter's entreaty. "And where would I go away from here to get an answer? Sure, it is Mr. Conway I have been talking about; and who is there in the wide world thinks as much of him as you?"If the words had turned her into stone Philippa could not have sat more still, could not have looked more like a statue. The blood even left her lips, leaving them white as death."Don't look like that! O, what have I done at all!" exclaimed Mrs. Walley, frightened. "Don't take on;" and she took a step forward, but Philippa waved her imperiously back, and there ensued a dead silence, while Terence's promised wife struggled to recover her composure."There must be some mistake," she said at last, when she could frame the words."It is natural you should think so, my lady; and it is heart sorry I am to vex you. If Mr. Conway would have done us justice, and given us enough to take us away and hide ourselves, my husband would have cut his hand oft' before sending me to you; but what was left for us but to do as we have done?""I do not believe a word of your story," said Philippa, with excusable rudeness. "It is a shameful attempt to obtain money.""I'd be the happy woman if you could make me out a liar, miss," Mrs. Walley retorted. "But it's easy for you to make sure. Ask Mr. Conway himself, and see if he has the face to deny what he's done.""I will!" And Philippa rose, and sweeping past Mrs. Walley, opened the inner door and called "Dickson."Then she returned to her seat, her rich dress rustling and her deep lace flounces swaying as she moved, her jewels flashing and changing in the light, and an exquisite fragrance filling the air as though shaken out of her floating draperies.Dickson had come into the room, and stood waiting to learn her mistress's pleasure."You said, I think, that Mr. Conway had arrived?" began. Philippa."Yes, ma'am."Let him be told that I wish to see him.""Here, ma'am?""Here."Not a sound disturbed the silence while they waited for Terence's coming.The interview was not turning out exactly as Mrs. Walley expected; but she had done her part, and she could do no more. With a vague wonder as to what would happen next, she looked at the motionless figure beside the fire, and listened, as she afterwards said, with "one ear laid back" for Mr. Conway's footstep.But she could hear nothing. The house was too well built and the carpets too thick for the noise of any step to reach her.All at once the door opened, and Terence appeared."You sent for me, Philippa," he began in a joyous tone; but as his glance fell on Grace and her mother he stopped dead.Some one—Miss Dickson, presumably—closed the door, which he had left open; and the four, so strangely brought together, were alone."You see these women?"It was Miss Dutton who spoke, pointing to them.He did not answer; he could only look stupidly at the people he least desired to behold."I sent for you to vindicate yourself; but your face tells me you cannot do so. Thank God, this knowledge has come to me before it is too late;""Philippa, I swear to you—"What, that the charge is untrue! It is impossible for you to do so. If you did, I should not now believe you.""I have sinned—" he began falteringly."You have," she interrupted; "but you can still repent and make reparation.""Only show me how," he answered, with eager haste; "and I will do whatever lies in my power.""Marry her; marry the poor girl you have betrayed and deserted, who, trusting in, has been deceived by you.""Marry her?" repeated Terence."Yes; make her you wife, She is the only woman who has a right to be your wife. I will forgive, and try to forget, the insult you have put on me if, at this the eleventh hour, you make amends for the evil you have wrought.""You—you bid me do this?""I do, most solemnly. Between us all is over.""Philippa, you cannot mean it!" he cried passionately. "You have heard the accusation: you have not heard my defence. Let me explain—""Explain!" she repeated, rising and facing him with a gesture of infinite contempt, of scorn too deep for speech. "No, sir: I will listen to no explanation. I have already listened to too many from you. I know now why you were so anxious I should not come here, why you desired to hurry our marriage. You wanted to make sure of me before any whisper of this matter reached my ears. You wished to obtain possession of my money to retrieve your own ruined fortunes. Any honourable man would, on learning his actual position, have released me from a vague engagement, contracted under far different circumstances, and which I only ratified out of respect to the dead; but you are not an honourable man. You are a fortune-hunter, an unprincipled coward, who, after betraying a wretched girl, are not ashamed to leave her to bear alone the trouble you have caused. Marry you! I would sooner—"There came a cry and a rush, and next instant Grace was on her knees before Miss Dutton, holding her delicate skirt with damp trembling hands."O, miss dear, don't be hard on him! don't be calling him bad names when he's the best and kindest gentleman ever drew breath. Sure, he worships the ground you step on; he just fairly adores you! If I've come to harm it is not his fault: it was through my own ill-doing. I was that fond of him, I'd have walked the world through to save his finger aching. Don't be angry with him because of me! It was nobody's blame but mine. I always knew what the end of it would be. He never deceived me. Such a thing as marrying was never as much as mentioned between us; and, O Mr. Conway, don't you know it was none of my doing coming here at all? and I'll go off, miss, this very night, where the sight of me will never trouble you more; and you'll make it up with him, won't you? Sure, there is not a one in the world but may go astray;" and, in the extremity of her unselfish distress, the poor child clutched Miss Dutton's gown with a convulsive grasp, all unmindful of the mischief she was doing.Over Philippa's face there swept a swift curious expression of dislike—almost hatred; but it was gone in a moment, and the tone in which she answered Grace's appeal was cold and passionless, as though no emotion had stirred her."Pray rise," she said; "it is to the God you have so grievously offended you should kneel, and not to me. I must beg you not to hold my dress in that manner; it is impossible for me to remain here longer;" and she strove to release her flounce from the grasp of Grace's little toil-soiled hands, while she looked down at the pretty face flushed with emotion, the soft pleading eyes upturned to hers, the dark hair falling in rich disorder over her shoulders, with a distaste and loathing which were, perhaps, only natural.Altogether the girl was a Magdalen to have enchanted an artist, but she excited quite a different feeling in Miss Dutton's breast."Get up, Grace," said Terence hoarsely, and no man or woman had ever before seen the fire that burned in his eyes or the tone that rang in his voice then; "the lady is right: it is no good keeling to her, if any one wanted good to be done by her. Do not cling to her, child; come to me. Whether she meant her advice as a jest or not I cannot tell; but I am going to follow it, and marry you—""Marry her!" cried Mrs. Walley, starting forward; "is it in earnest you are, sir? Queen of Heaven! Sure, that's what I asked you to do at the first—but—"I did not see my way then," finished Terence. "I see it now, though. If I do not get a fortune with my wife," he added, looking steadily at Philippa, "I shall at least get a heart, which may prove not so bad a substitute." And, bending down, he unclasped Grace's hands, and took them in his own, while he observed, "There is nothing more to say—let us go." Then crossing the room he threw the door wide so suddenly that he almost upset Miss Dickson, who had been standing very close to it indeed, and passed out, leaving Mrs. Walley to make such apologies as she could think of to Philippa, who did not, however, give her time to utter many. "She vanished from my gaze like a spirit," said Mrs. Walley, when subsequently recalling the interview; "and how I ever got away from that house, my lone, I am sure I could not tell," she added, lost in wonder at the instinct which guided her safely through such a maze.Outside, Terence stood waiting for her. "You shall hear from me to-morrow," he said, still with that hoarse constraint and strange ring in his voice."And, O sir, do you really mean it?" asked the woman wistfully; "was it only words of course, or do you purpose to marry our girl?""I purpose to marry your daughter," he answered in quite a steady tone, and as calmly as though wild war was not raging within him."Don't ever as much as name such a thing again, Mr. Terence," cried Grace. "I won't have you spoil your life that a-way.""Hold your tongue!" interrupted her mother sharply, and dragged her to the spot where Walley awaited the return of his womenkind."Well?" he asked."O Daniel, what in the wide world do you think has happened?" gasped his wife. "The lady sent for Mr. Conway, and they are parted, and he is going to marry our Grace.""WHAT!" exclaimed Mr. Walley; and amazement, incredulity, and disgust were beautifully mingled in that one word."Miss Dutton told him it was what he ought to do, and he said he would.""I wish to the Lord I had gone myself!" declared Mr. Walley, with the desperation of utter disappointment. "It just serves me right for trusting you, for I knew you would boggle the thing some way.""But, Daniel, what more could you want?" cried Mrs. Walley, amazed. "Our Gracie 'll be righted, and made a lady of.""A lot you know about ladies!" retorted her husband with withering irony; and he did not open his lips again as they drove back through the night to Goblin Bay.CHAPTER XXXIX.PAST RECALL."I AM not in the habit of giving advice, particularly unasked; but it is impossible for me to remain silent when you talk of taking a step you can never retrace, and that you will repent to your dying day."Mr. Malet was very much in earnest. If he had been warning a sinner back from the mouth of hell, he could not have spoken with greater gravity.He and Terence were alone in that room where Audna had come with the freshness of her young beauty more than a year before; and Mr. Malet was looking with an anxiety he did not attempt to conceal at the young fellow, who, with haggard face and heavy eyes and dogged mien, had just announced his intention to be married as soon as possible—as soon as ever the law would let him."I will take my chance of that," answered Terence."But why all this hurry? When last we talked, you were going to be married to Miss Dutton. Now you are not going to be married to her. Do let a decent interval elapse before you tie yourself to any other person.""I have repeated to you what passed. After being told I am a fortune-hunter, a coward, and dishonourable, I suppose you do not expect me to try to repair that breach?""No; but I cannot see why, because Miss Dutton has thrown you over, you should insist on marrying a girl you never previously intended to make your wife.""She is an unselfish, loving little soul; and I will repair the injury I have done her.""Wait a little. Give yourself time to consider the affair in all its aspects.""You say that because you think if I consider the affair I shall run back from my promise.""I should have worded my meaning differently, perhaps; but you express it very fairly.""And you a clergyman—a minister of the Gospel, who preach against sin every Sunday of your life, counsel me not to right the wrong I have done.""I have yet to learn," answered Mr. Malet, quite unmoved by so nasty a sneer, "that one wrong can be righted by committing another. A wrong can never be righted; and if you persist in marrying this unfortunate girl, you will be sinning almost as much as you did when you led her astray.""Well, that is a wonderful doctrine!""It is a perfectly true one. Every man has a duty to himself—he is answerable to his God for what he does with himself; and I say deliberately that he who either from passion, or weakness, or obstinacy, or resentment wrecks the whole future which his Maker gave him for usefulness here and happiness hereafter is guilty of a great crime.""If you won't marry us, Mr. Malet, I must find some person who will," answered Terence sullenly. "It is the first time on record, I suppose, that any clergyman ever called repentance a crime.""You are not penitent," was the reply; you are angry—you are hurt, and sore, and disappointed—you do not know what it is which is impelling you to a course which, if persisted in, must lead to absolute ruin. For God's sake, Terence—and you know I am not one to use that holy name lightly—consider you have only one life. If you mar it, no one can give you another to make a better thing of. O, my poor fellow, recollect that the chain you are so feverishly anxious to rivet can only be broken by death, and pause before you bind yourself irrevocably.""You do not take the girl into account at all, then?""I have taken the girl into account. If you make her your wife, what are you going to do with her? No one in your own rank will associate with her. You may separate her from her class, but you cannot raise her to a higher. All that has happened is perfectly well known by this time throughout the county. A woman with such antecedents will never be received into society. As there is unhappily no law to prevent your marrying her, so there is happily no law which can compel your neighbours to accept her. Will you condemn her to a life of utter seclusion, a life most lonely for a woman utterly destitute of education and without mental resources of any sort?""I will take care she is not lonely.""You cannot be always with her, and if you could you would not. No, not if you were marrying her for love, instead of out of spite, which is really the case. Have pity on the girl; have mercy on yourself; take compassion on your children yet unborn. You have been proud to be a Conway of Calgarry. How will you endure to remember your wife was so ignorant she could not write her name in the marriage register, but had to make a cross?""Mr Malet, it is useless to argue any more. I have made up my mind; I have passed my word. I am not going to change the first, or to break the second.""Which, so far as I can understand, no one except the mother wishes you to keep. Mr. Stirling tells me Walley wants money, and nothing but money; that he is quite ready to accept the amount he refused before; that he professes his willingness to go to any lawyer you like to name and put the agreement in black and white; and that he says openly, you had far better come to terms with him than marry his daughter, who has as little sense as his wife.""Why do you harass me in this manner?'' asked Terence. "If I have determined to marry the girl, why cannot you leave me to go my own way and bear the consequences?""Because you do not realise what those consequences must prove. You have had a narrow escape from a woman who did not care for you; and instead of being thankful for your deliverance, you desire to rush into an even worse danger and marry a woman for whom you do not care. Do you know what our Church says about marriage? It is not a matter to be 'taken in hand unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly, but soberly and in the fear of God. It was ordained for the mutual society, help, and comfort that the one ought to have of the other both in prosperity and adversity.' The words are not mine, Terence; they were written by wise men who had fully weighed their meaning, and I ask you as a rational being to ponder them. What mutual society, help, or comfort can you ever hope to have in a marriage with a peasant, a girl scarcely more intelligent than the cattle she has spent greatest part of her life in herding?""It is of my future wife you are speaking.""I will say nothing more, then, except to remind you that she does not even profess the same religion as yourself. If you are determined to hear no argument, to yield to no persuasion, will you at least do me a favour—come and stop here for three days? It is not much to ask. You have stayed here before for three months at a stretch—give me but three days.""Why do you ask me to do anything of the sort?" demanded Terence angrily."Because I believe if you stayed here for three days you would never ask me to marry you to Grace Walley," returned Mr. Malet with unflinching composure."You need not marry me to any one," retorted Terence. "Another parson can be found, I suppose, able to tie the knot as well as you. No, Mr. Malet; with many thanks for your invitation, I will not accept your proffered hospitality."Mr. Malet's face flushed, and for a moment pride and Christianity had a sharp tussle; then he inclined his head and said with a restraint infinitely touching, "I force my hospitality, as you call it, on no man—least of all on a Conway of Calgarry; yet I am sorry, dear boy, that even for old times' sake you will not rest and take counsel under my poor roof."There are physical ailments to which the lightest touch proves positive torture, and it is more than true that when a man's mind is shrouded with the darkness of despair he cannot bear that even the kindest hand should be laid upon his trouble.In the after days, then all to come, Terence knew how true had been Mr. Malet's sympathy, how good his advice: but at that time, wild with pain, he resented any attempt to benefit him, and again declined the Vicar's invitation, if possible, more ungraciously than before.Just then he was engaged in the occupation which is called "cutting off his nose to spite his chin"—one that more men indulge in than is generally supposed. He had said he would marry Grace out of mere bravado. Smarting under the sting of Philippa's words; mad to find her coolness had its root in indifference, or worse; anxious to do the one thing he believed would annoy her, when the hope of his life failed, he eagerly cut himself off from hope for ever. Mr. Malet was quite right: he did not know what he was doing. No principle of morality, no desire to remedy a wrong, no seed of contrition underlay his determination to marry the girl he had ruined.As a child strikes the table against which it has knocked its head, so Terence was going to take to wife a woman he did not love, because the woman he loved would not have him.His fancy for the poor girl, who was being tossed like a shuttlecock from one player to another, as whim or circumstance dictated, had vanished long before. Snow in harvest was not more distasteful than the memory of that brief infatuation. Snow in summer could not have lain a shorter time on the ground than his passion for that poor, loving, erring soul lasted. And yet he was going to marry her because his heart was sore and full of bitterness against Philippa—or rather because, as Mr. Malet said, he did not know what he was doing, because for the time being he was deaf and blind as though born without sight or hearing.Reason had forsaken him. He was as one whirled—without his wish or consent—along a stream too rapid for him to resist. For a long time, too, he had been drinking steadily—drinking not to get drunk, but to secure a temporary forgetfulness—drinking even sometimes, to Ann Patterson's and Byrne's great horror, whisky undiluted by a single drop of water."And it's that strong," observed the butler, "he might as well be taking liquid fire into his stomach."He might as well certainly, with his temperament, have been taking liquid fire into his brain. Every one who knew anything of Mr. Terence Conway was aware his head could not bear any indulgence of the sort. Mark Barry, who was by no means a teetotaller, had often warned him that way danger lay."When a man can't take a tumbler or two without making a fool of himself, it is time he signed the pledge," said Letitia's astute husband; and many persons besides Mark had hinted to Mr. Conway that he would do wisely to observe moderation in his drinks."He'll never have a head like the old Duke," said Byrne sadly: "it would be telling him if he had.""It would be telling him if he had a head would not let him touch a drop of spirits," amended Ann Patterson with some asperity."Come, now," returned the old butler, "you wouldn't want him to be as poor a sort of man as that?""Drink is the head curse of the world," stated Ann, with this semi-truism evading a direct reply. "And I wish the master would either quit it altogether or else take enough to lay him by for a while."That might be a right good thing,'' said Byrne. "If he had to go away for the benefit of his health, it's not of marrying he'd be thinking when we saw him back again.""Not of marrying Daniel Walley's daughter, at any rate," agreed Ann."Lord be between us and harm, but it's just awful!" exclaimed the other. "Little did I ever dream a girl like her would cross this doorstep as mistress.""They must have laid a charm on him," returned Ann with conviction. "Likely as not he's had a love-draught. There was a girl lived close to my mother's who gave one to a young fellow she had a notion of, and he went out of his mind and died raving mad. You know when any spell like that is cast over man or woman, they either go wild for love or lose their senses.""I believe that is true," said Byrne gravely, "so we can take some comfort to ourselves after all, for it's better for Mr. Conway to bring home even Grace Walley than have to be taken to a madhouse.""Ay, it's better; but, O Byrne dear, bad's the best." And Ann turned away with a sob and the corner of her apron held to her eyes, for her heart was heavy by reason of the disgrace that had come upon Calgarry.And this feeling was general in the neighbourhood. Speaking broadly, there was not a creature in Donegal cognisant of the matter, except Mrs. Walley, that "wished to see justice done."Even those who did not say much thought all the more. The extraordinary match, sprung with such suddenness on the county, seemed so out of all proportion that few people liked to talk about it. Against hope it was hoped the project was either not true or that it might be abandoned.The gentry could not endure the idea of a Conway stooping so low—the commonalty were offended at the notion of Grace Walley rising so high.That sweet young lady Miss Dutton made no absurd mystery of the reasons which induced her to leave Mostrene almost at cock-crow on the morning after her interview "with all persons concerned." In vain Mrs. Boyne tried to soothe her; Philippa, though angelic, remained inflexible."My only feeling is gratitude," said the saint. "Had I heard this revelation after marriage, how should I have borne it?"She was very quiet, but very resolute; she did not lose her presence of mind for a moment, or make any moan over her faithless lover. On the contrary, after telling Mrs. Boyne she felt she could bear her cross better in solitude, and giving Dickson minute instructions about the morrow, she went to bed and slept with a calm satisfaction virtue unrewarded never knows. She felt very thankful indeed. The way was clear before her. Terence at last had done her an excellent turn, and in her inmost soul she was as happy as jealousy would let her be.To be jealous of a man, it is not in the least necessary to love him. Even though one does not much want to be preferred, it is galling to know another person has entered into successful competition. Besides, it seemed dreadful to Philippa to have such a practical demonstration of the fact that we are all sinners thrust under her pretty little aquiline nose. Nevertheless she felt, as has been said, very happy. She slept as soundly as a child; while Dickson, who did not even attempt to take any rest, packed on till it was time to see that the Mostrene servants were preparing an early cup of tea. With what secret joy that admirable lady's lady hailed the near prospect even of a sea voyage, and anticipated the delights of returning to London, need not be told here.With admirable skill she dissembled her feelings, and went about Mostrene in the gray dawn with as subdued and downcast an air as if she and her mistress had been going to execution. No one could say that she had told the sad tale of Terence's defection and the subsequent "split,'' yet when she went every one knew the whole story.When she went!