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 THE CELTIC LIBRARY 
 
 PRESENTED BY 
 
 CLARK SUTHERLAND NORTHUP 
 
 CLASS OF 1893 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PR 5377.S5G5 
 
 Glenanaar, a story of Irish life, 
 
 3 1924 013 547 900 
 
Library 
 
 The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013547900 
 
GLENANAAR 
 
By canon SHEEHAN, D.D. 
 
 Luke Delmege: A Novd. 
 
 Lisheen: or the Test of the Spirits. A Novel. 
 
 GlENANAAx: A Novel of Irish Life. 
 
 The Bixndness of Dr. Gray: A Novel of Irish Life. 
 
 Miriam Lucas: A Novel. 
 
 The Queen's Fillet: A Novel. 
 
 The Graves at Kilmorna: A Story of '67. 
 
 Parerga: a Companion Volume to " Under the 
 Cedars and the Stars." 
 
 The Intellectuals: An Experiment in Irish Club- 
 Life. 
 
 Canon Sheehan op Doneraile: The Story of an Irish 
 Parish Priest as told chiefly by himself in Books, 
 Personal Memoirs aiid Letters. By Herman J. 
 Heuser, D.D. 
 
GLENANAAR 
 
 A STORY OF IRISH LIFE 
 
 BY 
 
 
 THE VERY REV, 
 
 
 CANON P. A. SHEEHAN, 
 
 D.D., 
 
 Author of 
 
 
 "My New Curate"; "Luke Delmege" 
 
 • "Under the 
 
 Cedars and the Start "; " Lost An 
 
 qel of a 
 
 Ruinea Paradise "; etc., etc 
 
 
 New Impression 
 
 LONGMANS, 
 
 GREEN, 
 
 AND 
 
 CO. 
 
 55 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK 
 
 LONDON, BOMBATi 
 
 , CALCUTTA AND 
 
 MADRAS 
 
 
 
 1922 
 
 c 
 
 
 
Ofpyright, igo4, igoj, *f 
 THE DOLPHIN PRESS 
 
 Copyright, 1905, &j) 
 CONGMANS, GREEN, AMD OA 
 
 
 First edition May. 190; 
 
 Reprinted, Mny, igio 
 
 Reprinted, November, 1913 
 
 Reprinted, January, 1918. 
 
 Reprinted, January, 193a 
 
 ntlNTBD IN THB UNITED STATES 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CBAPTER rAOB 
 
 I. The Yank i 
 
 ri. Confidences lo 
 
 III. Threads of Destiny 20 
 
 IV. ASTSAEA AND HeR TeMPLE .... 39 
 
 V. A Night Ride 43 
 
 VI. 4-VE Liberator/ ....... 52 
 
 VII. AsTRABA Redux 64 
 
 Vin. Waifs 73 
 
 IX. NODLAG 83 
 
 X. The Midnight Oath 97 
 
 XI. FORESHADOWmGS Ill 
 
 Xn. The Great SnoW 122 
 
 XIII. A Wedding and a Warning .... 132 
 
 XIV. A Midnight Synod 144 
 
 XV. The Old Order Changeth .... 155 
 
 XVI. What of the Fates? 165 
 
 XVn. An Old Man's Dream 175 
 
 XVIII. A Life FOR A Life 184 
 
 XIX. A Flight and a Return 197 
 
 V 
 
CEAPTEK 
 
 *^UiN 1 ililN 1 a 
 
 V 
 
 TAGS > 
 
 XX. 
 
 Hagar and Ishmael . . 
 
 . . . 2IO 
 
 VI 
 
 XXI. The Inevitable 223 
 
 XXII. The Revelations 231 
 
 XXIII. Parted 240 
 
 XXIV. The Phantom Again 250 
 
 XXV. After Many Years 260 
 
 XXVI. An Ancient Rebel .'271 
 
 XXVII. Rejected 285 
 
 XXVIII. Accepted 297 
 
 XXIX. From Lake Shoshone . . . ;. . 308 
 
GLENANAAR 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 HE suddenly appeared in our village street, gor' 
 geous, and caparisoned from head to heel in all 
 kinds of sartorial splendour. He took away our breath 
 with his grandeur; and people looked at him sideways, 
 partly because of his dazzling equipment, and partly 
 because he had a curious habit of looking one straight 
 in the face, which is sometimes disconcerting. We did 
 not like him at all, at all. By "we" I mean the vil- 
 lagers and myself. They did not like him, because he 
 was stiff and standoffish; and they heard that he was 
 critical and censorious about our ancient and amiable 
 customs; and he steadily declined all advances toward 
 that friendly famiUarity which we like so dearly. He 
 was also an impenetrable mystery to a very inquisitive 
 people; and what greater crime could there be? They 
 had gallantly attempted to get at the secret of his life. 
 It was an interesting, and even exciting pastime to a 
 people who, having no particular business of their own 
 to mind, are charitably desirous to mind that of every 
 one else. But no! He declined all famiUarity. He 
 would walk with one of those amateur detectives for 
 