—nay, hours before the final departure. Mrs. Walley had not left the house two minutes when, by spelling and putting together, aided, perhaps, by a look and a sigh from Dickson, the whole household knew the great match was off, and that Terence had, as Mark Barry subsequently phrased the matter, "done for himself."That news, however, was as nothing when compared with the tidings which speedily followed: "Mr. Conway is going to marry Dan Walley's girl." People at first openly scoffed at such an idea; then they kept silence.Deep in their hearts they felt this must be the beginning of the end. Heavily the Nun's Curse had been laid on the Conways aforetime; but when it fell on successive members of that doomed house it was in some great and lordly fashion.Hitherto the troubles and vices of Patrick Conway's descendants were such as might be accounted, after a fashion, lofty. In their wickedness, in their folly, in their sin, in their punishment, the owners of Calgarry had stood above the common run of humanity; yet now here was the last of them—a kindly, well-meaning young man—about to marry the daughter of a horse-dealer, with whom he had gone wrong! No Conway for ever could fall lower than that. It was an old name and a proud he meant to drag through the dirt; but he could not help himself. "It was 'well seen' that no Conway of Calgarry but must wreck his life some way.""The Curse is in them," considered Mr. Malet, pondering the question; "it is bone of their bone and flesh of their flesh—can it ever be divorced?"His heart was very heavy for Terence. He had loved him greatly at a time when there was no thought of the boy succeeding to Calgarry, and he still liked the man, often as the man provoked him."Though he has sinned so grievously, though he has lost at one blow the love of his youth and the woman who might have revived the glories of Calgarry, what a good and fine thing he could still make of his life if he had only common sense and some notion of responsibility!"Much as the Vicar objected to meddling in affairs which were none of his, so greatly did the pity of Terence's folly affect him that he wrote on the subject not merely to Mr. Barry, but also to Sir Henry Beecham, urging them to arrest, if possible, the fatal step Terence Conway was contemplating. Never in his life before had Mr. Malet so interfered; never had he written so strongly or at such length, but for all the good he accomplished he might as well have restrained his pen."Mark is dangerously ill," scrawled Mrs. Barry, "so he can't go to Ireland; and I can't go, as it is impossible for me to leave my husband, but I have written to Terence praying and beseeching him not to break all our hearts, though (between ourselves) I think he has quite as good a chance of happiness with a peasant girl as he would have had with Philippa. Only why need he marry at all? Can nobody put him in a madhouse? It is impossible to believe he is in his right mind."Sir Henry Beecham's letter was longer, but as little to the point Mr. Malet wished to reach."I have arrived at a time of life," finished the gallant veteran, "when a man feels, if he is ever to enjoy any rest, he must take measures to insure it. For years I have been thinking and working for other people; now I must consider myself. No words could tell how zealously I laboured to bring Mr. Conway's matrimonial affairs to a satisfactory conclusion. By day and night I taxed my brain considering how, with a due regard to the interests of my ward, I might compass his wishes. At length, after encountering and surmounting incredible difficulties, I succeeded. The settlements were drawn, the time for the marriage fixed—you know with what result. Pardon me when I say I decline totally to interfere further in Mr. Conway's affairs. A man who could deliberately play at pitch and toss with such a chance as his deserves never to have another."You urge me to remonstrate with him on the fresh folly he is about to commit. My dear sir, why should I? And even were I disposed to do so—which I am not—what good can you suppose I should effect? If a man is resolved to go to the deuce, it matters little which road he takes. The kindest course his friends can pursue is to let him get there as quickly as possible. Again, what would be the use of thwarting his desire to marry this objectionable young person? She does not exhaust her class by any means, and in a month or two we should find him marrying some young person more objectionable still. No—I wash my hands of Mr. Terence Conway and his affairs. The longer I live, and the more I see, the higher is my opinion of Solomon's wisdom. If you remember, the only people he regards as hopeless are FOOLS, and I am quite at one with him. Terence Conway is a fool, and were you to 'bray him in a mortar, yet would not his folly depart from him.'"The same day on which this decided negative to his request reached Mr. Malet he also received a note from the owner of Calgarry, asking whether the Vicar still objected to marrying him (Terence) and Grace Walley."In case you do,'' went on the writer, "may I ask another clergyman to officiate in your church, or will you force me to have the ceremony performed elsewhere? I only wish to know in order that I may make my arrangements accordingly."To this Mr. Malet replied, "If you insist, of course I will marry you," and awaited Terence's next communication. He felt he had gone as far as he could. Knowledge of the world had taught him that no one can help a man against his will.Nevertheless, his heart felt very heavy when, one sunshiny morning not three weeks after Easter, he stood in the homely little church and asked, "Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?"Then Mr. Walley stepped forward. It was he who gave his daughter away, and if Mr. Malet had before failed to realise the full meaning of what Terence was doing, he understood it then. There were but six of them in the church, all told—Walley and his daughter, the Vicar, the clerk and sexton, and the happy bridegroom.Just for a second Mr. Malet paused ere he went on to the end.It turned out as he had foretold. The bride could not write her name when, in the vestry, the time came for signing it, and the curious may see in the Calgarry register, "Grace Walley, her mark," which she made with awkward trembling fingers. Poor child! there was little triumph in her downcast face, and the hand Mr. Malet took in his while he tried to utter some words of congratulation shook like that of one in an ague.She looked but a slight, timid, fragile thing as Terence led her down the churchyard-path to the gate where his brougham, a purchase in Philippa's interest, was waiting. Terence opened the door for her himself, handed her in, and then instantly laid his arm across the opening to bar Mr. Walley's attempt to follow."Where are you going?" asked the bridegroom sternly.Mr. Walley drew back a step or two and looked at him. then he said slowly, "I thought maybe you were going to give us something in the way of a treat.""You were mistaken," answered Terence, entering the brougham and banging the door close. "Home," he said to the coachman."Home, Larry," echoed his father-in-law; and he laughed nastily, the while he turned away without perceiving Mr. McKye, who had been a spectator of Terence's declaration of war.The minister entered the graveyard, and stood looking at the few head-stones scattered among the graves till Mr. Malet came out."You've been marrying Mr. Conway, then?" he remarked."I have," the Vicar answered, not adding "I am sorry to say," which would, if he had spoken his thoughts, have ended the sentence."It is a great reparation," observed Mr. McKye."The greatness of a reparation is a secret which must lie between God and a man's own conscience," returned Mr. Malet."Now, I wonder what he means by that?" puzzled Mr. McKye as he wended his way to Mountain View.Terence could have told him had he felt any desire to explain; but there was nothing further from Mr. Conway's wish than to face any unpleasant mental problem at any time, and just then he was besides vaguely conscious that his senses were returning, and doubts which had better never have obtruded themselves beginning to arise whether, after all, the mode he had chosen to show his resentment would affect Philippa in the faintest degree.It was of her he was thinking during the whole of that dreary drive, not of the shrinking figure by his side, till a sob aroused him from his reverie. Then, gently and not without tenderness, he put his arm round Grace and drew her towards him. At the moment the carriage was turning into Calgarry gates, but the bride never lifted her head, which she had laid on his shoulder."Welcome home, dear," he said, but no courage revived in the girl, as they whirled onward to the house.The door stood wide, and Bryne bowed gravely to his master when Terence sprang out.In the hall Ann Patterson waited to receive her new mistress."I'll show you to your room, ma'am," she said after Mr. Conway had confided Grace to her, and she followed the poor girl, who wanted to give her precedence up the great staircase.Into the chamber where many a great lady had, in the days gone by, been ushered, the young wife passed.'Let me help you, ma'am," entreated Ann; and she took the thin cloak and cheap bonnet, and laid them aside.Then a strange thing happened. The young wife ran to Ann, and, with clasped hands and streaming eyes, exclaimed, "Be good to me—O, be good to me!""'Deed and I will that," answered Ann, stirred with a deep compassion. "I don't know who could be off being good to you!"—and she smoothed the dark hair, and stroked the tear-stained cheek gently as a mother might have done.Half an hour later Terence was looking moodily out of the library window, when his housekeeper appeared."Well, Ann?" he asked."I have persuaded Mrs. Conway to lie down for a little while, sir," said Ann. "She is very tired, and needs a rest."He did not answer, but waited, seeing in Ann's face that there was something more to come."She's a pretty creature," went on the faithful servant; and then added softly, "And O, Mr. Terence, you'll make the best of it now, won't you?"CHAPTER XL.MAKING THE BEST OF IT.IT is always so much easier to make the worst than the best of things, that the manner in which Terence not merely promised to follow Ann Patterson's pithily excellent advice, but strove to do so, could not but be accounted worthy of all praise.From the first, however, it proved hard work; his heart was not in the matter, and Mr. Conway had always found it difficult to perform any task in which he did not chance to be interested. He wished to do everything that was right, but somehow, when the right failed to coincide with his wishes, he always selected the pleasanter way, even if it were wrong.Upon the other hand, he was the kindest young man in the world. Unless he were very angry indeed, he found it difficult to act discourteously to any one. Just as some persons find it hard to be civil, Terence Conway found it hard to be uncivil. He had the fatal gift of manner which is so misleading, which, seeming to mean everything, really binds to nothing. That was the charm which, even more than his face or his voice, had beguiled poor Grace. She gave herself up to it like one fascinated. She would have followed him through the world had he but whispered her to do so, and asked no return. She loved him—O, how she loved him!—but it was beyond her power to satisfy him. She felt that in a thousand ways she offended his taste, but she could not tell how to please it. The knowledge that she was doing wrong never helped to set her right, and only rendered her awkward, which in the days gone by she had never been. It is a mistake to suppose that love must necessarily win love. Much more generally love induces aversion. Terence never got to this pass; but ere long there certainly came distaste, and the more he tried to combat this feeling the stronger it grew.At Goblin Bay, Grace had never irritated him. There every thread of her poor attire lent a fresh charm to her beauty: even when she wept passionately, and asked what was to become of her, and called earth and sea and heaven to witness to her misery, there hung a wild picturesqueness about her and her utterances that her homely words and plaintive accent only intensified. Beyond all, she had not feared him then—in every tone, gesture, movement, sentence, she was beautifully natural; but now everything was changed, save that the same heart beat beneath her silken bodice that had throbbed within her cotton gown.Ay, and yet even her heart was changed. It had been light, fearless once; but now it had learned to throb and grieve at trifles, which must a year before have failed to stir its pulses. The old life had gone, and the girl was not clever and cold enough to adapt herself to the new life that had come.Many a woman raised as suddenly to even loftier heights has managed to adapt herself with wonderful rapidity to her elevation. But Grace could not do this; she was too humble, too nervous, and, besides, she had passed through a long torture. Save herself and God, none might ever know the agonies of dread she endured when she faced the fact that her fault had found her out—that her shame was passing beyond her own keeping and could not be concealed.No brazen sinner this, flaunting along with a newly-acquired marriage mantle covering her former lapses from virtue, but a weak Magdalen, sorrowing not so much for her fall as for the love she had believed eternal and possessed no more.It was not the loss of Terence that struck her with the chill which numbed all vitality. No; it was the death of his affection that could be born never again. She had always known he must leave her some day, but she never thought he could so cast her out as to bid another man marry her. It was then the iron entered into her soul; then she felt she had given herself for naught; then she began to taste the bitterness of sin.She came down to dinner on her wedding-day clad in the muslin dress Mr. Walley's taste had selected as suitable for the morning ceremony.It was not unbecoming: red predominated in the pattern, and red suited the girl's dark hair and rich style of beauty.Beside Goblin Bay on an August afternoon, with the sun throwing long shadows across the hillside and a background of gray rock and purple heather, Grace's attire might have looked appropriate and picturesque enough. There, too, she would have worn it with the careless ease which first attracted Terence's admiration; but the lofty hall and grand staircase at Calgarry refused to give the shrinking girl a fitting setting.Scarcely daring to touch the steps with her ill-shod little feet, so sadly accustomed to the clumsiest of boots, she seemed a mere stray who had got into the great house by mistake, and who was being shown the way out by Ann following close behind.Terence, meeting his young wife, took her into the drawing-room; and if it seemed like a dream to Grace that for the future she was to live amid such splendour, it appeared no less a delusion to the owner of Calgarry that this indeed was the queen he had brought there to reign with him.He had not realised what it would be. He had thought of her only as they met in innocence, as they parted sinners and sorrowful, with the subtle distinction of rank for the time obscured—with the feelings and the passions that make all men and women temporarily equal in full prominence. Mr. Malet was right. Terence Conway had not the smallest conception how Norah Creina's beauty would pale and her charms fade when she crossed the magic circle, outside of which she was natural and free, and timidly stepped into the holy of holies, where haughty gentlewomen, trailing their velvets and brocades, had brought their fans and their patches, their powder and their pride, their loveliness—ay, and not seldom their vices, too!For, indeed, the record of many of the ladies who had stood before the huge fireplaces and trifled with the ornaments on the mantelshelves, and put their dainty slippers on the brass fenders, and looked at their features critically as reflected from the steel mirrors which curiously simulated glass, would not have borne too close investigation. The Conways had a knack in the former days of often making Calgarry unpleasant to their own wives and pleasant to the wives of other people; but then, frail or otherwise, those wives were of the world and understood its ways.In its whole dictionary, there was no shibboleth they failed accurately to pronounce. Its language was familiar to them—not a habit or a custom of that land but they had been acquainted with all their lives.And every habit and custom seemed strange to Grace; not a word of its language did she know; its ways were not her ways, nor its thoughts her thoughts; she felt herself a stranger in a strange land, and a very desolate stranger indeed.What are two people to talk about who have no single idea in common, who have no past memories to help them, except the recollection of a mutual transgression?Grace would have liked to speak, but she could think of nothing to say save what bore reference to matters she knew must be far from pleasing to her husband.It was on her lips to remark that though Mostrene was a finer place, Calgarry seemed to her grander—for indeed the child's tastes were far more refined than those of many a great lady; but, recalling the only occasion on which she had seen Mostrene, the words froze ere she could utter them.When she looked—as she did look like one fascinated—at the portrait of that wicked beauty who had proved the very embodiment of the Nun's Curse to the Conway of her day, something in the rich attire and snowy shoulders recalled the memory of Miss Dutton, the only lady Grace had ever seen in evening dress; but knowing what she did, she could not say so. The same thing recurred over and over again; her life had been so monotonous, and as regarded external events so narrow, that all she saw and all she heard served only to suggest scenes and people it was impossible for her to mention, and while Terence, with the kindliest intentions, personally conducted that remarkable tour from one fireplace to the other in Calgarry drawing-room, his experiences much resembled those of a Londoner who rashly takes some exceedingly rustic country cousin for a long day's pleasure through the British Museum.Grace hesitated about expressing admiration lest she should expose her ignorance, and she was afraid of not expressing any because she felt that would seem ungracious; consequently their progress was marked by little statements from Terence, which the girl acknowledged by such observations as—"Ay, they're brave grates!" "It's awful fine!" "She's terbly pretty." "I don't know how they can make such things!"—and so da capo.By the time they had reached the further end of the room, Byrne threw wide the door and announced dinner in a subdued and plaintive tone, as if remonstrating with Heaven.Greatly relieved, Terence drew his wife's hand within his arm and conducted her across the hall to the dining-room, where a meal, probably the simplest ever served in Calgarry House, was on the table.Out of her own head, or rather heart, Ann had arranged a repast which she hoped would tempt and not confuse the new mistress; but Grace was as ignorant of dishes as of grammar, and though she strove to comport herself so as not to annoy her husband, it was only by preserving a sort of armed neutrality amid the spoons and forks and knives and glasses and plates arrayed against her that she was preserved from utter discomfiture.She knew nothing. Where should she have learned anything? Watching Terence furtively, she copied his actions as nearly as she was able, but withal she felt herself a miserable failure; and when the cloth was drawn and dessert placed on the polished mahogany, in which she could see her face, and Byrne, after having put more fuel on the fire, left the room, she felt as if she had been through some long campaign, from which she was returning beaten.Terence wanted her to have some fruit, but she declined so mournfully that he asked if she were not well.At the question she collapsed. Holding the table tight with both her little hands, she cried,"My head is fairly splitting, and the room seems going round and round! O dear!""Poor Grace," exclaimed Terence, "you are tired out!" and, ringing the bell, he sent for Ann to come immediately."Mrs. Conway is quite done up," he explained. "Will you attend to her, please? You will be better in bed, dear," he added, and, stooping, he kissed her forehead.Unmindful of the housekeeper's presence, Grace threw her arms round him and pressed her lips passionately on that part of Terence's waistcoat which she supposed covered his heart.It was a little outburst of which next instant she felt painfully ashamed."I don't know what came over me," she said to Ann afterwards. "I couldn't help it; but I am sorely afraid I angered him.""You must not take notions like that," answered Ann soothingly."I wonder what the young lady would have done he was promised to?" observed Grace, moving her head uneasily on the pillow."It does not signify what she would have done," was the reply."Ah! but it does, for he thinks there was never her like. It was an ill turn my father did parting them; for I am very sure she just doted on him as much as he doted on her.""If she had," returned Ann decidedly, "she would not have felt such pity for you. And now, child dear, put her out of your mind and go to sleep, and don't be letting Mr. Terence see you with swelled eyes and white cheeks in the morning. Only be wise and brave, and there is nothing to hinder you both being happy as the day is long."Grace knew better than that: love never found an apter pupil, and love taught her had Philippa instead of herself been in question, Terence would have come with her to the very chamber door and kissed, not merely that beautiful lady's white forehead, but the coral lips which had seemed to the little outcast so perfect.No, Terence did not love her, not even as he had when they sat together on the hillside, and stood looking over the Atlantic and walked beside the waves plashing in over the sands on Goblin Bay.No, even that love, poor though it had been, was gone never to return, and she—Spite of Ann's injunction, the young wife cried herself to sleep.When he found himself alone, Terence Conway first stood for a minute dazed, like one roused from a dream; he looked at the untouched dessert, at the unfilled wine-glasses, then he lifted one of the decanters and set it down again.After that he walked over to the fireplace and remained with his eyes fixed on the glowing peat, as though he could read a story in it. Perhaps he was there reading a story of many talents worse than buried; of wasted opportunities; of gifts misused; of mercies despised; of deliverances for which he had felt no gratitude.No man had ever cause to sing a louder Te Deum than Terence Conway. Yet what word of thankfulness did his tongue speak? That night some glimmering of this truth seemed to dawn upon him. For the first time it crossed his mind that Fate was less to blame than he. No man had counselled or compelled him to travel that wide road the end of which is ruin. It was by his own act he found himself where he was, contemplating his life wrecked by mad passion and pure folly.Who, save Terence Conway and his wife, was a bit the worse for his marriage? No one. And who was the better? No one, again. Certainly not Terence Conway, who meant to make the "best of it," and unfortunate Grace Walley, who was to be "made the best of."In a letter received that morning on his return from church from Letitia, who hoped Terence was now in his right mind, and had given up all idea of marrying the peasant-girl, he read that, so far from Philippa grieving over their estrangement, it seemed the greatest relief possible to her.Mrs. Barry was not a person likely to refrain from reminding her correspondent that "she had told him so," and, accordingly, she proceeded, with her accustomed candour, to state, "If you remember, I always said she did not care two straws about you;" which, indeed, was very true. "You have had a marvellous escape," she added. "Now, do not go and get yourself into another and worse scrape; but wait a little, and look out for some nice girl, like Audna Malet, who would make Calgarry a paradise. When Mark is stronger, we will come over and see you if we may, and then I can tell you all about Philippa and the Beechams."As he recalled this agreeable epistle, Terence involuntarily took out a cigar, bit the end off it, placed it between his teeth unlit, walked into the hall, put on his hat, and went forth into the night.Then he struck a match, and applying it to his cigar, began to smoke vehemently, while he pursued a straight line to the shore.When he started, the way seemed somewhat dark, for the moon was in her last quarter, and had not risen high enough to give much light, but with every step Terence's eyes grew more accustomed to the gloom, and just as he reached the beach a silvery gleam on the water told him sea and land, sky and cliff, would soon be clear before his gaze.A cold wind was blowing straight in from the Atlantic, gray wild clouds were chasing each other across the heavens; it was just the hour and the night for a man whose soul was not at peace to pace beside the ocean, and try whether his mother Nature had no soothing draught wherewith to quiet an erring and restless child.As he walked—strange though it may seem—Terence felt some balm was laid upon his wounds.For the first time since he entered into Calgarry he could look fairly at his position. If a scale had fallen from his eyes his view of things could not have been much more different. A glimmering of his own defects, of the possibilities that still remained, had come with that rift of moonlight, and standing almost on the very spot where a gallant gentleman's life had been cut short by the act of a Conway departed, he murmured a wordless appeal, which winged its way to God, for sight to see the right and strength to do it.Alone there on the desolate seashore, surrounded by the mighty works wrought by the One Infinite, "slow to anger and of great mercy," it came upon Terence like a revelation that he had done something most awful—sinned lightly, and with no fear of retribution, a sin he could never repair; and then, as if this were not enough, out of mere bravado entered into the most solemn engagement a man can take upon himself without the smallest thought of what that engagement would entail."No man can get rid of his responsibilities by shutting his eyes to them," Mr. Malet one day remarked, and Terence had at the time accepted this statement as a sort of general proposition which concerned him personally not at all, Now, however, he remembered the words with a startled surprise that they should ever have seemed meaningless to him, and almost at the same moment the Vicar's solemn warning to the effect that a man has only a single life, which, if he spoils. no one can give him another to make or mar, recurred to his memory.Supposing this true—and he could not doubt it—true as death and sorrow, life and joy—what lay before him?Was it too late for him to unravel the skein he had tangled—to gather up some of the threads he had broken, and strive to weave some fair and useful pattern with them? There were things he could never undo, but, on the other hand, there were things he could do.For instance, he might follow Ann's advice, and make the best of his marriage; and if that, so far as his portion was concerned, proved well-nigh impossible, he could at least make matters happy for poor Grace.Yes, he would try. Heaven helping him, he would try to do well by and for her. A great pity for her took possession of him, which opened the fountains of his heart and watered it. For the first time he felt more sorry for another than for himself: and O, what rich grass, what healing herbs, what fair flowers spring where the stream of sympathy flows! She should not be lightly esteemed or despitefully treated; she should take her place as his wife, and be considered as much as any lady in the land. He had gained more than he had lost. A woman who despised him, who thought her fortune weighed down his love, was not a wife to be regretted.After all, Grace's ignorance was capable of enlightenment. She was a dear affectionate child, and he would make the best of her—make a very good thing indeed. He would on the morrow ask Mr. Stirling's sister to go to Derry for him and purchase such raiment as was fitting for the mistress of Calgarry; it would be a pleasure as well as a duty to buy pretty dresses for Grace, and ornaments to set off her beauty. He would teach her himself. She should learn everything needful for the station to which he had raised her. He would try with all his strength to repair the evil he had wrought—to "make the best of it," in fact; and so, with a kind of exaltation, he turned, and, looking up to the sky, saw the moon struggling westward through a mass of stormy gray cloud that betokened storm.O, unhappy Terence! O, poor well-meaning, wrong-doing Conway of Calgarry! Through what masses of tempestuous cloud had you not to pass onward to the end!CHAPTER XLI."MOTHER!"A MAN usually finds a sufficient difficulty in carrying his best theories into practice against the will of his own prejudices and incapacity; but it would be well-nigh impossible to name the figure whereby that difficulty must be multiplied when the prejudices and incapacity of another person have likewise to be taken into account.Terence Conway found that figure an unknown quantity. Grace did not set herself in opposition to him—on the contrary, she tried hard to fall in with his views; and yet the result of their joint efforts proved about as satisfactory as pouring water into a sieve, or the labour of Sisyphus with his refractory stone.Even if the young wife had been as quick as she was slow, if she had been naturally clever as she was undoubtedly dull, if Terence had loved her as truly as he faithfully desired to do his duty by her, the weeks which succeeded after her marriage must have proved sadly irksome, while as matters stood each day but seemed a fresh misery. Congenial occupations she had none. When Terence was out and Ann busy she could but walk round the great rooms, and look at the objects she was beginning to know by heart, while she sighed for liberty. No caged bird ever sickened for freedom as did Norah Creina. No longer her robe flowed "wild as mountain breezes." No more her tresses fell loose. Never again should she wake with a light heart and look forth to the coming day with pleasure.If Terence were tied, so was she; they were coupled two most unsuitable. It was all very well for Moore to sing about being "pillowed on his Norah's heart;" but plain prose told a very different story. Grace knew all about the matter now—knew that even in sorrow and shame she would have been far happier on the hillside tending her father's sheep and her favourite cow than she could ever hope to be at Calgarry, where she felt, as she told Ann, "lonesome, lonesome, lonesome!" The great house seemed to her like a prison; the meals were a penance. She would not walk or drive for fear of meeting some one; and the mornings, in which Terence essayed to teach her, and the evenings, when, dressed in all the bravery that had come to her from Derry, she sat in the drawing-room pretending to be a grand lady, were positive torture.It was a hopeless case—one with which even Ann Patterson's strong common sense confessed itself unequal to cope."God help the master!" she thought. "What'll he ever do with her at all? There's many a beggar girl would make a better mistress for Calgarry nor Mrs. Conway. Never did I see the like of her. Not a blessed thing can she do except croon a ballad. She has a sweet voice of her own, and can turn a tune well enough; but there's no song she can sing will ever lift up Mr. Terence's heart, and she is breaking her own. If her child, when it is born, does not bring some comfort, I don't know what's to become of us all."The first visitor (after Mr. Malet) who called at Calgarry was Mr. Boyne. He did not see Mrs. Conway; but Mr. and Mrs. Regan from Mostrene were more fortunate. The latter were the curate and the curate's wife, and their visit passed off much better than could have been hoped; perhaps they came determined to be delighted. No one else came, however; not even curiosity brought a single county lady to Calgarry; and Terence was forced to content himself with the assurance that Mrs. Boyne was looking forward with great pleasure to making Mrs. Conway's acquaintance when she came to Ireland in August.This social ostracism stung Terence to the quick. It is one thing for any reason voluntarily to relinquish society, but quite another to be relinquished by society; and the action of his peers seemed to the old Duke's descendant almost a greater punishment than he could bear. He looked at his wife—his, mind you, and not another man's—and his soul waxed hot and indignant. By what right did these people refuse to recognise her? They would all have come fast enough to call on Philippa; but of what use was it being a Conway of Calgarry unless he could compel civility to the woman he had chosen? They should not flout her. They would have to decide between him and her. If he could not teach her, he could teach them a lesson; and so he fumed and fretted, the while all Grace desired was to steal away and hide herself in some corner where she would never be heard of again."I hope you are soon going to bring Audna over to call on my wife," Terence said to Mr. Malet next time he met the Vicar, who, looking a little embarrassed, made no reply."When may we expect to see you?" persisted Grace's husband, with a ring in his voice which meant he was prepared to do battle. "I should like to be at home."It was open to Mr. Malet to take refuge in "You are very kind," or "I fear we have been rather remiss," or "Audna is too young to visit," or any other subterfuge. But the Vicar was not a man to skulk behind subterfuges when plain speaking was forced on him.He would have avoided hitting Terence if Terence had not courted the blow; as it was, he said, "Surely you cannot suppose I should take my daughter to Calgarry?""Why not? Mrs. Boyne means to call.""Mrs. Boyne is no rule for me.""Do you mean to tell me that you will not bring Audna to call on my wife?""I think, Terence, you might have spared me the pain of answering that I cannot—"In a moment a torrent of passion swept over the younger man."She is not good enough for you, I suppose!" he said, in a voice hoarse with anger; a peasant girl, even though my wife, is beneath the notice of Mr. Malet's daughter.""You forget yourself," replied the Vicar. "I have surely a right to choose with whom my daughter shall associate.""And I have a right to choose the next Rector of Mostrene," retorted Terence."In exercising which you will but follow the example of your predecessors," returned Mr. Malet; then adding, "I do not think we need prolong this discussion," he held out his hand, which Terence refused to take, rejoining hotly,"And I do not think we need go through that farce."Just for a moment Mr. Malet stood looking at him with an expression of grave and sad anxiety; then he lifted his hat, said "Good-morning," and walked away.Nothing that had yet occurred touched the young man so keenly as this action of Mr. Malet. It seemed to cut him adrift from all the better memories of his life, from the friends of his boyhood, from the happy, happy days he had spent at the Vicarage. But for shame he could have sat down by the wayside and wept tears of sorrow as well as of anger. "Mr. Malet did not understand Grace, he did not know what a help and comfort Audna would have been to her; it was his pride, his cursed pride," thought Terence, "which prevented his being a Christian."Mr. McKye was quite right—the Vicar could not but be regarded as worldly-minded. He had dissuaded him, Terence, from trying to make reparation. Such a man was not fit for his office. The old Duke might have been wrong in many things, but who can say he committed an error in passing over the Vicar's claims? Claims? He had none."Why, Mr. Malet must be mad; pride must have bereft him of his senses! There was Mostrene, a rectory well worth having—a rectory which conferred social advantages as well as a substantial income—a rectory the mouths of many men watered for; and between it and the next fortunate incumbent there intervened but one feeble life—a life so feeble its faint flicker might be extinguished any day. Common prudence might well have counselled the Vicar to please a patron who had so valuable a gift to bestow. It was like his confounded impudence to think he would be allowed to call at Calgarry in his merely clerical capacity, just as if the owner were a farmer or a labourer. He wanted his crest lowered, and he, Conway of Calgarry, would lower it." There was a good deal of the old Adam still rampant in this young Melancthon, who had stood by the ocean and prayed his prayer and formed his resolve to make a better use of his wasted life, and steadfastly purposed to commit no more sins and dig for himself no future pitfalls. As he strode homeward it might well have seemed as if the Nun, kneeling as on that sunny morning long agone above old Calgarry church, were cursing his race anew; for many demons took possession of him in lieu of the one cast out beside the vast Atlantic, and truly the last state of that man was thus worse than the first.Such a summer as that proved at Calgarry! Never, surely, were golden days so long, never did human beings hail their dawn less gladly, or watch their close with a feeling of greater weariness.There are times when the most enthusiastic adviser is compelled to hold his peace, and such a time had come for Terence. No man said to him "You had better do this," "It would be well for you to do that." Mrs. Boyne drove over in great state, prepared to give excellent counsel and extend a helping hand to the little beggar-maid; but when she saw how things were she could but drive home again, without advancing any opinion, very thoughtful."I do not see what he can do," she said to her husband."Neither do I—except drown himself," he answered."It is earnestly to be hoped the child may not be a boy," observed Mrs. Boyne.Her husband made no reply—he did not care to express the thought which was passing through his mind: that it was most earnestly to be hoped the child would not live to complicate matters still further."I wonder what the end of it all will be?" went on Mrs. Boyne."It is impossible to form even a wide conjecture; but I fancy there may be a good deal more trouble ahead. The Nun has not done her worst yet—at least, that is my notion.""Was there ever a Nun really?'"You mean was there ever one who cursed the Con ways? Yes, I imagine so. I don't see any reason to suppose the whole story is a myth; and, however that may be, it is absolutely true that we have each our Nun in the shape of some sin or weakness. In the case of the Conways, different as has been the doom of every man who owned Calgarry, it is very curious to trace how the same cause brought them all to grief.""And what was the cause?""An utter absence of all sense of responsibility. There has never been a Conway yet, so far as I can ascertain, who ever was deterred from any sin or cruelty by the thought of consequences. Some of them—our young friend, for instance—have meant to do most admirably well; but, nevertheless, they have one and all done extremely badly. They never seem able to see beyond to-day; to-morrow has no meaning for them.""I feel very sorry for this poor fellow," said Mrs. Boyne thoughtfully."So do I, but I am afraid that will not do him much good.""I only wish we could do him some good. I shall always lament asking Miss Dutton here.""Well, I cannot think he would have been very happy with her. He would soon have found out his idol had feet of clay, and then there must have followed a great revulsion.""Still, nothing could have been so bad as this.""This is very bad, certainly. What a curious taste he has for ignorant women! Miss Dutton struck me as the dullest and least intelligent girl I ever talked to.""She talked so little I wonder you found that out. She is utterly selfish, too. I can see the Beechams are delighted at the prospect of being rid of her.""She really means, then, to set up housekeeping on her own account?""Yes, with Mrs. Rawson. That will be a singular ménage."From which remarks it follows Miss Dutton had lost no time in settling her plans. Very earnestly she begged that no one would ever mention Mr. Conway's name to her. "She always felt a doubt of him," she explained; "always trembled at the idea of putting her future in his hands. She forgave him fully, and earnestly hoped he would be kind to the poor girl he led so sadly far astray; but she was trying to forget how nearly her own life had been wrecked, and hoped her friends would assist her in the endeavour. The General and Lady Beecham, who knew the extent of her sufferings, and felt most indignant at the manner in which Mr. Conway had tried to deceive her, were kindness itself, but others were less considerate. That was the sole reason she felt compelled to drop Mrs. Barry's acquaintance. She was deeply attached to her—they were both fondly attached, in fact; but her cousin—so she called Letitia—wanted tact, and in justice to herself she found it necessary to end an intimacy which recalled so much that was painful."With these and many similar utterances Philippa—looking more lovely than ever, perfectly dressed, and not a whit the poorer or the worse for her terrible experience—produced a great effect.People said she had behaved beautifully, that she was "a saint, an angel," and told each other "what a blessing she would prove to some good man."On the whole, perhaps Miss Dutton was not so dull as Mr. Boyne imagined.Certainly she was much cleverer than "the poor girl who had been led so sadly astray," and who was so stupid as to feel no exultation at being promoted to the rank Miss Dutton was to have occupied.Grace was in the dreadful position of remaining still while everything about her changed. She could not adapt herself to the new life, neither was it possible for her to believe an impossibility, and imagine Terence loved, and was glad he had married, her.The mythical lady of Burghley, who found the weight of her husband's rank and riches a burden too great to bear, had at least the support of knowing she was chosen by her lover from out the world to grace his home; but Norah Creina could not lay this flattering unction to her soul. She knew she was not chosen from out the world: had she not been forced upon him, probably she was almost the last wife Terence would have selected.She thought of this as, white and spiritless, she crept up the stairs and along the galleries of Calgarry, and hoped it was not a sin to wish in the hour of her trial she might die, and take her child with her to a world where, as she mentally phrased matters, they would both be "out of the road."Ann Patterson, kind as kind could be, was always urging her to "keep up a good heart, for the baby will bring new life to you;" but Grace's heart refused to keep up."I am tired, tired," she said; and, in the innermost recesses of her mind, Ann thought, "It's no wonder you're tired. Who wouldn't be, doing nothing?"Listlessly she looked at and turned over the pretty things Terence, out of his kindness—certainly not out of his plenty—purchased for her. She did not care for them; she would have bartered all his presents for one of the old looks, one of the smiles and one of the fond words with which he had won her heart less than a year before, "not a twelvemonth gone.""What can I do to make her life happier?" Terence once asked helplessly."You will see a great alteration in her after a while," Ann answered, with a cheerfulness which belied her feelings. "Think of what a sore time she went through in the winter, and she not over strong. That cold has never rightly left her yet. The doctor says when she can get away she would be the better for a change, and, indeed, I think that myself."Nothing to equal the deadly dulness of Calgarry during this time can be conceived. The shadow of a great sorrow or a great crime seemed resting over the old house, darkening the rooms, which remained just the same as when the old Duke died; for the workmen, who had been busy repairing and beautifying the exterior of the mansion up to Easter, were summarily discharged when the match with Philippa was broken off.As the time of her trial drew nearer, Grace gradually fell into the habit of coming down to dinner at rarer and rarer intervals, and, if he had cross-examined his own heart, Terence would have found her absence proved an immense relief."When he sees covers are laid only for one, the master looks something like himself again," remarked Byrne, in a spirit of pathetic irony: and the observation was true.It is absolutely impossible to say all that may be passing through a man's mind when covers laid for two make dinner seem uneatable.More swiftly than is usually the case, Terence Conway's sin had found him out. It had come home, not in any quiet and bearable fashion, but after the manner of a dog gone mad, or some inconceivable horror crouching on the hearth. As a greater sorrow kills the memory of a lesser, so the trouble of his marriage blotted every other out of the young man's thoughts. Mr. Malet's words often recurred to him. He had not realised—he had never tried to realise—what the consequences would be. He had never seen poor Grace as she was—never conceived what life with her would prove.He had thought to teach, but he only succeeded in frightening. He was not an able instructor, and she but a sorry pupil. Her heart was great, but her mental capacity small. Application of any sort made her ill. It was as difficult for her to learn the most ordinary lesson as for one who has not been taught music in early life to run through a scale.Terence had to abandon lessons, and relinquish even the attempt to instruct his wife in the ordinary usages of society, not because her sweet nature resented such teaching, but because knowledge of her deficiencies only resulted in increased awkwardness.His world seemed so vast to her that she felt lost in it. She thought so little of herself—she was so humble, so stricken by what she considered the grandeur of his surroundings and mode of life, so conscious she was unfit to be his wife, so certain she had been forced on him, and that he had acted rashly in marrying her—it grew impossible for her to make any effort to stem the current against which she had to contend.And she always felt so ill, so down-hearted, so broken, that her imagination became morbid. She saw slights where none were given, and, naturally superstitious, she began to brood over the Nun's Curse, and believe she had been the one unfortunate chosen to work it outWith divine patience impatient Terence bore his cross. He was gentle with her, as a tender father with a sickly child; lie refrained from noticing detects in breeding; he bore as, it might have been supposed, love alone could have induced him to bear. If the angels wept over him at that period of his life, they must have smiled through their tears, for he was striving with all his might to make his wife happy, even to the extent of affecting a love for her he had long ceased to feel.If he felt anger, it was directed against himself. No wayward fate had impelled him to marry an unmeet wife; he could not blame any one, save only Terence Conway, for the act which caused him to find covers for two a burden almost greater than he could bear.Probably, had he asked Mr. McKye senior to partake of dinner in a friendly way—a thing he certainly never should have thought of doing—that gentleman would, before the meal was ended, have committed quite as many solecisms as Grace; but then Mr. McKye was not his wife. It is only when a man or a woman becomes part of ourselves that we feel keenly any lapses from social virtue.There is no magnifying-glass like relationship; it transforms a mote into a beam with absurd celerity, and the number of motes that in Grace's case were so transformed three volumes would scarce suffice to enumerate.On a certain evening in August, Terence sat alone at dinner. He was not thinking of anything in particular, save that the grouse, to a portion of which he had just helped himself, was very well cooked, when Ann Patterson came into the room and crossed over to his side.As she entered she made a sign to Byrne, who, understanding, went into the hall, leaving master and servant alone."Mrs. Conway is very bad, sir," said the housekeeper.It was noticeable that she never framed her tongue to speak the then usual and familiarly respectful words, " the mistress." She could not do it. Too many gracious ladies—ladies bred and born—had been so styled in that house for her to feel it possible to designate Walley's daughter, even though Mr. Terence's wife, by such a title."Is she?