2 GLENANAAR 
 
 an hour; speak on all possible subjects but one; and 
 leave the poor man as much as ever in the dark as to 
 his own personality and antecedents. Nay, he was 
 such a "naygur," he would not ask the companion 
 who had lent him his society for the hour, "whether 
 he had a mout' on him." So he was decidedly unpop- 
 ular. It was given out, after a long search, and many 
 kindly insinuations, that his name was "Fijaral" (our 
 local interpretation of "Fitzgerald"), but that was soon 
 discarded as apocryphal and untenable. And so, at 
 l&st, he came to be known as "The Yank." Once he 
 was seen haunting an ancient moss-grown field, in 
 which were two Danish barrows or forts; and the 
 report immediately went abroad that he had dreamt 
 three times running that a crock of gold was buried 
 there; and he had come home to dig for the treasure. 
 And more than once he was seen, some miles from 
 the village, leaning sadly against an old, withered, leaf- 
 less and gnarled white thom, or smoking leisurely and 
 contemplating the little square of grass-grown, nettle- 
 covered field where were faintly outlined the last traces 
 of what was once a human habitation. 
 
 I cannot say that I hked him much more than the 
 villagers. He answered my salutation, "A fine day," 
 rather gruffly, and once when J ventured a little further, 
 and said cheerily: 
 
 "Coming back to settle down in the old land, I 
 hope?" he looked me all over, and said, deep down in his 
 chest, and without any attempt to disguise his irritation: 
 
 "Great Scott!" 
 
"THE YANK" S 
 
 Besides, it was not conducive to the peace of mind 
 of our young villagers to see him, in languid ease, 
 standing at the door of the hotel, morning, noon, and 
 night. He was there at early dawn, when the mill- 
 hands went to work. He was there at noon, when 
 they returned to dinner. He was there when the six- 
 o'cLck bell tolled out for cessation of work in the 
 evening, and the convent and church bells rang out 
 melodiously the Angelus. And I knew well, that when 
 the old men, with reverent, uncovered heads, as they 
 repeated the prayer of the Incarnation, passed by that 
 hotel door, and saw "the Yank," so well dressed, with 
 such heavy gold chains and seals, and such shining 
 square- top boots, they said sorrowfully to themselves: 
 
 "Ah, if I had only crossed the wather whin I was a 
 boy!" 
 
 And I knew that the young men, seeing the same 
 never-to-be-envied-enough spectacle, made frantic reso- 
 lutions, that as soon as they "gethered" the passage 
 money, they, too, would seek the El Dorado of the 
 West. So in a little while I ceased to notice him, and 
 set him down as a conceited, purse-proud fellow, who 
 had httle love left for his faith and motherland. It was 
 not the only occasion when I was mistaken in judging 
 appearances; and in not seeing that there is a human 
 heart beating in every breast, even though we cannot 
 
 witness or count its pulsations. 
 
 4: * * * 
 
 It was a Sunday afternoon in the late summer. 
 There was a tournament in the Park. In past times 
 
4 GLENANAAR 
 
 it used to be called a hurling-match, but we are going 
 ahead in Ireland, and we call things now by their 
 proper names. It was a big affair, — the culmination 
 and critical finish of all the many local trials of strength 
 that had taken place in the past year. It was the final 
 "try" for the County championship between the Cork 
 "Shandons," and our own brave "Skirmishers." There 
 was a mighty crowd assembled. Sidecars, waggonettes, 
 traps of every shape and hue and form, from the 
 farmer's cart with the heavy quilt to the smart buggy 
 of the merchant, brought in all the afternoon a great 
 concourse of people, who were anxious to put down 
 the Sunday evening in the best possible manner by 
 witnessing this great joust of Irish athletes. We are 
 no Sabbatarians in Ireland. Neither are we quite 
 depleted yet. It would surprise any one famiUar with 
 all the modem, doleful jeremiads about the depopula- 
 tion of Ireland to see such a smartly dressed, bright, 
 intelligent crowd in a country village. And if he had 
 any misgivings or doubts about the physique and pluck 
 of "the fighting race," he had only to stand still, when 
 the athletes stripped for the contest, and see in those 
 clean-cut, well-built figures the nerve and muscle that 
 go to build up an energetic and pushing race. 
 