—I will go to her at once," exclaimed the master, springing up from table; but Ann detained him."The doctor is with her, and the nurse, and you'd best stop here, sir. But what I came to tell you is that she is always and ever crying for her mother.""Good Heavens! then let her have her mother "exclaimed Terence. "You do not imagine I would keep mother and daughter apart?""No, Mr. Terence, I didn't think that; but still—""She must be sent for instantly. Why was I not told of this before?""I would not have told you now, sir," answered Ann boldly, "only Dr. Keenan says she ought not to be crossed.""Certainly not. She must have everything she desires that we can give her. Tell Denny to go over to Goblin Bay at once—or stay; I will drive there myself.""You, Mr. Terence?""Yes, I should like to be doing something. Let Denny put O'More in the dog-cart; he is the fastest thing in the stable. Poor child! I suppose this is what she has been wanting all along."Ann shook her head. " I do not think so, sir. She would not want it now if she was just right. But she is a little light-headed, and scarce knows what she is saying."Terence laid his hand on the bell-rope." Byrne," he began hoarsely, " tell them to put O'More in the dog-cart, and I shall require Denny.""But that's an awful long way for you to drive, sir," expostulated Ann as the butler departed on his mission. "Couldn't Denny bring Mrs. Walley as well as you?""Do you think I would mind going ten times the distance to please my wife?" asked Terence. " Answer me truly," he went on with feverish excitement; "since I brought the poor girl home have I left undone a single thing I thought might please her?""The dear knows you haven't, sir," answered the woman, using the curious ellipsis customary in her rank across the Channel, which probably was once filled with that most holy name the Irish use all too freely. "No, if it was my last word on earth, I'd say you'd been beyond the beyonds a good husband.""Thank God for that, at any rate," murmured Terence."And, sir, you'll not think me too bold, will you? Sure you weren't a year old when I held you in my arms, and it's only old Ann that loves you—once Mrs. Conway gets over this just take her away where nobody knows what has gone before, and where the poor darling won't be always trying to hide her head. And if you could get a knowledgeable lady to be with her and tell her the things she's not rightly acquainted with, it would be a real blessing to the mother of your child."Terence shivered; Ann's words put the whole position in a concrete form before him. His child—his—born, whether son or daughter, to some sort of portion in Calgarry; and the mother—poor Grace. Most unhappy Norah Creina, most unfit wife for himself, most unfit parent for his children!Good Lord! What would be the end of it? Better ten thousand times, he felt, that he was sounding the depths of the Atlantic with a millstone round his neck than contemplating the future that lay before him. But he was obliged to contemplate it; no one could bear this burden in his stead. Voluntarily he had taken it, and he knew he must carry it to the end."I believe your advice is good, Ann," he answered, "and will see how I can follow it. Here comes the dogcart; I shall not be long away."Terence had never been to Goblin Bay since the afternoon when he went to tell Grace they must part; and as he drove along his thoughts were busy recalling all that had passed in the interim. After crossing the bridge above Dunfanaghy the road was lonely in the extreme, and he experienced a feeling of relief when the distant wash and sob of the Atlantic told him Walley's farm lay near at hand.Pulling up at some distance from the house, he bade Denny follow him slowly, and then walked forward over the rough uneven cart-track.Mrs. Walley, who was knitting stockings by the light of the fire, turned as he entered. For the first moment she did not recognise him, but as he drew closer to the glowing turf she exclaimed, "Mr. Conway!" and stood up trembling, too agitated for further speech.Then Walley raised himself from the settle on which he had been stretched, and asked,"Is anything wrong with Grace?"In a few words Terence explained what had brought him so far."Don't stand staring there when you hear the girl wants you, woman!" exclaimed Walley. "Clap on your bonnet, and throw a shawl round you, and be off."Suiting his actions to his words, he passed into the inner room, and, returning with the articles mentioned, helped Mrs. Walley to array herself in them; then saying, "Now, Mr. Conway, she's ready if you are," walked with them to the dog-cart."Where'll she sit?" he asked; and when Terence intimated "Beside me," he seized his wife's arm, and telling her to "put a firm foot on the step," hoisted the bewildered creature into the front seat."Give him his head, and mind the stones," he said; and in five minutes from the time of his arrival at Goblin Bay, Terence found himself driving back to Calgarry with his wife's mother.Later on the same night, worn out with suspense, anxious and unsettled, finding the loneliness of the library more than he could endure, Mr. Conway opened the front door and passed into the open air.It was very dark and very still, yet as he walked along the front of the house he had an idea some one was crouching against the wall."Who's there?" he asked."It's me, sir," was the answer."What, Walley! How did you get here?""I rode over, Mr. Conway—no offence, I hope, but I couldn't rest behind; and I was just standing here thinking I might get news of Grace. After all, she's my child, you know, and we never had but the one. How is she, sir?""About the same," Terence replied." Come inside; you must not stand out here;" and leading the way into the house, he opened the door of the breakfast-room, where he told Byrne to take lights and some whisky."Dear-a-dear!" ejaculated the old man, recounting the circumstance to Ann, "that I should ever have lived to see such goings-on! There he was sitting as unconcerned as you please in the old Duke's own easy-chair, and when I carried in the hot water and spirits he bid me take a seat opposite him and mix for myself. The impudent blackguard! As if I'd drink, in or out of Calgarry, with the like of him!"Next morning, when the housemaid went into the breakfast-room and opened the shutters, she saw Mr. Walley in a deep sleep—his head well back, his legs stretched out, a decanter empty by his side, while a smell as if of a stable pervaded the apartment.CHAPTER XLII.AN UNINVITED GUEST.AFTER the birth of her son Mrs. Conway remained for some months in an ailing condition, which necessitated a considerable amount of care, and precluded any scheme for mental or social improvement being carried out.During this time Mrs. Walley remained what Mr.Walley described as "off and on" at Calgarry.Whether her daughter liked this arrangement no one knew. Mrs. Walley naturally supposed she did; but Ann had her doubts on this point.She was beginning to understand Mrs. Conway better, and believed that while Mrs. Walley's absence would have been more valued than her presence, Mr. Terence's wire had her own good reason for affecting pleasure in her mother's constant society.When Mrs. Walley was at Calgarry the owner felt free to leave a place where he was more solitary than when alone. He went away often in those days, and it may at once be said Grace felt happier then than she ever did while he remained at home. She knew herself more thoroughly than many wise persons knew themselves. She had all that veneration for learning and culture and high breeding which is so fine a trait in even the humblest Irish peasant; but it is one thing to admire learning, and quite another to become learned. Some persons might have accounted Grace's inaptitude perverseness, but it really arose from a deficiency as impossible to alter as lameness or blindness, or any other visitation of God. She was, as Terence had sorrowfully to admit, a little dunce. Not merely had she not been educated, but she could not be educated. She might be instructed in the mere A B C of learning, but certainly no one could ever hope to take her much beyond that stage.Ann Patterson never changed her opinion that a "heap might be made of Mrs. Conway if some knowledgeable 'fond' sort of lady lived at Calgarry to put her in the way." Terence fully intended at some near period to adopt his housekeeper's suggestion, but gentlewomen suitable for such a post are difficult to meet with anywhere; and besides, he felt a natural repugnance to exposing Grace's deficiencies to unsympathetic eyes."When the spring comes we will see about it," he thought. And so autumn and winter passed, and Terence spent more and more time away from Donegal.In Dublin he was always sure of a warm welcome from the Foyles, who had gaily camped in that city on their road to destruction.They were over head and ears in debt; their estate was in "the Court;" they were as poor as church mice: in the blackness of their surroundings no one save themselves could discern even the smallest rift; yet Terence found them as lively and pleasant as ever. Their talk was of balls, concerts, hunting, racing; they attended every reception at the Castle, were acquainted with the whole staff, knew all the people it was right to know; went to Patrick's, or Christ's, or the College, or the most notorious new church, to see the fashions and meet their friends, and prayed at home for appointments for the sons and husbands for the girls. Mr. Foyle himself entertained hopes of getting "something abroad," and Mrs. Foyle was ready to go anywhere out of the way of their creditors. Meanwhile, they lived in a very good house, and entertained in a modest way with a hospitality which spoke volumes for the Dublin tradespeople.They were always delighted to see Terence; and as a good joke, Mr. Foyle was wont to remark he might one day ask for a thousand acres of land at Calgarry. "If the boys have to take off their coats and work, they may as well turn labourers in Donegal as in Texas," the genial gentleman remarked. "What do you say, Conway? Would you accept us as tenants?"Mr. Conway said he would very gladly. "But remember, my agent will insist upon your improving the land," he added."Then you must grant us a ninety-nine years' lease," replied Mr. Foyle. At which they all laughed heartily. They were, indeed, an extraordinarily merry family, and had a way of laughing at nothing which was considered very charming."And when the old Rector at Mostrene dies," observed Mrs. Foyle, putting a diplomatic oar into the conversation, "and Mr. Malet leaves Calgarry, you might give Herbert that little living. Arabella and he could begin housekeeping so pleasantly there.""He would make you a first-rate private chaplain, Terence," said one of the young men.Now "Herbert" was a curate Arabella had ensnared just before the deluge swept over her family. He proposed, thinking she would have some fortune; and when he found she had none did not dare to back out of his engagement, which really bound him to nothing, as they could not possibly be married on his stipend."The Rector is not dead yet," answered Terence, thinking he would rather give Mostrene to Mr. Herbert Blair—a well-meaning, well-bred, silly young man—than to Mr. Regan, who had scented the goodly prey with rather too keen a nose."No; but he will die some day," said Mrs. Foyle, in a light and agreeable manner, "and then you must not forget us: Perhaps it may be pleasant for your wife to have Arabella for such a near neighbour."Terence thought it would be very pleasant for him, at all events; but he did not say anything about Mostrene on the occasion of that visit.The idea that he held such a card in reserve was pleasant to him. What a number of birds he should be able to kill with that one presentation!At a single blow he could repay the Foyles all their kindness a hundred-fold, secure an agreeable neighbour, punish Mr. Malet, gratify his own spite, and annoy Mr. Regan.He felt this was power worth having, and he longed, if not for the Rector's death, at the least for the time when it would lie with him to dispose of the living.He crossed to Chester, where likewise he had friends who were always glad to welcome him: and on his way back through Dublin received a letter from Mr. Regan, who "hastened to give him the earliest tidings of the sad blow which had deprived them of their beloved Rector, who, after much suffering, passed away early this morning."Terence was on a hack-car, driving to Amiens Street Terminus, when he read this communication, which caused him to tell the man to go round by Upper Pembroke Street, where he at once conferred the rectory of Mostrene on the Rev. Herbert Blair, who was holding a skein of silk while his lady-love wound it.Never was a man more amazed. Never did a family express wilder delight and greater gratitude.The girls hung about him in a frenzy of delight. Mrs. Foyle wept, and Mr. Foyle blew his nose sonorously. The young men shook hands effusively with this splendid benefactor; and Mr. Blair, who could scarcely credit such good fortune, observed, "I don't know what to say, 'pon my word I don't,'' and so helplessly tangled the skein of silk, Arabella never wound it at all.Two of the sons accompanied Terence to the station, and the rest of the family stood at the windows, waving handkerchiefs and kissing hands till he was out of sight."A very handsome thing for Conway to do," said Foylepère—"very handsome indeed.""No anxiety now about ways and means, my dear Herbert," remarked Mrs. Foyle."He was an old man, and full of years," remarked Mr. Blair, referring to the Rector."Yes, it was time he went," said Dick Foyle, who, so his mother declared, had no veneration, and she might well have added, sometimes no decency; and then they all resolved themselves cheerfully into a committee of ways and means, and probably in the whole of Dublin there could not that day have been found a happier set of people than the Foyles.It would be too much to say that Terence, as the train whirled northwards, felt at all happy. As was its wont, his conscience served him the nasty trick of waking up, when, for all practical purposes, it might just as well have remained asleep. It had not interfered to prevent Terence committing a very ungenerous and a very mean action, and now, when his word was pledged beyond recall to Mr. Blair, conscience began to prick.Once again he found himself in the position of a man who sits down to build a tower without counting the cost. He had not counted the cost; but in this, as in other instances, he would have to pay the bill.That was a long and dreary journey back to Calgarry. Nowadays he always felt the northward journey dreary, but his thoughts were more sombre than usual as he posted in the darkness of night through the fastnesses of Donegal.It was past midnight when he reached home, where he was not expected, and he had to rap and ring for some time before the wild barking of the dogs aroused Byrne, who put his head out of an upper window and inquired what was wanted."I want you to let me in," shouted Terence in reply; and the old man went down-stairs and undid the bolts and unfastened the chain, and admitted the master."You're welcome home, your honour," he said; "we didn't think you would be back this week.""Well, I am back, you see," answered "his honour" good-humouredly, "and very hungry. Bring me up something to eat—I don't care what it is;" and, taking a candle, before Byrne could step forward, he walked into the dining-room.Then he suddenly stopped."What is all this?" he asked—as indeed he well might.Strewed over a table, pulled up close to the hearth, were the remains of supper—a fowl stripped to its bones, the end of a tongue, crusts of bread, and a dish from which every morsel of pudding had been scraped. The confusion was indescribable; two candles had burned down to their sockets and then gone out; over a fire, in which no spark of life lingered, a brass kettle had fallen into a rakish position; while on the sofa a man was lying fast asleep.For once Byrne was not equal to the occasion. With the best intentions, he and Ann had refrained from letting him know any of Mr. Walley's numerous iniquities, and the butler was so completely taken aback by Terence's sudden arrival and the catastrophe which had ensued that, in his confusion, he could not evolve either an apology or a lie."What is all this?" repeated Terence; "what is the meaning of it all?""Indeed, I can't rightly say, sir," answered Byrne deprecatingly.Mr. Conway made a step forward as if with the intention of arousing the sleeper not very gently, but a hand laid on his arm arrested his purpose."I wouldn't meddle him, Mr. Terence," advised Ann, who had just come upon the scene, looking in her snowy cap and fair linen apron as perfect a picture of neatness as Walley, sprawling on the sofa, amid the wreck of his debauch, did of disorder."No, I wouldn't," supplemented Byrne, not speaking to any one in particular, but making a general sort of statement. "When he's like this he's dangerous.""O!" said Mr. Conway, drawing a long breath; "and is he often like this—here?"He looked at Ann for an answer, and she gave it without hesitation."Maybe we were wrong, Mr. Terence, but we kept quiet for fear of vexing you. It's best to speak out now, though. Ever since that night you gave him leave to stop—the minute your back was turned he came straight over; and many and many's the time we've found it hard work tholing with him.""That's true enough," observed Byrne with a groan."Do you mean that whenever I left home he took up his quarters at Calgarry?" asked Terence."That is just what I do mean, sir, and as he was getting beyond the beyonds, it is, maybe, as well you came back as you did to-night.""Yes, I think it was about time," answered the young man, looking like one fascinated at his father-in-law, who lay unconscious that any one was guarding his slumbers, sunk in a drunken stupor."You'll only hurt yourself standing there, Mr. Terence," said his housekeeper. "The library is ready for you; I have kept it locked; and Byrne will bring a tray there. Do come away, sir."Almost mechanically Terence complied, and, flinging himself into an easy-chair, watched Ann as she put a match to the bog fir and, with the aid of a pair of bellows, soon made up a glorious fire."What did Mrs. Walley say to her husband's doings?" asked Mr. Conway, as Ann rose from the hearth."What could she say, sir?—and where was the use of anybody saying anything?""And do you actually mean to tell me he has been living here?""I do, Mr. Terence. Just that.""And where did he sleep?""Whiles one place and whiles another, but mostly where he is now. Byrne hoped he would drink himself to death; and I used to steal down and see he wasn't setting the house on fire. I feel glad you know, at last; though I am sure, if you hadn't fathomed the whole thing out for yourself, I never could have found it my heart to tell you.""The scoundrel!" exclaimed Terence, springing to his feet "Drunk or sober, I am in ten minds to kick him out of the house this minute.""You'd best not," was the reply. "Wait till morning, and he'll go fast and quietly enough: but he's like a wild beast when the drink is in him—Mrs. Conway is afraid of her life of him then. He's an awful man! I don't know I ever came across his equal."For a long time after Byrne had removed his almost untasted supper, Terence Conway sat looking at the fire, and seeing in it every hope of his life dropping away as the glowing peat inch by inch faded to a less vivid colour and then died out altogether.He felt too tired, too sad, to analyse where the fault lay. It was enough for his thought that youth, with its splendid possibilities, was gone never to return; that lie was eight-and-twenty; that the spring could not again send up its sap for him; that, in a word, one part of his life was ended, and that, to quote Mr. Malet, no person could restore it—no man born of woman say, "Here it is for the second time; try to make a better thing of it."Mr. Malet had been right, as usual. Plain common sense usually is right. But this knowledge did not incense Terence then, because he was conscious he had done the Vicar a great wrong—the culminating wrong, indeed, of those inflicted on him by the Conways.As in a dream he saw the young proud Englishman planted by his kinsman on an alien soil. He saw the long struggle between poverty and pride, when pride ever came out victorious. He saw death borne as a Christian should bear God's divinest ordnance (for what an awful place this world would be were there no death in it!) He saw his daughter brought up just as a gentleman's—not to say a clergyman's—daughter should be: with a complete knowledge of the duties appertaining to her own class, and a sympathetic understanding likewise of the joys and sorrows of those born to labour.Mr. Malet had been wise. He did not interfere too far; he left, perhaps unconsciously, the pure, sweet, womanly nature full play, and the result was as natural, as charming, as pleasing to God (speaking with man's words) a young girl as ever was sent on the earth. There was nothing, so far as her light and means went, Audna would not have done for any fellow-creature. She had no high notions concerning herself—no scornful feelings regarding other people. Her face was the index of her mind—pure, sweet, bright, tender, spirited."She grows every day more like her mother." Mr. Malet once said; and though that likeness awoke many an old sad memory, it was full of beautiful hope, nevertheless.And it was this young girl, so fresh, so fair, he (Terence) in his utter egotism, his intense selfishness, would fain have compelled to visit at a house where such scenes had become possible as those shadowed forth by Ann Patterson.Mr. Malet's refusal did him no wrong. He was in the right to guard his daughter from such contamination; yet the price Terence had made him pay for doing his duty could scarcely be reckoned.At one blow, again a Conway had slighted him, crushed his natural ambition, destroyed his hopes of social and pecuniary advancement. Shame on the man who had done this!—who, forgetful of kindness, unmindful of friendship, careful for nothing save his own ill way, was coward enough to give Mostrene to one perfectly undeserving such a gift, and, heedless of all his implied promises, ignore the claims of Audna's father, whose only fault was care for an only child.Dark was the record Terence gazed on as he sat looking at the dying fire; long the list of his follies; well-nigh hopeless the prospect the future unrolled. He was too sad and sick even for repentance, even to ask for help against himself. Surely he felt in his soul that night no Conway need ever desire a worse enemy than his own nature, and it was with a heavy groan he at last passed out of the library and went up-stairs.Early next morning he rose, after an almost sleepless night, fully determined to come to an understanding with Mr. Walley.Byrne, however, had been beforehand with that individual, and when Mr. Conway entered the dining-room he found it empty.In the open air the misdemeanant was waiting to make his apologies."I'm heart-sorry I so far forgot myself, Mr. Conway," he said very humbly, "I hope you will look over the offence. I'll take care it sha'n't occur again.""It certainly shall not in my house," returned Terence."I came over with the best intentions.""Whatever your intentions, your performances seem to have been of the worst.""Ah, sir, you mustn't heed all that servants tell you. I have done wrong; but maybe not as much wrong as you've heard.""Clearly understand this, Walley. You must never attempt to enter my doors again.""Well, well, Mr. Conway, that's for you to order, of course.""I do order it; and your wife must go home also.""I have no objection to that. Sure, it was to suit your own pleasure she came.""And the amount I have been allowing you for the loss of her services I will continue.""I am beholden to you. I only asked just the bare money it cost me to get an old woman to take her place.""You paid good wages, then," remarked his son-in-law."Nothing so out of the way. However, that's neither here nor there; will I come for my wife, or will you pay her fare back by the car?""I will send her home.""Then we've no need to say more to one another; and I may bid you good-morning.""Good morning," answered Terence; but before he went Walley paused for a moment, and then said with a jeer,"I'm thinking, Mr. Conway, you've wished many's the time you had paid me what I asked and got shut of the lot of us. It's my notion you lost more nor you saved."CHAPTER XLIII.A BAD SHOT.REMEMBERING the natural horror a man feels at the idea of "things being known," it is strange to consider the relief he experiences when "things are known."Miserable though in most respects he was, Conway of Calgarry had at least this one consolation: that the world—his world—knew the worst which could be told concerning him.There are few trials a man can be called on to endure equal to being thought better, cleverer, more truthful, more courageous than he is; and it seems to such a one like casting aside a burden when he comes down from some tottering pedestal on which he has been placed by himself, accident, or the partiality of friends, and feels the firm ground of actual fact beneath his feet once more.A man had much better have his real life regarded as his ideal than have his ideal taken for his real; and Terence Conway felt an actual sense of ashamed satisfaction when at last every one knew him for what he was.No need to walk on stilts any more, no necessity to stand on tiptoe, no use in feigning himself great or even well-principled. He was, after all, spite of his good resolutions and avowedly excellent intentions, a very sorry fellow, unstable as water, weak, sinful, revengeful; ungrateful to God and his best friends, one whom his best friends knew at last as his Maker had always known him. Now the need for concealment was over, there was nothing to conceal. His mind held no hidden infirmity of which those about him were ignorant. Nothing he could do in the future ought greatly to surprise them or his own soul. There was not a depth of folly to which he could sink, there was not a height of malice to which he could climb, that would in the future take any human being unawares.There is a story told of a lawyer who, in the troublous times of '93 never would defend a client who asserted his innocence. Over and over again, it is stated, he was sent for by prisoners who persisted in declaring they were not guilty, till he sometimes left them, saying, "I can be of no use to you."And then there followed him a little message, "another word before you go," and he went back, and the confession was made, and more often than not he brought those who, if they had greatly sinned, had been greatly sinned against, from the very foot of the gallows back to hope and life.Every day this story has its counterpart in each human experience. Till the last moment people will not speak the truth, and how is it possible to help those who persistently deceive themselves and their best friends? It is not pleasant to stand naked and ashamed before the world, but that may well be a far lesser evil than walking through the streets wrapped in fair garments that any moment may be rent open, revealing what the man so clothed really is.For so long a time Terence, once full of good resolutions, once determined to show how clear a conscience even a Conway could carry within his breast, had been conscious of his own shortcomings and of his fatal weakness, that even in the midst of his shame and regret it was a comfort to him to know man had nothing more to find out. When he asked advice from Mr. Stirling—and he had left himself no other adviser—that gentleman, aware of the disease preying on him, could freely give counsel and consider how best to give relief.After Mr. Conway's return from Dublin, owner and agent talked very openly together. Many times in a week they held long consultations, and Mr. Stirling, wherever he might be and whatever he might be doing, was devoting his mind to thinking what Terence's better course would be.He inclined to letting Calgarry House with the fishing and shooting. "The money will be useful, and it will break the strength of the Walley connection. When you've been away for a while, and your wife has seen more of the world, things will be quite different. After two or three years Mrs. Conway will be able to hold her own with anybody. By that time Walley might be out of Donegal. I heard the other day that Corrigan is going to America, and that Walley did tell a friend he thought after a while he might follow his example. Fact is, Walley is doing about as badly as he can. He lost a lot of money indirectly over that warranty case in Meath, and he has been neglecting his business for a year past. I think he'll want to be bought off before we're much older; but anyhow I've a notion you would do well to let Calgarry and go clean away."The idea found favour with Terence, and it may be known how keen was the arrow which had pierced him and how deep it had penetrated when he, the poor, proud, cursed descendant of a haughty and doomed race, could think with pleasure of letting the old home even for a couple of years to strangers."Other times other manners." Many people, even great people, think no more of letting their home now than of hiring a cab, but it was different in 1856. Whether it has been well for the chalk mark which drew a line between the doings of Vere de Vere and Gubbins say, to be rubbed out, is scarcely a matter to be decided here. It has been rubbed out, but it had not been then, and Terence ought to have objected to such a process.That he did not only proves how deeply the Nun had branded her Curse.Yes, he liked Mr. Stirling's commonplace and sensible advice. In his soul he did not see any real good following it would do him, but the course proposed might at least open up a fresh chance in a fresh place.Of course, while he lived it would be always Terence Conway as chief figure on the boards; but on new boards—strange boards—with a different audience and a stronger company, he might compass satisfactory results.There seemed to him scarcely hope; but there was a chance of being able to hope in the prospect of such a change. At all events, for many reasons the advice recommended itself to him.And he was not then distracted by a multitude of counsellors. He had cut each rope to its final strand; he had burnt every boat of his life's flotilla, save Mr. Stirling. Without this man's help he must be ruined, he would have been ruined; and he knew in everything his agent proposed there was good sound sense, if not sentiment.And this man remained, though so many were gone from him. By his own act he had estranged the one friend he valued more highly than any other. All the countryside knew the Mostrene loaves and fishes had been given to Mr. Blair—"a man strange to them all," as the primitive Donegal folks expressed the matter—and that Mr. Malet was no further forward than when he came, a "well-looking foreigner," to Calgarry, with the old Duke's then heir. They had not liked him much then—they had not, indeed, liked him at all; his ways were not their ways, or his accent either. It was well known potatoes at the Vicarage were peeled for table, though real quality thought them never worth eating unless hot out of their jackets; and any fool in Donegal could, if he liked, speak better English than a man who called Hennery Henry, and ellum elm; who "conceited" himself it was right to say peril and not perl, and who, generally speaking, was an ignorant though self-opinionated person.Nevertheless, in the long-run—often as in this case, the VERY long-run—cleverness, honesty, thoroughness, and independence must produce some effect, even on the most prejudiced.Mr. Malet was high and proud, and hard to get at the bottom of; but he had not been guilty of a single mean action since he came to Calgarry. His word was his bond; he was slow to promise, but sure to perform; he was not one person to-day and another to-morrow. If he had his "notions," he did not go about interfering with other people's notions. He would have his work done as he liked, but he never hinted his neighbours might not have theirs done or left undone to their mind. There was a heap to be said for him, and not much against him; and Mr. Conway had acted unjustly in passing by Mr. Malet, and giving Mostrene to a stranger.Every one knew it was as good as promised to him; and if a man got a promise of anything, whether of land or living, he ought to get it."I was over at Mostrene yesterday," said Mr. Stirling to Terence, some little time after the latter's return from Dublin, "and I saw Mr. Regan. He told me he understood Mr. Blair was to have the living, and seemed a good deal surprised Mr. Malet had not got it.""Mr. Regan wanted it himself, I suspect," answered Terence, begging the reference to Mr. Malet."Very likely; he's a pushing man, and will never lose anything by forgetting to put himself forward. I told him I didn't believe Mr. Malet ever really thought he would get the living; at any rate, I said I knew he had been wise enough not to build any plans upon Mostrene.""Mr. Malet might have had the living," returned Terence shortly."Very likely; but then he is not a man to kneel down and worship anybody.""Do you mean that I wished him to kneel down and worship me?" asked Terence."Not exactly; but you wanted him always to say you were right, and he wouldn't do it.""He certainly did not, at any rate.""And I am sure he meant well by you, Mr. Conway, and I am heart-sorry you passed him by; though, as I said before, I feel sure he set no great faith that he would ever get Mostrene."Which last statement contained such a plain hint little importance could be attached to Terence's most solemnly implied promises that the owner of Calgarry did not think fit to continue the subject.On the whole, Mr. Stirling was glad he had adopted Mark's suggestion, and bound his employer in legal fetters. He knew now the point where the Terence Conway barque was unseaworthy."Faith, I am beginning to think," he considered, "that employers are all alike, and that there is no dependence to be placed on one of them. It is a deuced nasty trick to pitch Mr. Malet over, and all because he would not let his daughter visit Walley's daughter; as if any man worth the name would like his daughter to visit that poor little baggage! I shall be very glad when she is away from Calgarry;" and he worked on to accomplish this end so assiduously that at length advertisements appeared in the London Times, and in some of the Dublin and Belfast papers, stating that Calgarry House, replete with every convenience, was to be let furnished from year to year or for a term. Then all the world who cared to read or know learned about the fishing and the shooting, the trout and the salmon in the Garry, and the cod and turbot, to say nothing of whales and other sea-monsters that afforded extraordinary excitement in Calgarry Bay. By the end of April he had so worked on Terence as to induce him to take a house in the county Cork, for Mrs. Conway did not much care about going to England, or France, or Italy, or any other "foreign country."One lovely morning in May Conway of Calgarry sat in his library, turning out and destroying such papers as he did not intend to preserve.He had made his will some time before, and there was about the revision of the past and preparation for the uncertain future such a warning concerning the shortness of this life and the nearness of another, that not all the sweet spring sunshine could banish the deep sense of depression which comes over most of us when we are called upon to meet those ghosts that linger among old letters, clothing themselves in faded ink and yellow paper, scented with scores of different perfumes that recall the time when such scents meant much to us.Terence turned over the papers, and, as he did so, the hopes, the follies, the disappointments, the loves of his life sprang into being again. Letters from his mother, his father, from uncles and aunts long dead and well-nigh forgotten; from the old Duke; from schoolmates scattered far and wide; from duns, from money-lenders, from friends, from Lettie, from Mr. Malet, from Audna, from Sir Henry, from Philippa—not many from her, or important in the least—but O, with what tender care they had been cherished!That old ghost—that love for the sake of which he had suffered so terribly—which he thought worth all the world—which in reality was worth nothing—he could have taken by the throat, and, dead though it was, shaken in his fury. All her letters—every one—he destroyed mercilessly. Never again should that phantom with the saintlike face and heart of stone arise in this form to mock him; and it fared the same with all other papers save those which it seemed essential to keep. Basket after basket he filled with what now were mere waste scraps, and basket after basket Byrne carried out to be destroyed, till at last, opening a drawer where lay some late correspondence, he saw a letter which he had thrust aside unopened many weeks previously.It was from Mr. Malet, written after Mr. Blair's appoint-ment to Mostrene, and Terence had not cared to break the seal and read the reproaches he knew he deserved. He never intended to read them, in fact, and he was holding the envelope in both hands preparatory to tearing it and its enclosure in two, when a feeling he could not analyse restrained him.He laid the letter down again and looked at the well-known writing, which, when a lad, he had often been so glad to see. As the salt Atlantic waves swept twice in each twenty-four hours over the sands of Calgarry Bay, cleansing and purifying them, so now the memory of a thousand kindnesses rushed through Terence's heart, softening his hardness and sweetening the bitter waters that stagnated there.No; whatever of sarcasm or anger that letter might contain, he could not destroy it thus contemptuously."I am beginning a new life," so the young fellow's thought ran, "and I won't begin it by being a coward." Then, nerving himself as if to face a blow, he cut the wrapper, took up the written sheet and read:"MY DEAR TERENCE,—I can bear to lose what was never mine, but I cannot bear to lose you; so now that you have given Mostrene to a man who, I hope, is far worthier than myself, and that you cannot think I have any ulterior worldly object to serve, I ask you to resume the old friendship which I am vain enough to believe you found pleasant once. Will you come to me, or shall I go to you? I want to speak to you. I hear you are arranging to leave Calgarry; and before doing so, I would entreat you to pause. You have made many mistakes—be very sure before you take another step you cannot recall that you are not adding another to the number. At the risk of again offending you, I must tell you that no human being can change himself by changing his residence. Wherever we go we carry with us our means, our ailments, our weaknesses, our burdens, our temptations. We cannot get rid of our natures by flight. There is no spot of God's earth on which we may not fight a battle with ourselves, and, with His help, win. It seems to me you ought to fight yours at Calgarry. When you came into the property you purposed to do great things for others—begin to do even small things now, and you will soon find yourself stronger, better, happier. At least, let us talk your difficulties over; and believe that I am, as I have always been, your faithful friend,A. MALET.This was the letter Terence had left for weeks unopened, which he had intended never to open. For a moment he remained stunned, like one who, expecting to meet a peremptory demand for money, finds instead a receipt in full. Then he thrust the papers still strewed about back into the drawers; and, after no further delay than that involved in putting on his hat, flung the outer door wide, and passed joyously out.How delightful the spring sunshine seemed to him! how warm its glow—how exhilarating its brightness! Ah! after all there were no friends like old friends—slow to take offence, quick to forget injury. He had behaved as badly and ungratefully as it was possible for a man to behave. Once again he had done that which he could never undo; yet he was going, with something of the sap of hope which must have stirred in the repentant prodigal's heart, to make ample confession, and to say with deep abasement, ''I have sinned against Heaven and before thee. J have loved my own way, and found it a bad way. I know now that for all the troubles that have come upon me I have only myself to thank. I have done ill in the past, but I mean to try to do better in the future, God helping me."Aloud these words he well knew would never be spoken, but he felt audible utterance was not necessary for Mr. Malet to understand the spirit of them.By the touch of his hand, by the look in his face, by the tone of his voice, his old friend would know the contrite thoughts that lay deep in his soul.Never had his home seemed to him so fair; never had Calgarry Bay looked more serenely beautiful; never had the headlands appeared to him one half so sternly grand, or the bare earth, which had but recently donned its fresh robe of vivid green, so lovely—as on that May morning when he strode rapidly along the sands.The mirror of his mind, which for long had shown him all objects strangely distorted, reflected nothing then save what was beautiful. The gulls flying like white spirits to and fro their dizzy resting-places; the soft west wind, bringing health and freshness with it; the sunlight lying upon Muckish, as though halting there for a noontide rest; horses and men busy in the fields close at hand; a great sense of peace pervading the landscape, and an infinite joy in Terence's heart. He was so glad, so thankful, so confident there had come with Mr. Malet's letter some sort of turning-point in his life, that he could have shouted like a boy in answer to the roar of dis-tant breakers, and imitated the shrill cry of the sea-birds as they circled and wheeled above the great Atlantic, dropping every now and then to dive into its depths or to skim as if in play over its rippling waves.He had stood for a moment to look, with quite a new feeling of sympathy and interest, at his own great farm, which Mr. Stirling was already making profitable. From those broad pastures he heard the lowing of cattle and bleating of sheep; the whinnying of mares, running with colts by their side; the strange "come back—come back" of scores of guinea-fowl; the busy prating of hens, and the endless conversation ducks maintain over meals which never seem concluded—course succeeding to course so long as succulent snails and ill-advised worms can be discovered by any one of the party.A new sense of property came over Terence as he looked and listened. Even so might one of the patriarchs of old have gazed over a land where his herds wandered free by the grace of no man, and all that his eyes beheld belonged to him.Those thousands of acres which were so rapidly being brought under cultivation—those vast grazing grounds whereon his sheep, his cows, his horses, his goats were roaming at will, all belonged to Conway of Calgarry—the very sand under his feet, carpeted by millions of tiny shells wrought into a pattern no human artificer could copy, was his possession. With a thrill of pleasure he thought of the changes Mr. Stirling had already effected, and of the still greater changes it seemed reasonable to believe he would effect in the future, and for the first time a desire to take some active part in the management of his estate quickened within him. Perhaps, after all, he need not leave Calgarry for any lengthened period—perhaps if he and Grace went away to that house in county Cork, he could so arrange as to come often to Donegal.He and Mr. Malet would talk matters over. How glad he felt to be going to the Vicarage once more! It was time he left the shore, and, striking across a wild waste stretch of ground, strewed with great boulders, tufted with rushes—tiring to walk over on account of the quantities of coarse ling which covered it—gain a path which led to the back of Mr. Malet's house.He had not traversed that path for many a long day; never, in fact, since he entered into possession of Calgarry. But he would follow it now; he was in the mood for reviving old associationsThe farm and Mr. Stirling's house were left a good way in the rear; there was a great silence all round. Not a sound, save the distant wash of the breakers, disturbed the stillness. And Terence walked on through the ling, among the boulders, over the turf which often sank and sobbed under the weight of his springing feet.Suddenly the report of a gun rang through the air—then, without a cry, Terence fell forward full length on the ground. As he did so, a man who had been following him ever since he left the shore—a man who there seemed to have sprung out of the ground—ran hurriedly to the spot, and stooped down over the prostrate figure. Then he raised himself and uttered a great shout for help.Through that lonely country the news of what had happened flew like wild-fire. It ran up the hillsides and along the valleys. Before night fell there was not a soul from Gweedore to Letterkenny—ay, and farther still—but knew "young Mr. Conway lay for dead at Calgarry Vicarage, where they carried him.""God save us!" cried the people, "what had he ever done to be shot down like a dog?" and they thought of the old Duke, who died in his bed, full of years, after a life of wickedness."Lord be between us and harm, it is the Nun!" said one, at last giving expression to what was passing through the minds of his fellows."It is the Nun!"—and as the peasants stood in groups beside their cabin doors, or drew close around their glowing turf fires, every story and legend that had during centuries gathered about the name of Conway was repeated with bated breath, and in those awe-stricken tones people employ when they speak of matters that belong to the dim borderland which faintly divides this world from the next.In one cottage, however, which stood lonely beside Goblin Bay, a greater horror even than the Nun had crept in with the story."You're sure and certain he's not dead?" said Mrs. Walley, standing with blanched face and shaking limbs in the middle of the kitchen floor."He wasn't when I left Mr. Malet's," answered her husband. "The doctor gave hopes of him, though he's sorely torn and knocked about. It was an awful bad shot, whoever fired it.""The thing that get's over me," observed Mrs. Walley, "is what Pat was doing about Calgarry; he had no call to be there at all.""Will you hold your tongue, woman?" retorted Mr. Walley. "Do you want to put a rope round the lad's neck?"CHAPTER XLIV.AT SUNRISE.IF the stern heart of Donegal had felt its pulses quicken with joy when the old Duke was at last called to deliver up the stewardship he had so long misused, it was stirred to its depths with pity for the young Conway stricken down in such a fashion.A man is always liked in proportion to his faults. Though he may be admired and respected for his virtues, people have a much greater sympathy with and tolerance for error than is generally supposed.There is nothing offensive to any one of us in the individual who often goes wrong, but it tries us very hard to be tolerant towards the person who invariably goes right. We feel there must be something greatly amiss about him if we only knew it; and even if there be not, his very perfection seems an offence to us.Probably it was because everybody understood Terence Conway could lay no claim to pose as a model his neighbours ought to copy that the tide of popular sympathy set so strongly in his favour. Though a landlord, the people mourned over him; though a Protestant, Roman Catholics remembered him in beautiful words of prayer. Though suspected of Orange proclivities, Ribbonmen hoped with all their souls he would recover. His few good actions were talked about as the old Duke's countless evil deeds had never been."He was always freehanded, God help him! And his heart was soft and tender to the poor.""He hadn't a bit of pride in him. I mind me one day I was carrying the child and a big basket, and he came along riding, and pulled up beside me and says, ' Now which will I take, Mrs. Beattie, for I'm afraid I can't manage both?'