 The sun was shaded under banks of great clouds, 
 and shed a pale, clear light on the landscape, without 
 the inconvenience of much heat. The great belt of 
 trees to the west was just being dappled from its russet 
 green by the first tints of approaching autumn. A 
 light warm wind stirred their leaves. The cattle 
 
"THE YANK" 5 
 
 browsed calmly away upon the forest slopes. And 
 there was a deep hush of expectancy over all these 
 assembled thousands. It was. to be a great trial of 
 strength between two nearly matched clubs, in which 
 grit, and wind, and pluck, and muscle, and science 
 were to be put to their final test. 
 
 At three o'clock the teams were called to their 
 places by their respective captains. There was a 
 brief consultation with the referee, a coin was flung 
 into the air, sides were taken, the winners turning 
 their backs to the wind, and in a moment, one could 
 only see that ball tossed hither and thither in the 
 struggle, and a confused mass of men and camans, 
 as they fought fiercely for victory and the tide of the 
 battle rolled uncertain here and there across the field. 
 And the combatants were curiously silent. This, too, 
 is a modem characteristic, and a wholesome one. 
 Instead of the whoops and yells of olden times, the 
 words of fierce encouragement or expostulation, the 
 cry of victory, and the curse of defeat, one only saw 
 the set faces and the flying figures, the victory snatched 
 out of the hands of one, the defeat of the other re- 
 trieved, and the swift, tumultuous passion that swayed 
 these young athletes as they strained every nerve in 
 the all-important struggle for victory. 
 
 Not a word , broke from that whirling mass, as 
 the heavy ball leaped hither and thither, tossed by the 
 camans from hand to hand, or rolled swiftly over the 
 level grass, as some young athlete, with the fleetness 
 of a deer, tapped it on before him, until he brought 
 
6 GLENANAAR 
 
 it within reach of the coveted goal. You heard only 
 the patter of feet, the light or heavy tap-tap-tap on 
 the ball, the crack of the camans as they crossed in 
 the air above or on the grass beneath; and now and 
 again the screams of women and girls, who stampeded 
 wildly when the ball was driven into their midst, and 
 the fierce flying combatants, with heaving breasts and 
 starting eyes, forgot their chivalry and carried the 
 tumult of battle right in amongst their excited sisters. 
 Indeed, the whole excitement seemed to be hmited 
 to the spectators, who cheered and lamented, encour- 
 aged or rebuked the silent athletes on whom the hon- 
 our of the flag depended. One alone amidst the din 
 and tumult of the field maintained a stoical composure, 
 and that was "the Yank." He stood apart and 
 watched the strife, as impassive as an Indian chief, 
 apparently regardless as to which side victory swayed; 
 and altogether taking but an academic and far-off 
 interest in the entire affair. 
 
 At half-past four the teams were almost on a tie, 
 the "Skirmishers" having two goals to their credit, 
 and the "Shandons" one goal and some points. The 
 final tussle was just about to come off, when it was 
 annnounced that the local captain had been taken sud- 
 denly ill, and had been ordered off the field. There 
 was consternation in the ranks of the "Skirmishers." 
 Just on the point of victory, their hopes were dashed 
 to the ground. They held a long and eager consul- 
 tation; and finally decided to enlist one or other of 
 the spectators, who had been members of the Club, 
 
"THE YANK" 7 
 
 but not picked men. These shook their heads. The 
 issue was too important. They would not take the 
 responsibility. Five o'clock was near; and the referee 
 was about to give his final decision in favor gf the 
 strangers, when, to the astonishment of everyone, "the 
 Yank," throwing away a half-burned cigar, and calmly 
 divesting himself of coat and waistcoat, which he 
 carefully rolled up and placed in the hands of a spec- 
 tator, came forward, took up a caman, tested it, as if 
 it were a Toledo blade, by leaning all his weight upon 
 it, and said in an accent of cool iadiflerence: 
 "Let me take a hand: I guess I can manage it." 
 Thare was a general laugh. The "Shandons" were 
 delighted. They noticed the grey hairs in his head 
 and beard. The "Skirmishers" demurred; but one 
 wise fellow, who had been studying the splendid build 
 of "the Yank," winked apd said: 
 " Yes, we'll take him. Put him right inside the goal." 
 The excitement rose rapidly with this new event. 
 The disabled Captain heard of it, and insisted upon 
 being taken back to see the issue. No matter if he 
 died on the field of battle! "Where can man die 
 better?" etc., etc. The ball was once more tossed 
 high, the victory swayed from one side to the other; 
 the cheers rose wildly and voluminously from the 
 adherents of both teams; until, at last, the "Shan- 
 dons," pressing home for victory, drove the ball right 
 under "the Yank's" legs. The foremost champion, 
 rushing fotward to get it through the goal, found 
 himself, he knew not how, about twenty feet away 
 