—and he lifted the child, bare feet and petticoats, on to the saddle before him.""If he had his failings, who's without them?""That's true enough; and though he did bring trouble on the girl, he married her, and what could he do more?""There's many a one wouldn't have done as much.""Ay, it would be telling him if he'd never clapped eyes on Walley's daughter.""It's an ill day when for a wild slip like Grace Walley one man is lying at death's door and another in gaol. What call poor Pat had to meddle in the matter now beats me entirely."Precisely the same thing "beat" many people; but the unreasonableness of Pat's conduct did not, unhappily, induce any belief in his innocence. Walley's injunctions concerning reticence, which his wife religiously observed, had no effect whatever in stopping the tongues of other people, who kept always asking, "But what took him to Calgarry?"The police, who arrested Corrigan as he was stepping on board a vessel bound for America, were supposed to know all about the matter, but they vouchsafed no information; and, even if inclined, Pat could not. He was a prisoner, with the chances very much against him—black against him, indeed. There was every reason why he should be guilty; and though it may truly be said there was not a soul in all those parts who wished to see him convicted, neither was there a creature who believed him innocent.Mr. Conway knew nothing about this. While the buds were opening in May, and the few roses Donegal boasts being drenched by the June showers, he lay as one who could never rise again.When he was at his worst, Mr. Boyne came over and took his deposition, which simply amounted to this—that he knew nothing about the matter. He had met no one, spoken to no one, from the time he left Calgarry till he "felt something like a hot iron in his back. Ere he lost consciousness he remembered making a wild attempt to save himself from falling, and then going down, down. After that a blank ensued. He did riot think there was a creature in Donegal who would have attempted his life. What good could his death do any one? He believed the whole thing to be an accident. He knew he was in serious danger; he did not think he could recover. The doctor had told him he had no hope. He felt very tired.He had nothing more to add." And then he made a movement to put out his hand, which Mr. Boyne wrung, and exclaimed, " My dear fellow, my dear fellow!" twice over, not knowing exactly what he was saying.All that night Mr. Malet sat by him, keeping the doctor in the house; but towards dawn there came a change. Just as the tide began to flow Terence fell into a quiet natural sleep, and when the sun rose he was sleeping still. With a sigh of amazed relief, the Vicar turned from the bedside, to see framed in the doorway a poor, pathetic, pretty, frightened, pleading face."Don't be angry, please," whispered Grace, when he went out on the landing to speak to her. "I didn't come all these hours, though I have been wideawake, because you told me not, and I trusted to you. Is he still alive?""He is still alive, my dear, and asleep.""O, God be praised! O, Lord be praised! Blessed Mother, I thank thee!" and the poor child raised her clasped hands to heaven."Now go back to your bed," said Mr. Malet very softly.She had touched his heart. Whose heart, indeed, would poor loving Grace not have touched?"Mayn't I stop here just for a bit?" she entreated."Yes," answered the Vicar, after an instant's hesitation; "but you must promise me not to speak to him if he wakes.""'Deed, an' I'll do that," she said. "What wouldn't I do to cure him?""I believe you would do anything in your power," said Mr. Malet, laying his hand on her shoulder; for he felt bitterly sorry for the poor young thing, who could never be a wife meet for Conway of Calgarry.So far as his lights went—and they went a long way—the Vicar was not a man to shirk any duty, no matter how unpleasant.He had felt it his duty to declare his daughter should not call on Mrs. Conway; but when Terence was stricken down he opened his doors as freely to the wife as to the husband. He foresaw difficulty in the future; but that did not prevent him doing what he thought right in the present.Letitia also was at the Vicarage. Mark read the news in the Times at breakfast; and within an hour Mrs. Barry was on her way to Belfast, whence she travelled to Donegal as fast as railways and post-horses could take her. She made an altogether forced march, and reached her destination to be welcomed as even Mr. Malet had never welcomed her before."My dear Lettie—my dear, dear Lettie, how glad I am to see you!" he exclaimed; and then she put her arms round his neck and wept, and there was silence between them.What a host she was in herself! What a nurse! How wise! How useful!The Vicar, whose ideal of what a gentlewoman ought to be was high, had often wished Mrs. Barry different in many respects; but during those long and weary weeks, when life and death waged a continual war over Terence, he felt no desire for change in her, but could only agree with Ann Patterson when she said, "Mrs. Barry is worth her weight in gold."Regarding the young wife as the cause of Terence's latest misfortune, she regarded her at first with distinct disfavour; but ere long what she styled "the silliness of the stupid little thing" won her over, and she set herself to work to repair Grace's deficiencies. She treated Mrs. Conway just like a child. "You must not do that," "You ought to do this;" and the girl was so docile, so sweet, the nature must indeed have been hard that could be angry because of her many short-comings.If it had been possible to remould Grace, she must have changed during that time of kindly and intimate association with two such natures as Mrs. Barry and the Vicar's daughter.For the latter Grace's admiration and affection knew no bounds. She followed her about like a dog, and would sit looking at her in a sort of enthusiastic trance."She's just like an angel," she said to Mrs. Barry."She's like what is much better," retorted Letitia, whose opinion was that the Conways' experience of angels had been unfortunate—" a good true woman."And then Grace went away with a little sigh. She could never be such a woman—"so graceful, so gracious, so winning, so learned.""The Nun knew what she was about when she lured Terence to Goblin Bay," observed Letitia to the Vicar. "I suppose if he had searched Ireland through he could scarcely have selected a more hopeless wife than the one he married.""I feel I would rather not talk about her," replied Mr. Malet. "She has so many virtues which must be pleasing in the sight of God that I am ashamed to think how valueless they seem to one who calls himself God's servant.""You see, she is the right thing in the wrong place," said Mrs. Barry."What would be the right place for her?""A hillside, with a cow to herd. And I am not at all sure, Mr. Malet, that Mrs. Terence Conway can be so pleasing in the sight of God. If she were a perfect mine of virtues her uselessness would make them of not the slightest avail. She might as well be a mine of vices—better, because then one could hate her."Which sentence was so completely " pretty Fanny's way " that the Vicar did not think it worth while to rebuke the speaker."I can't imagine what Terence will do with her," went on Mrs. Barry."Neither can I," answered Mr. Malet. "We may feel thankful his future is in the hands of One wiser than either of us."His companion did not answer. She was given to little bursts of irreverent criticism, and the speech which rose to her lips she wisely refrained from uttering.Then, shortly after, there came the relapse, which nearly proved fatal, and that long night when the Vicar alone of all the weary household kept watch beside Terence.Never was man more glad to see the dawn, never did any one greet the sunrising with a more thankful heart. Weary in body and mind, Mr. Malet, leaving every one save Grace asleep in the cottage he had made so pretty, walked down the steps cut in the rocks that led to the shore, and pacing round the tiny headland, from the top of which Terence and Letitia and Audna had so often looked across the wide Atlantic, found himself in Calgarry Bay.It was a great sweep. Any man standing there could enjoy such a landscape as is not often to be met with. Mr. Malet knew it by heart; but never before had he gazed on that expanse of ocean and land in the solitude of early morning, and for a moment he stood entranced, looking upon a scene which seemed, as has been beautifully said, to have "God's smile upon it."He had never loved Donegal—he felt that his heart throbbed in unison with the heart of its people; and yet what a country it was, and how fine many of its people were! Had he done his duty among them? He had tried. But now a light came to him—that his trial was not made in quite the right way. Never did there live a man less disposed to blind himself; and gazing out over the waters of God's most imposing work, the mighty ocean, he saw, as in a glass dimly, that he had erred in coming to Calgarry at all for the sake of loaves and fishes, since twice given to other men.Yes, all his life he had been longing for that he voluntarily cast aside; not for rich meats or drinks, not for carriages and a retinue of servants, but for culture, social position, and a competence.What for more than twenty years had his life been? A long hope doomed to disappointment, a long self-denial made for his daughter, not his Master. Now he saw what an example he might have set, the employment he might have given, the hopes he—whose hopes had been disappointed—might have satisfied.It was too late for him to recall the past, but not to improve the future. Many hours possibly had still to strike before the eleventh chimed in his life; and God in His mercy told him, as He told others, even then it was not too late to labour in earth's vineyard. If it pleased the Almighty to cure Terence Conway, he would help him heart and soul to make every man on the Calgarry estate happier, holier.He was not at all an excitable man, but at that moment he experienced a great exaltation: a feeling came over him that even as he was placed it might please his Master to make him still an instrument for good, a missionary of civilisation to the most beautiful and most unhappy land God ever created.Just then he saw a yacht which, in the early dawn, had come past Bloody Foreland, and with full canvas sailed before the sweet west wind that had brought the change to Terence Conway, between Tory Island and Horn Head, drop anchor outside Calgarry Bay. Such a thing had never happened before since the early days of his residence in Donegal, and the sight stirred his pulses strangely.What did not that yacht speak of to him? Of the long, long past; of a time when he lived and moved and had his being amongst those to whom such things, and things like unto them, were considered not the luxuries but the necessaries of existence. Take it as you will—let a man be constituted as he may, let him keep as stern a grip over nature as he can, there come occasions when the contest between what is and what has been must try him sorely; and such an occasion came to Mr. Malet when he saw that shapely yacht drop her anchor, the while all her white sails shone in the sunlight of that glorious morning.But he was not a man to allow discontent to master him. He lifted his eyes to gloomy Muckish, then let his gaze run swiftly over the low-lying land beside the shore, till it fell on Horn Head, proudly breasting the blue Atlantic, when it reverted to the rippling calm of Calgarry Bay."Lord, what is man," he said humbly, "that Thou art mindful of him, or the son of man that Thou regardest him?" What was he, in fact, that he hid been permitted to live a life with so little of real trouble in it—so comparatively easy a life, which he was beginning to feel he had not used quite as he might?As he retraced his steps, Mr. Malet saw Mrs. Barry coming along the sands. She was dressed in a pretty pink gown, and looked fresh and fair as the day."Terence is alive!" she cried, running to meet him; "and the doctor says he is likely to live. Now what will he do with his life?"—and she passed her hand through the vicar's arm with the confident air of a person seeking information from one who could give it.Mr. Malet looked down at her gravely. " It is all very dark to me, Letty," he answered; " but He who has given Terence back his life will, I hope and believe, show him how to make a good thing of it. He will, however, have to face a great trouble—that poor fellow——""Yes," she interrupted; " I cannot get him out of my mind day or night. O, Mr. Malet, do you really think he is guilty?""I fear there can be no doubt of it," answered the Vicar; and they walked on slowly and in silence.Shortly after noon a stranger called to see Mr. Malet. The visitor was shown into the study, where Terence had made his confession of extravagance and impecuniosity, and as he entered looked round the room with an expression of grave and pained astonishment. He remained standing till the clergyman appeared, when he held out his hand, saying,"My dear Malet—"I ought to remember you," was the reply; "but I confess—""No; don't tell me you have forgotten Jack Mulgrave?""I have not forgotten Jack Mulgrave,'' answered the Vicar, warmly grasping the hand he still held; "but I scarcely recognize him in you.""Never mind; you will presently;" and the two looked each in the other's face wistfully."How many, many years have passed since we met?" said the Vicar at length."Ay, indeed, we were young then;" and again they looked at one another, sadly realising they could never be young any more."And what has brought you to Donegal, of all unlikely places?'' asked Mr. Malet, after a pause."The wish to see you," answered the other. "It is the fact," he went on. "I had quite lost sight of you—to speak frankly, you had become a dim memory to me, when this sad business of Mr. Conway's, all about which I read in Vienna, recalled the past vividly to me.""' Malet—Malet,' I thought; ' that must be my old chum. I remember he went with one of the Conways to Ireland. Good heavens! can he really have stayed there ever since?'""You say that," remarked Mr. Malet, with a grave smile, " as if I might as well have been in Siberia.""Well, at the first blush I did think so; but second thoughts, you know, are best, and I began to consider a man could as readily spend twenty years of his life in Ireland as in China and Japan, where I have been for nearly the same time.""Doing well, I hope.""I have made my fortune, if that is doing well—and you?""I have not made mine," was the answer.Then ensued another pause. Mr. Mulgrave did not like to ask any further questions, and Mr. Malet felt he could add nothing to his answer. Then the former, recovering himself, walked to the window and remarked that the view from it was very beautiful."The scenery about here is marvellously grand," said Mr. Malet."I should imagine so. I hope to know it well ere long, for my brother-in-law has an idea of renting Calgarry House; in fact, he is with the agent now. When he told me he intended to take a run round the west coast of Ireland in his yacht, and stop at Calgarry on his way back to Scotland, I asked him to let me be one of the company.""Then I suppose that was his yacht I stood admiring this morning as she lay just outside Calgarry Bay?""Yes; we arrived shortly after sunrise, and here I am.""Is it possible that Mr. Norbury is your brother-in-law?""It is not merely possible, but certain. He is a splendid fellow; he tells me he would have liked to buy the property.""Perhaps he would like to buy it still?" suggested Mr. Malet."I think that is very probable. But now I want to know why for all these years you have kept aloof from all your former friends, and buried yourself here?"CHAPTER XLV.POOR PAT.THE little town where Donegal holds her assizes was crowded when the day came on which Patrick Corrigan was to stand his trial. All the world was there—and if the world's wife did not also put in her appearance, it was simply because fashion, at that benighted period, had not set a hall-mark on many things which are considered quite proper and delightful now.Many of the persons we have met had secured or been secured high seats and humbler standing-room.The Calgarry folk mustered in force. Mr. McKye, junior, had left his flock for the day, and Mr. McKye, senior, his farm. Byrne had got a good place, and Mr. Stirling squeezed himself into a corner. A select party from Mostrene drove over sufficiently early to take seats before the rush began.Sir Henry did not cross the Channel in order to give Terence the comfort of his presence. He told Lady Beecham he felt he had already sacrificed himself to such an extent on the altar of her family that, if he were to live, the Conways must for the future stand or fall on their own merits."If the old Duke had been in question, he'd have been off like a shot," said Mr. Mark Barry, when, with a view of combining "duty with pleasure," as he told all whom the statement might concern, he was going to Lifford to hear that "poor beggar's trial," and to bring home his wife."And which is the pleasure?" asked Mr. Benaron, who was one of the individuals to whom Mark imparted this information when they met on the platform at Euston."I will leave that for you to find out," returned the barrister. "Aren't you glad now you are out of it all? What an awkward position you might be in now if you had not taken advice in time!""It is a pity," answered the other, who was bent on an errand of mercy at Harrow, "you did not give some advice to Mr. Conway when you were scattering words of wisdom about.""Ah! there are people it's no good advising, and my foolish cousin is one of them. What d'ye say, will you run over with me and hear the fun?""The spectacle of a man on his trial for attempted murder would be no fun to me, I assure you," was the solemn reply."It runs your own stand-and-deliver business too close, eh? As far as I can hear, he has no defence worth a snap of my fingers, so most likely his friends will get up an alibi. The feeling in Donegal, my wife tells me, is that, though no one doubts his guilt, no one wants him to be found guilty.""What a delightful country!" remarked Mr. Benaron."It is—when you don't want to get any money out of the people," answered Mark. "You won't be persuaded to come? Well, then, good-bye for the present. Heaven guard you!" and with a smile that instantly faded as he turned away, Mr. Barry jumped into the train, and departed to "see the fun."There had not been much fun in the position for Pat. At first, when he was taken into custody, he kept up a good heart, for he had never studied the papers, possibly because he could not read, and was deficient in that law lore amid which Mr. Walley loved to riot. He believed that on the Crown lay the burden of proving him guilty. In common with many others, matters changed their aspect greatly in his eyes when he found it would be necessary for him to show his innocence.It presses very hardly on a man when even his own lawyer entertains grave doubts as to the truthfulness of his statements, and wishes him to explain things that cannot possibly be explained on any reasonable grounds."What took you to Calgarry?" asked his adviser."Just what I said from the first—to see Mrs. Conway.""And what induced you to follow Mr. Conway?""I wanted to mind him of the past, and to ask him to be good to her in time to come.""That was a mighty foolish notion.""Maybe so, but I thought he might heed me.""Did you meet anybody by the way?""Not a one—man, woman, or child.""And you saw no one when you heard the shot?""No, the gun was fired from among the rocks.""When, as you say, you had just stepped off the shore.""I might have walked thirty or forty yards across the heather.""Humph!" said the lawyer; " you see what we have to do is, prove you were not among the rocks.""I was not, sir; I never set foot among them in my life.""That may be.""You don't think I am telling you a lie, sir, do you?" asked Pat, struck by something in the solicitor's tone."O no, of course not!" was the polite reply, which struck the prisoner with a cold shudder as jeering. "But let me impress upon you, all we have to consider now is—what the jury will think.""Sure, they can't be off believing me when I tell them the truth?""Do you know of any enemy Mr. Conway had who might have been lying in wait for him?""There are few as haven't some enemy; but as to saying I know anyone that wanted his life, I couldn't—and if I could I wouldn't; for maybe I might be as wrong then as the police are about me now."This was the net result of all the interviews between client and solicitor; and Mr. Duffern felt himself finally in a very awkward position.He and the means to fee counsel had been provided for the prisoner by an anonymous gentleman, who employed other solicitors to guide him in his selection of a good lawyer. With the best intentions, Corrigan's Good Samaritan made a mistake by thus keeping in the background; for Mr. Duffern naturally jumped to the conclusion that another motive influenced this benevolence besides pity for Pat's forlorn condition—namely, a desire to prevent any reference to Terence's shortcomings in court. Those shortcomings had been referred to by every paper in the kingdom; but the solicitor felt rather in a difficulty as to how he should perform his duty towards his client and at the same time refrain from allusions that could not but be unpleasant to Mr. Terence Conway. He brought, in a word, what is absolutely fatal—a prejudiced mind—to bear on the case, and, as a result, he himself said to Corrigan:"I should advise you to plead guilty and have done with it.""I can't do that, sir, when I'm innocent."Mr. Duffern paused. He did not like exactly to tell the man he felt sure be was nothing of the sort—that is always an impolitic as well as impolite thing to do. Yet he conscientiously believed no jury could fail to convict, and—"Anyhow, I strongly advise you to plead guilty,"he repeated. "You see, things look very black against you; we have not a single shred of evidence in your favour, except that no one saw you with a gun in your hand or knew you to possess a gun. But you need not build on this; only proving that you might be innocent, not that you are, leaves us in as unsatisfactory a position as before. On the other hand, everybody knows you sustained the strongest provocation, and I believe from my heart, if you do as I say, you may get off very easily. You'll have the benefit of a kindly old judge, inclined to look favourably on you because, as he will explain, 'you have not wasted the time of the Court' He will know Mr. Conway robbed you of your sweetheart, and in consequence your sentence will be light. If my own brother stood in your shoes I could give him no better counsel."Pat looked at the lawyer with a white scared face, and swallowed what seemed to him a great lump in his throat before he could reply."Often, sir, my mind misgives me that you don't believe a word I tell you.""We need not go into that," said Mr. Duffern."Asking your pardon, we can't help going into it—because, sir, if you had done no wrong (I hope you are not offended at my evening myself with you just for a minute), how would you like to be asked to say you had? And I never lifted my hand against Mr. Conway; when I felt sorest about the harm he'd done me, and one I thought more of nor myself, it never entered into my mind to do him an injury—so that is why I can't say I'm guilty, and I am heart-vexed Mr. Conway should deem me guilty. I never served a master I liked better—and, God help me, though he has done me all the wrong one man can do another, I like him still."Making bricks without straw seemed to Mr. Duffern a mere bagatelle when compared with defending a man who could keep up such a game as this. Nevertheless, he instructed the best counsel he could find, and kept a bold front before the enemy, not knowing what a day or an hour might bring forth.Never before in his life had poor Pat been the centre of such universal interest and observation as when he stood in the dock at Lifford, with the eyes of the county fastened on him.Pale, thin, worn, and poorly dressed, he was but a shadow of the spruce, well-cared-for young fellow who appeared in answer to his master's summons on that Sunday evening ere the hope of his life was killed. Yet he had made an effort to set himself and his shabby clothing off to as much advantage as possible, and he held his head up, and strove to meet the compassionate and curious gaze of his fellows without flinching."He brazens it out well," thought Mr. Duffern, whose last words to Pat had been a repetition of his former advice; but Pat only shook his head and answered, I'll stand or fall by what I said.""Never surely was there so obstinate a client," lamented the solicitor.Not a long trial—drawn out for days—artificially lengthened by prosy statements and needless cross-examination. Counsel for the Crown took at once all the wind out of the sails of his learned friend on the other side by mentioning every matter which could possibly be raised, not indeed to prove Corrigan's innocence, but in mitigation of his offence."Had it been possible," he said, "he would have kept a lady's name out of the question; but as she would have to be examined, he wished at once to concede a number of points on which there could be no dispute, so as to spare, if possible, his learned friend the pain of putting questions that must of necessity prove exquisitely unpleasant."Told simply," so he remarked, "this is but an everyday story of weakness, of sin, of folly, of punishment, of a late expiation, and, finally, of a wild vengeance. He did not wish to raise a prejudice in the minds of the jury against the prisoner, who had been very hardly done by—very hardly, gentlemen—but he knew before his short statement was finished he should make it plain to their intelligence that Mr. Conway had well-nigh lost his life at the hand of a desperate man, who, after long brooding over his wrongs, had determined to wreak his vengeance ere taking his departure for America. No doubt that man thought he had laid his plans well in order to escape detection. He was the first to proffer help, to cry aloud for assistance; he even lent his aid to staunch the blood, and to carry his former master to the Vicarage."In consequence of his actions so little suspicion was excited that no one tried to detain him, and had it not been for a member of that admirable and active body whose vigilance never slept, and whose intuition was rarely at fault—he meant, of course, the Irish Constabulary—the unhappy man who now stood before them would long since have escaped to America, and vanished from the ken of justice. In a firm voice and with a resolute manner Corrigan had pleaded not guilty, but the unhappy duty devolved upon him, the prosecuting counsel, to make his guilt clear as the sun in Heaven."Whereupon the sun, as if feeling Mr. Shaen, Q.C., had taken a great liberty in making any comparison of the sort, ill-naturedly ducked behind a cloud, and left the court for a time without the slightest brightness.And all the while poor Pat stood alert, as if waiting by his horse's head for his master to come out. He did not feel so "over and above" anxious—yet.But with the calling of the witnesses his confidence began to waver, and those who looked at him—and that may be said to have been every one in court—saw a visible change come over his face when "Daniel Walley" answered to his name, and took the oath after the manner of a man who has a weight of trouble on him, and does not know what to do by reason of the burden he is compelled to carry.He glanced very sadly over at Pat, and then turned his face towards Mr. Shaen, as if challenging him to "come on."Counsel had literally to wring his evidence out of him. He tried to fence, but was ignominiously baulked. Asked if Corrigan bore himself like an unhappy man, he could not deny the fact. "He seemed sorely down-hearted—he ate hardly a bite—though pressed, he would not drink any spirits—he comported himself as if he had some great care on his mind."They talked a heap among themselves—babbles not worth troubling his honour about. Well, if his lordship wanted to know what they spoke of, he would tell all his memory would let him; there was no harm in what they said." And then it came out that Terence and Calgarry—the Nun and her Curse—Mrs. Conway and her child, were the sole topics about which they discoursed."Did he ask you if Mrs. Conway was looking well?""He did so, and I had to tell him the air of Calgarry did not suit her as the air of Goblin Bay had done.""Did you say you thought she had rued her marriage but once?""I might have done so. I wouldn't like to swear I didn't."A pin might have been heard fall in court; and, when Mr. Walley was obliged to confess he had told Pat it would be best for him to take the mail-car straight through, and not set foot inside Calgarry gates, a marked sensation was produced.Cross-examination only elicited that Pat had no gun when he came to and left Goblin Bay.Reёxamined by Mr. Shaen: "Pat had been used to handling firearms from a boy. He was a fine shot."On the conclusion of this evidence, Mark Barry, who was near Mr. Stirling, whispered,"If anybody wants a few nails driven into his coffin, he had better send for that fellow.""A bad lot—stock, lock and barrel," returned the agent, who had never liked Pat's introduction to the Calgarry stables.After Mr. Walley, his wife next came on the scene, and every nail he had driven home Mr. Shaen with her unconscious assistance rivetted.Never was any creature in such a state of grief and terror—never did any woman before make such appeals to counsel to be "let off" giving evidence against "her own."She looked as if she had spent her days in fasting and her nights in weeping, so haggard were her cheeks—so heavy and red her eyes. Pat, she assured the Court, was her own flesh and blood—she had known him from a child; there was not a bit of harm in him, he wouldn't hurt a fly; and, no matter what anybody thought, she didn't care how bad things might be made to look against him, she, for one, would never believe he had done an injury to Mr. Conway.Ay, she did mind Pat said he wished he had not come to bid them good-bye, because it brought back things he'd like to forget. He told them he stood looking at Calgarry as he came along, taking two thoughts if he'd try to get speech of her daughter. He had been terribly fond of Grace; the loss of her changed him into an old man after a fashion. He did not seem to get over the trouble. He was afraid she wasn't happy; he knew Mr. Conway went a great deal from home; but she told him a better gentleman never drew breath, as why wouldn't she? It was her right to speak well of Mr. Conway, for kind was no word for what he'd been to her. Walley advised Pat to get out of Donegal as soon as possible, not to stop hovering round Calgarry. He said, "the girl's going on well enough, and she'll have to get used to gentlefolk and their ways."Mr. Conway was fond of her, no doubt, and she couldn't look for everything. Hadn't she the best of food, and a grand house, and servants to wait on her, and clothes for the asking, and it was impossible her husband could be always with her; and as for the child, if Mr. Conway did not greatly care for it, had ever one of his name felt a liking for his heir?All which little items were skilfully elicited by Mr. Shaen from Mrs. Walley, who sobbed and moaned most pitifully as she gave her evidence, which Mr. Barry felt was garnishing Pat's coffin with a double row of nails."Somebody has got up this case who knows his business," he remarked sotto voce to Mr. Stirling; and in reply came the one word "Police!""Ah! but who is behind the police?" asked Mark. Who, indeed!The crowning sensation of the day was when Mrs. Conway appeared, gravely escorted by Mr. Malet, who had already told all he had to tell. How he was riding along the high road, when, hearing cries and shouts, he put his horse at the ditch and rode across the waste ground to the spot whence the sounds proceeded, where he found Mr. Conway lying on the ground, bleeding apparently to death, Corrigan kneeling beside him. How further help soon arrived, when he ordered a gate to be taken off its hinges, on which Mr. Conway was carried to the Vicarage near at hand, Corrigan assisting. Asked if Pat seemed cool or excited, said he seemed greatly upset, but not more so than any one would naturally be under such extraordinary circumstances."Was his manner suggestive of innocence?" was the sole question Pat's counsel put."I should say so—not of guilt assuredly. His manner was natural, and he seemed, and, I believe, felt, genuinely grieved."When Mrs. Conway stood in the witness-box, whither Mr. Malet had conducted her, a faint sound was heard through the court like that produced on a still day by the rush of an incoming wave over a flat coast.Every one present craned forward to look at her, and every one did so with quiet gentleness, owing to a manly pity and sympathy which was very real.Never, surely, did so many persons experience at the same moment such a shock of surprise.Could that insignificant little creature, with white worn face and heavy eyes, and lips once like coral, from which the colour had faded, terrified and shrinking, be really the girl whose beauty had tempted Conway of Calgarry, and brought him that day low as a man could well be brought?Here was no flaunting sinner brazening out her shame and confronting its outcome with indifference; no imperial woman such as many who have risen from even lower estate, for whose sake lovers ere now have in their madness deemed the world well lost; but only a poor faded wild flower that might have been, in its humble way, lovely once, but was lovely no more.One man in court, remembering the desolate hill-side where Terence first met her, felt his heart wrung with a great sorrow when he looked at the child, for she, who was the central figure amongst all those men, really seemed little more.Pat fixed his sad hungry eyes on her—his poor young lost love—and muttered an imprecation which the recording angel refused to hear, but she never saw him. Her frightened gaze did not wander round that sea of strange faces: from first to last she looked but at the men who spoke to her, and answered them as though no audience listened."Yes," in reply to Mr. Shaen's insinuating questions—addressed to her not merely as a witness, but as a woman who had played a principal part, however unintentional, in a real tragedy—"she remembered the day her husband was shot clown. She remembered the morning of that day when Patrick Corrigan came to bid her good-bye. He said he was going to America, and would never return home any more unless she had need of him.""Just so," remarked Mr. Shaen, nodding. "Now, Mrs. Conway, why did he make use of such a strange expression to you?""It did not sound strange to me, sir," she answered, "for we had been together most of our lives, and were like brother and sister."There came a mist over Pat's eyes, and for a moment he did not see judge or jury, counsel or witness."But what did he mean by it?""That if I was ever in any trouble or sore strait, he'd come back from the ends of the world to protect me.""To protect you from whom?"She paused for a moment before replying, and then she did so in her own way:"Some one seemed to have been telling him I wasn't happy, and he thought—""That your husband was not so kind to you as he might be, eh?" prompted Mr. Shaen; whereupon Pat's counsel indignantly protested against words being put in the witness's mouth; and they wrangled over this matter till the judge interposed and put the same question himself in a slightly different form."I suppose, Mrs. Conway, there was no ground for the idea that your husband was in any way unkind!""O, no, no, no!" she said eagerly. "The best, the kindest—I could not tell anybody one half his goodness; but, as I told Pat, it all seemed strange to me. I had not been used to such a big house, or to grand ways—""And, in short, he came to the conclusion that what he had heard was true?""Maybe he did; but I said if I ever felt lonesome it was my own fault—that I had everything money would buy or I could think to wish for—that my child was made a king of.""Possibly Corrigan had heard Mr. Conway was not a very fond father?"Again Pat's counsel interposed, and again his objection was set aside; but the interruption gave Grace time to compose herself."He had heard some foolish story," she said, "and I told him many fathers don't make much of their children when infants—that once the boy could talk and run he would take more notice of him.""And then there was some mention made of the Nun's Curse?""There was; but I said that was foolish wicked talk, and I asked him not to be bringing up that terrible old story over an innocent baby.""Did he say anything more?""Not much; he was in sore grief.""No doubt. Likely the sight of Calgarry brought all the old trouble back again?""It did so," she answered in a broken voice."Was that what he said?""Something like that—I don't just remember his words.""Do you know what he wanted to see your husband for?""To bid him be good to me." ("Now she has done it!" observed Mr. Barry in a swift aside.) "But I told him there was no call why he should, for no gentleman could be better to a wife than he had always been to me.""He insisted, however, on seeing Mr. Conway?""He did; he said he would like well to speak a word to him; and then I rang the bell and asked Byrne could he tell me where his master was, and he said Mr. Conway had gone out about ten minutes.""After that did Corrigan go at once?""He did very soon; he bid me good-bye and hoped God would bless and keep me, and—" she put her handkerchief before her face and sobbed aloud.As Grace was turning to leave the witness-box, defendant's counsel stopped her. "One moment, please, Mrs. Conway: did Corrigan use any threats in speaking of your husband?""Threats! No; why would he? Pat was always moderate.""Then you do not think it was he who fired at Mr. Conway?""I am sure it wasn't," answered Grace; "sure and certain;" and there came a singular change over her face; she flushed crimson, and just for one fleeting moment those who were looking at her realised how beautiful she must have been when she and that ill-starred Terence met for the first time.The court drew a long compassionate breath, and Mr. McKye senior nudged his son as a way was made for Mr. Malet to pass out with Grace on his arm."I never thought to see that whispered the elder man.As a mere matter of form, after the fashion in which a meagre dessert is often placed before guests who have been feasted royally, Terence was put in the box. He had no evidence to give, no story to tell.His voice was weak, his movements languid, his face pinched and wan; it needed no doctor to assure those who saw him his wound had been well-nigh mortal; but there was no vindictive ring in his tone, no look of anger in his eyes. From the very brink of the grave, from out almost the valley of the shadow itself, he had come back at peace with all the world except himself, at rest save for the dread that Pat might not escape."May I make one statement, my lord?" he said in his pleasant voice, that still, though exhausted, held such a charm for those who heard it."Certainly, Mr. Conway.""Then, as I stand here scarcely out of sight of that other world into which I have been for so long a time looking, I declare most solemnly I believe Patrick Corrigan to be innocent of the crime for which he is being tried.""May the Lord Almighty bless you, Mr. Conway!'' came from the dock, and across the court the eyes of master and man met straight. "God love him!" said one old peasant; and Terence felt in his very soul that Donegal had taken him into the innermost recesses of its silent and lonely heart.The judge's summing up was merely a lengthy analysis of the feelings which must have prompted, and the unchecked passions which had fiercely urged, Corrigan's revenge. He had struggled against temptation, but at length it mastered him. He did not think much importance could be attached to the fact that no one had seen the prisoner with a gun. He did not wish to press hardly on any man; but it would be for the jury to decide whether that fact did not rather tend to show premeditation. Everything which could be said in Corrigan's favour had been put before them in the eloquent speech of his counsel, but they had a clear duty to perform, uninfluenced by pity or sentiment.During the interval that followed Pat might well have said the terrors of death encompassed him, and the pains of hell gat hold on him. He felt it an absolute relief when, after half an hour's absence, the jury returned into court. The worst was over; he could face what was to come. He knew pretty well how it would be, and when the verdict was given—guilty, with a strong recommendation to mercy—it seemed to him but the realisation of a dream.The kindly old judge looked down at the young man and paused for a moment ere he began his address to the prisoner; then—"Patrick Corrigan," he said, "you have been found guilty of a dark and foul crime; and I am bound to say I quite agree in the justice of that verdict. I will not add by any words of mine to the pain and remorse I am sure you are enduring. Your offence is one to which the extremest penalty of the law attaches; but taking into consideration the wrong you undoubtedly suffered, and the frenzied state of mind in which there is every reason to believe you were, and giving due weight to the recommendation of the jury, I feel the justice of the case may be met by a punishment which, while sufficiently severe to act as a warning to those who permit themselves to be governed by their own unbridled passions, is so lenient as to give you hope for a future I trust you will study to make a better thing of than you have of the past. The sentence of the court is that you are kept in penal servitude for a period of fifteen years."As the judge's voice died into silence there came through the hush that followed the noise of a heavy fall. Some one had fainted—not the prisoner. Already he was practically on his way to that fifteen years of penal servitude, which was to help him to make a better thing of his life, and fainting or any other show of emotion would not have availed him much."It is Mr. Conway!" ran round the court; and then "Stand back!" "Give air, will you?" "Don't be crowding about him!" followed instantly.But Mark Barry did not fight his way towards Letitia's cousin; indeed, it may be doubtful whether he knew of his collapse.His mind was intent on the trial."Well, of all the duffers I ever heard," he said to Mr. Malet, " that counsel of Corrigan's was the worst. I only wish I'd had the cross-examining of some of the witnesses—that grinning fool of an inspector, for instance. I'm——" here Mark expressed himself with exceeding strength, "if I wouldn't have made them laugh on the wrong side of their mouths,——if I wouldn't! Lord, if this is the way men's lives are played with in Ireland, I'll forswear my native country. Fifteen years!—pah! I wouldn't have convicted a dog on such evidence—no, nor a cat either.""I fancy his counsel did all that was possible for the unfortunate man," urged Mr. Malet mildly."Perhaps you will tell me next that you think Corrigan is guilty?""I am very glad I was not on the jury; but it seems to me the presumption is all against his innocence. What was he doing on the spot at the critical instant?""If you come to that, what were you doing on the spot?" retorted Mark, with a savage quickness which made Mr. Malet feel very thankful Mr. Barry had not been able to ask him in court, "There was a sore feeling on your part against Mr. Conway, was there not, concerning the living of Mostrene?"CHAPTER XLVI.WELCOME HOME.A WEEK later Terence Conway was still lingering at Strabane, where his friends had persuaded him to rest ere returning to Calgarry. "And if you can induce him not to go back there at all for some time, so much the better," added his doctor.By common consent to Letitia was intrusted the delicate task of reconciling Terence to this arrangement, and, after gradually preparing the ground for a decisive attack, she opened fire one morning when the invalid was lying on a hard couch covered with haircloth, looking wearily out of window, and the rest of the party were employing themselves as best they might."I want to know, Terence—" she began.He turned his eyes towards her, and saying, "What is it now?" resigned himself."I want to know why you need go back to Calgarry at all?""Ever?" he asked."No, not ever—but now. You are not required there. Is he, Mr. Stirling?""Not so far as I am aware," answered that gentleman. "Everything is satisfactorily arranged with Mr. Norbury. Everything is satisfactorily arranged all round, I believe."'Then, Terence, what on earth do you want to go back for?" demanded Mrs. Barry."I should like to see the old place again," he answered."You would like to see folly," retorted the fair Letitia. "Any one else would be glad to see some new place, by way of a change. What is the use of taking such a journey for nothing? You are going for a long sea-voyage; you have no house in Donegal; your own is let, thank goodness, and I am sure it would be most inconvenient for Mr. Malet to have you on a visit again at present."By the bye, where is Mr. Malet?" asked Terence. "He was to have been with us on Monday, and he has not come.""He has got something better to do," answered Mrs. Barry, so significantly that her relative exclaimed,"He's surely not going to be married, is he?""I should call that having something worse to do," returned his cousin, quite forgetful of the special maladroitness of her retort, which called a swift colour into Mrs. Conway's face. "He has to think about his new living.""What new living?""The one Mr. Mulgrave's uncle has given him in Worcestershire: seven hundred a year—nothing to do—a beautiful house, and good society."This Letitia felt was a regular cannonade, and it so stunned Terence that he kept silence for full a minute afterwards."That was the reason then," he began at last, "you said it would be inconvenient to take me in at Calgarry Vicarage?""That was the reason. So now I hope you will not think of going back to Donegal, but follow the doctor's advice, and come with us straight to London. If you are to take that sea voyage at all which you have agreed to take, the sooner you start the better. I suppose you want to get well, and not to be an invalid for the rest of your days, and every one knows you will never be strong as long as you stay mooning here.""But, my dear Letitia, though it may not be necessary for me to return to Calgarry, I must go to Cork.""Why must you go to Cork?" asked Mrs. Barry. "Do you suppose no one can put things to right there except yourself? If you do you never made a greater mistake, I can tell you. Ann has gone there to make the house comfortable for Grace and Mrs. Ranger, and—""Tell me at once what you have all been settling you wish me to do?" said Terence. "I know you are only spokes-woman.""We want you to come to London, and take the first ship which sails for Australia. The sooner you go the sooner you will be back—""And Grace?"he asked."Grace will be very happy with Mrs. Ranger while you are away. She will come to London and see you off, and stay for a little while with me afterwards—unless, as I propose, she will go with you.""Will you, Grace?" cried her husband eagerly.The poor child flushed to her temples, and said,"I'm feared of the sea, as I told you before."Mark and Letitia looked across at each other, while Terence took the little brown hand timidly outstretched in his, and answered never a word."What a story-teller you are!" observed Mrs. Barry afterwards. "You know you are no more afraid of the sea than I am.""What does that matter?" returned the other. "He'll be better and happier without me, and that you are right sure of."So it was all settled. Terence travelled by slow stages to London, where he saw a great physician, who confirmed his humbler brother's opinion that a long sea voyage would be the best tonic he could take; and while Pat Corrigan was beginning that fifteen years the judge regarded as a good preliminary for making a capital thing of his life, his former master was preparing to go to Australia.Mr. Malet met him at the docks to say good-bye."If I ever see Calgarry again," said Terence, "it will not seem Calgarry to me.""Why not?""Because it will not be Calgarry without you; but I am glad for your sake, and I know it is all my own fault.""I am not going to leave Calgarry," answered the Vicar."Why, Letitia told me you had been offered a living in Worcestershire.""So I was—but I refused it. After thinking the matter over, I came to the conclusion I ought to stay in Donegal;" and after looking straight each in the other's face, they shook hands and parted; and Terence sailed away, and Grace remained for a little while as Mrs. Barry's guest."Never," said Letitia to her husband, "never was woman so weary as I. For no other person in the world except Terence would I have gone through what I have, and I never will for him again. The only thing that creature saw in London which interested her was, I verily believe, Philippa, in all her glory, driving through the Park. O dear! O dear!' she said. 'What's the matter?' I asked. 'There's Miss Dutton in that grand carriage. O my! but she's handsome.'""She's the Honourable Mrs. Hazard now," I answered,"and 'handsome is that handsome does.' The little fool came home with a bad headache and went to bed.""What a future Terence has to look forward to, poor devil!" said Mark. "Sometimes I almost am inclined to think it is a bad job his Donegal friend did not take a better aim."Often and often, as he lay awake in his berth, as he sat looking over the wide waste of ocean through which the good vessel ploughed her way, Terence felt he too wished the bullet intended to take his life had found its mark. He could see no hope in the future, he could find no satisfaction in the past; for ever Pat's face as he saw it in the dock was present to him, and beside that face dwelt a horrible doubt. The stronger he grew the more vivid became these phantoms, till he lelt he should know no rest till he had retraced his steps and stood on Irish soil once more.He could not tell what he should do when he got there.He was only sure every moment seemed an hour that passed ere that torturing dread could be resolved.For a time on the homeward journey the vessel was becalmed, and he really thought he should go mad.If he had been returning to a wife he adored, to a life bright with happiness, he could not have yearned more to see land.At last they sighted it. He had been absent nearly a year. A September sun was shining over the fields once again; over the pleasant English fields, whence the grain had been carried; over the Irish fields, where the wheat and the oats were ranged in picturesque stooks.It was late one afternoon ere he arrived at the nearest station to the place he desired to reach. There he took a car and drove through the gathering twilight home.He knocked loudly at the door, but no answer came, save those strange echoes which resound through an empty house.At last an old man came from some outbuilding, who said Mrs. Conway had long been gone, and her father too."Her father?" repeated Terence."Yes, sir; he only stayed till he got rid of the furniture. Mrs. Conway took her child and left one night unbeknown to any one."Terence did not answer—he could not. He had returned to find the terror which journeyed with him to Australia and back in possession of his hearth."Drive me to the station," he said hoarsely to the carman, after putting he never knew how much silver into the old fellow's hand, who wrapped the rug round Terence's feet, while muttering, "God preserve your honour!" "Sir," he added, as the driver jumped on the car, "Mr. Walley had started every one about the place before Mrs. Conway—Lord help her!—went."Stung with scorpions, lashed with furies, Terence travelled through the night.Nor resting, nor staying, he reached Calgarry next afternoon. "Mr. Malet will know," he thought; and unconsciously walked softly.Into the remembered library a servant he had never before seen ushered him.Mr. Malet was there, and rose at his entrance."My dear Terence! Thank God! But how is this? You could not have had my letter.""I have had no letter; but something stronger brought me home at once.""Thank God, once more!—with all my heart I thank Him!""Why?" That was all Terence could say.Mr. Malet hesitated for a minute, then he answered, "Because your wife is here very ill, and wants to see you. Come."He led the way up-stairs, but on the landing paused."Stop here till I come back," he said; and entered a bed-room in which Terence had slept many and many a time in his happy youth."Mrs. Conway.""Yes, Mr. Malet," replied a voice which held a tone Terence had never heard in that voice before."A friend is here who wants to see you. May he come in?""Surely," answered the voice, " it is Mr. Conway;" and then with a great pang Terence remembered he had never tried to make her call him " Terence."One step and he was in the room, and, kneeling by the bed-side, kissed Grace with a passion of sorrowful remorse such as had never stirred his heart before."My poor child, my darling, what is all this?" he said; and then she drew his head down upon her breast and answered never a word.Long before, Audna and her father had left the room noiselessly, and husband and wife were quite alone."You have been very ill?" Terence murmured at last."Ay," she replied."I came back as soon as I could," he went on. "You must make haste and get well.""Can you raise me up a bit?" she asked. "That'll do." And she sank back on the pillow he smoothed for her. "I'm thinking I'll soon be right well now."He looked at her as she lay with the light falling on her face, where death had already begun to trace his royal signature.A terrible pang shot through Terence's heart, which had never been a hard one. Could this poor pale thing, this shadow of a woman, be one with the Norah Creina who scarce three years before had made such a brilliant bit of colour on that wild hill-head? He could see her again, O Lord! just as he saw her then. It all came back—the wild afternoon, the sun going down in his glory, the lonely expanse of ocean, grass, and heather, lighted up only by a girl in the full beauty of her early youth.Terence's senses reeled. He felt then, if he had never felt before, that there must—judging even from what we are capable of suffering here—be a terrible hereafter, wherein men shall be judged according to their works.This was his work. All of a tremor, he took her in his arms, murmuring such words of love as he had never, after the first, whispered in her ear. But a Mightier than he was speaking to her also, and earth and the things of earth were growing as nothing now. All the night long he watched beside her; all the night long the Atlantic waves washed in on the shore, but at dawn the ebb came, and at dawn she went.About the sunrising, when weeping women were decently composing her wasted limbs and lovingly performing the last offices women could perform for poor Grace, Mr. Malet walked with Terence beside Calgarry Bay.Dashing tears of brine from his eyes, Terence brokenly reproached himself for leaving her."My dear boy," said the Vicar, " you could not have lived had you stayed here, and it would have made no difference as regarded this end, save that she was happier for your absence, believing that you were happier too."Then he went on to expound this apparent paradox concerning the lowly, loving creature who had gone where earthly grandeur and worldly distinctions could never trouble her again.No more unselfish spirit ever dwelt in a woman's body," said Mr. Malet with conviction. "She felt she was not a suitable wife for you, and that as the years went on her unfitness would trouble you increasingly, so she was glad to go 'before you rightly knew what a burden you had.' Her whole talk was about you. She never expressed a wish to live; but she did long to see you once more, 'just for a minute. But he can't be back in time, and, maybe, it's quite as well, for you'll tell him about the child—not that he'll need any telling.'""What of the child?" asked Terence hoarsely."She bade me say she hoped and prayed you would never let his grandfather get hold of him.""Walley? Poor darling! She might have been sure I would not.""'Ask Mr. Conway,' she said, 'to leave some piece of writing, so that wherever he goes my little boy will be left with some one fit to take care of him.'""I will do it to-day," cried Terence."Yes, I think you ought," answered Mr. Malet, both because he did think so, and because he hailed with joy the idea of any employment on that day for his friend. "Let us sit down for a moment; I have more to tell you. Not quite three months ago the poor girl arrived at the Vicarage, utterly exhausted. She told me her father had been 'carrying on, till she dursn't stop in the house;' that she ran away with the child when he was dead drunk; that he would kill her if he ever got sight of her; that she was very bad, and all she wanted was to die in peace.""God help me!" murmured Terence."I took her in, of course. If she had been the poorest and most lost of her sex, instead of your wife and, I believe, a woman utterly pure at heart, I should have done the same; and when I found that, in spite of rest and quiet, she was getting worse, I sent first for the doctor and then for the priest.""O, what can I say to you?" asked Terence, putting out his hand impulsively, which Mr. Malet grasped, while he went on:"The first said her case was hopeless—he found lung mischief of long standing, which probably accounted for what Mrs. Barry thought apathy; while the last went away looking very grave indeed. Knowing you would like no expense spared, I was about to write to Messrs. Bray &Lucan to send down the best Dublin physician they knew, when Mr. Norbury told me a great doctor from London was coming to stay with him. When he did come, he confirmed Dr. Callan's report. He said he feared little could be done to defer the end beyond a very brief period; but after a few visits he told me if she could be persuaded to divulge some trouble that was weighing on her mind, she might last a little longer. Acting on this hint, I spoke to her. I entreated of her to be frank with me; all in vain. Then I went to the priest. ' Poor child,' he said, 'she's sorely beset. Of course I know what is the matter with her, but I can't tell you. I'll advise her to do so, however; it is only right she should.'""Well, did she tell you?" asked Terence; "was it any trouble I could have saved her, my poor wife? Why did I not know? But I tried to do my best, I did!" And he turned his eyes towards the Atlantic, which he could not see by reason of the mist which blinded him."No, it was nothing you did or left undone. Told in brief, this is the substance of her story. It was not Corrigan who attempted your life, but Walley."For a second or two Terence did not speak; then he said, "Mr. Malet, you may think what I am saying strange; but I have known that for months. I should have known it from the first if I had been well enough to think." After which, covering his face with his hands, he talked to God in silence."We must see to this at once," he added aloud; not an hour must be lost in setting that wrong right;" and he started up as if to open Pat's prison door then and there."Sit down again," said Mr. Malet. "When I had once put matters into form, I did not lose a minute. I knew so well," he went on delicately, "what your wishes would be, I felt no hesitation in acting on them. The poor soul who has just left us knew nothing of what was being done, but after I once got her to make her statement before a magistrate I at once offered a reward of 200 l. for Daniel Walley. Of course he understood well enough why his daughter had left him: his wife would tell him, that in one of his drunken rages he told precisely what he had done, and why. (His idea was, once you were dead, the boy must succeed to Calgarry, and that he would have the handling of his grandson's cash). I thought all this over, and felt confident he had months before put the ocean between himself and Ireland. I knew we did not want to catch him, but at the same time saw we must seem anxious to do so. Then I employed all the influence I could, and the consequence is that very shortly I hope Corrigan will receive a free pardon.""For what?" asked Terence; "for being unjustly imprisoned?""That is the technical way of saying a man is innocent," answered Mr. Malet, with perhaps a little irony. "Now we had better be going home; it is time you tried to get some sleep.""I feel as though I never should sleep again," answered Terence; and in truth he rested but little till "all that was mortal" of his poor low-born young wife, who could never more offend his taste, who could never more try "sore to learn" and fail, who could never more sit wearily down by the wayside of life, was laid to rest among the proud Conways under the shadow of Muckish.She had been but little considered while she stayed in their midst, yet now she was dead all the best families in Donegal attended her funeral.Poor Grace, she had nothing to leave—her will could not be read, for the simple reason that she was leaving a world out of which she could take nothing, as poor as when she entered it, bringing nothing with her; yet when the death of Grace—wife of Terence Conway, Esq, of Calgarry, aged nineteen—was announced, a great pity stirred the heart of that stern land, and every mansion and many a cottage sent forth its representative. Archdeacon Conway was not present, but Mr. Malet stood beside Terence while a Roman Catholic priest, for the first time in the Conway annals, committed dust to dust in that vault hewn out of solid rock."It was a great burying," the peasantry said; "a terrible honour for the like of her to have the best of the county following, and Mr. Boyne and Mr. Norbury among the bearers."Had Sir Henry been present, he would have seen that to all appearance the old Duke, with the rest of the Conways, slept quietly in their last earthly habitation. How it had fared with their sinful souls no one could say; but presumably their bodies were mouldering away quite peacefully.All the way back to the Vicarage, Terence did not speak. Perhaps he was thinking of that other afternoon when he first met Grace, who made such a lovely figure in the landscape, and whose light feet would never press grass or heather more.Greatly to Mr. Malet's surprise, quite a little crowd was gathered around the Vicarage gate on their return. He did not attach any significance to the fact, though he wondered till he was met in the walk by one of his servants, who exclaimed:"O, God be thanked, sir, that you are back!""Why?""Because the child is gone.""Gone where?" he asked, in his bewilderment."Not a one of us knows. It was stolen out of its cradle; and Miss Audna is almost beside herself."It was true—the child had disappeared. Fairies never took anything more silently, or concealed their stolen treasure more effectually."This is Walley's doing," said the Vicar with conviction; and next morning Donegal was placarded over with bills offering 1000 l. for the recovery of the child, and 1000 l. for the apprehension of Daniel Walley.CHAPTER XLVII.CONCLUSION.NEITHER reward was ever claimed; but though day succeeding to day brought no tidings to Calgarry, Terence for a long time did not feel quite hopeless."Mark says, once we get poor Pat free, he will ferret Walley out—he knows all his haunts." But Mr. Malet shook his head."Don't build too much on Corrigan," he answered. "You must remember the Governor of the prison wrote to me he had met with a nasty accident, and he may not be able to help.""O yes, he will. Mark has promised to telegraph the moment the order for his release is issued, and I shall go down for the poor fellow myself and take him to Dublin, and then he must come back here. Mr. Stirling will find him a post.""Do you think he will care to come back here?" asked Mr. Malet; and then Terence, pausing after the manner of one who has met with an unexpected check, replied:"If not, some other place must be found, where he will care to go."How that case of Patrick Corrigan was cursed in many departments of Government it would be useless to tell.How hated Mark Barry made himself can be, perhaps, imagined. What a weary, weary time of waiting Terence Conway had to get through somehow will be understood; but, at length, a happy hour came when he found himself in the presence of the Governor asking for Pat—brimful of plans, eager to right a wrong he had not caused—anxious to see his old servant once again."He is in the infirmary," said the Governor."We will soon have him out," answered Terence, literally trembling with excitement."It is my painful duty to tell you he is very ill.""I hope he will soon get well away from here.""I think he likes being here," was the reply; "but you had better speak to him yourself."There was no prevision then in Terence's mind about what he had come so far to see.Near the fire a man sat, who rose as he entered, and, touching his forelock, smiled faintly. His face was worn, his hair gray, his figure bowed, and Terence did not recognise him—did not even imagine who it was."Do you not know me, sir?" he asked. "It is Pat.""My God!" said Terence, in an agony of remorse; and then he stood speechless, holding Corrigan's hand in his.Pat recovered himself first."You're in black, Mr. Conway. Is it for—""My wife,"said Terence, finishing the sentence; and then came another silence.After that they talked freely—about matters which lay close to both their hearts."I always deemed it was Walley put the police on me," said Pat. "If I had opened my lips maybe I'd never have been here. But how could I speak against her father? I did not think that morning when I set out for Calgarry I was starting on so long a journey; but this is far better nor America.""What do you mean?" asked Terence."That I am near the end now. Ah, sir, didn't they tell you? I'll never be better in this world, and I'm right happy to leave it.""Don't talk in that way; you must get better—we will go to Dublin—we will go to London together. There we can get the best advice in the world!" cried Terence, scarcely knowing what he said. "How soon shall you be ready to leave this place? Can't you come away now?"Pat shook his head."Where could I be as well as here?" he answered. "They've been kind to me beyond the common. I'm quite content, sir, so don't be fretting about me. I'm glad you know it wasn't me wanted your life. No, not even at the first such a thought never entered my mind.""O Pat! O, my poor fellow!" said Terence. "I meant to make you happy, and this is the end.""I am happy, sir," was the answer. "I'm right happy, as I told you before. Where I am going is a far better country nor America, and I am not a bit afraid of the journey."More than eight-and-twenty years have passed since Terence Conway returned to Donegal without Pat—humbled and, as he thought, broken-hearted. But Time lays balm on the deepest wounds, brings a strange comfort on its silent wings.Calgarry Bay is as beautiful as it ever was. Down on the landscape Muckish frowns darkly as of yore. The wash of the waves over the sunken rocks has never ceased during all those years, and Horn Head presents as stern and grand a front to the ocean as when we saw it first; but there have been great changes at Calgarry—where all the land Mr. Stirling brought into cultivation has yielded rich returns to the man who, spite of the wild winds and the barren soil, made almost a garden of that once howling wilderness.But the farms are as wretchedly tilled, and the people and their cattle almost as miserably housed, as ever. It was useless to build, it was useless to reclaim and improve the soil for those who desired nothing more than to be allowed to go on in the old ways their fathers had trodden.At the end of the seven years rents were not raised nor tenants evicted, but all the agent's energies were concentrated on bringing under cultivation vast tracts of land where previously the mountain sheep had found bare pasture or the wild fowl had nested and brought forth young.And into Calgarry House, Audna Malet took with her sweet face sunshine and happiness a quarter of a century since.For long her choice was a source of sorrow to her father; he had other views, and quite different hopes. He could not help being distrustful of Terence—it was impossible for him to avoid wishing his daughter's future should be linked with a past less sad than that which had graven lines on Terence Conway's heart.But at last he gave his consent to a marriage which has brought to the owner of Calgarry all the content he can ever know.Many children were born to him in the old house, who played by the ocean and ran races over the sands, unknowing of the dread which was ever in their father's heart concerning them.For he utterly failed to learn whether Walley was living or dead; and he has gone through existence with the constant conviction that an enemy followed him, biding his time.And though he had not loved his first-born, whose being was associated with all the misery of his life, he never could look on the children he did love without a pang rending him because of poor Grace's boy, who, to his fancy, was out in the furious storm and the beating rain, while his brothers and sisters were housed and snug and warm.After Captain Conway died, when Terence was left the whole of the mortgage money and a large sum besides, the owner of Calgarry became an exceedingly wealthy and prosperous man.It was just about that time he received a letter from a firm of London solicitors, informing him that Mr. Brian Conway, now of age, had placed his affairs in their hands, and asking what arrangement he proposed to make about the future of his eldest son. They were prepared to furnish Mr. Conway with proofs of his identity, and hoped the whole matter might be arranged in a friendly spirit.Terence adopted the best plan he could think of—the only sensible plan, indeed. He sent the letter to Mr. Reynolds, who, being eventually satisfied on the subject of identity, suggested a meeting between father and son.But the son declined to meet his father; all he desired to know was what income he had to expect. Mr. Reynolds said Mr. Conway would invest for him such a sum as would return five hundred a year, and provide funds for him to enter any profession he chose."Then practically my father disinherits me," said the youth."I don't know what you call disinheriting. Many a man would think a great deal of five hundred a year.""One may be of some use to one's fellow creatures with that income, certainly," was the reply, which made Mr. Reynolds stare."About the profession, then?" he said."I have been always intended for the priesthood," was the answer."Phew!" exclaimed Mark Barry, when Mr. Reynolds told him this. "I only hope he will not select Donegal as the scene of his ministry.""You may be very sure that is precisely what he will do," returned Mr. Reynolds.Bond or free, in Ireland, America, or the next world, Walley had taken good care to secure an ample revenge for all wrongs real and supposed!There are those who, seeing Terence Conway prosperous, happily married, blessed with children, given to all good works, leading a quiet and useful life, say that at last the Nun's Curse is lifted from Calgarry—but the owner himself holds a different opinion.With a son, almost at his gates, whose face is that of long-dead Grace, but whose nature resembles his maternal grand-father—who has come to preach no gospel of peace, but one of vengeance, bitterness, and all uncharitableness—who, under the cloak of love for the poor, incites the poor to hate the rich—Terence must be deaf indeed if he failed to hear the faint mutterings of a storm which will one day burst in all its fury over doomed Calgarry, and very possibly uproot the Conways from their native soil.THE END.