8 i GLENANAAR 
 
 from the ball; and then it seemed as if a cyclone had 
 struck the field. At least, a straight path was cut 
 through the swaying, confused mass of the combatants, 
 who in some mysterious way yielded right and left. 
 Disregarding all modem rules and regulations, "the 
 Yank" had struck straight before him; and with his 
 powerful arms and shoulders had cut his way as clean 
 as a swathe of ripe com is levelled by the teeth of the 
 mowing-machine in the early harvest time. He swept 
 ' along quite close to where I was standing, and once 
 I heard him panting: T'ainim an diaoul. Then I 
 knew he was Irish; and my heart went out to him. 
 A few cries of "A foul! a foul!" were raised; but they 
 were hushed into ignominious silence by the plaudits 
 of the crowd, whose feehngs of respectful aversion 
 were suddenly converted into a paroxysm of unstinted 
 admiration. "Go it, Yaijk!" "Cheers for the 'Stars 
 and Stripes'!" "Give them 'Hail Columbia,' old 
 fellow!" echoed on every side, until the whole mad 
 tumult culminated in a wild Irish cheer, as the ball 
 flew swiftly over the heads of the rival combatants, 
 and, despite the frantic e£Forts of the goal-keeper on 
 the "Shandons"' side, passed out gaily through the 
 gates of the goal. Just as the "Yank" stmck the ball 
 the blow that gained the victory, there was a wild, 
 mad rush toward him; and under its weight he was 
 flung down, whilst the whole human mass squirmed 
 over him. There was a wild shout of indignation 
 from the field, for he had suddenly become their hero; 
 and it seemed like revenge for defeat. . When they 
 
"THE YANK" d 
 
 were raised, one by one, "the Yank" was unable to 
 lift himself. A hundred willing hands offered to help 
 him; and there were some angry threats toward those 
 who had felled him. A few distinctively GaeUc ques- 
 tions were also put: 
 
 "You're not dead, are you?" 
 
 " Wal, no," he said, leisurely, but with a gesture of pain, 
 "but I guess there are broken bones somewhere, anyhow." 
 
 He was gently raised on a stretcher, and carried in 
 triumph from the field. As the bearers were passing 
 out the front gate, the captain of the local team came 
 forward and proffered his thanks for the assistance 
 given. He looked wretchedly ill, but he thought he 
 had this duty to perform. 
 
 "Wal," said the Yank, in his own cool way, "I 
 guess we did Uck them. But, young man, you go 
 home, and liquor up as fast as you can." 
 
 Half-way down the street, an old man, looking 
 sideways at the hero, said aloud: 
 
 "Begobs, there was nothin' seen Uke it since Casey 
 the Hurler's time." 
 
 The Yank raised himself with diflSculty, and fixing 
 his eyes on the old man, he said: 
 
 "Say that agin. Mister!" 
 
 "I say," repeated the old man, somewhat embar- 
 rassed now, " that there was ■ nothin' seen Uke that 
 since Terence Casey single-handed bate the parishes 
 of Ardpatrick and Glenroe." 
 
 "That was a long time ago, I guess," said the 
 Yank, leaning back helplessly again. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 CONFIDENCES 
 
 If for no other reason but because he had so gallantly 
 saved the honour of our parish, I was bound to call on 
 him. That Uttle expression, too, Tainim an diaoul, 
 that escaped from him in the heat of the contest, was 
 eloquent of much. It showed that there was a deep, 
 volcanic fire of Irish feeUng under that cold crust of 
 his American manner. Nature will break out and 
 show itself in spite of every kind of artificial envelop^ 
 ment. But I felt, too, that there was something in 
 the man above the common average. I have a de- 
 cided partiality for those silent fellows, who never 
 talk, but somehow cut in at decidedly critical moments, 
 and by quick, emphatic action, solve difiiculties and 
 end suspense, or compel that fickle dame, Fortune, 
 to change her mind, and that, too, without delay. 
 
 I called at the hotel. He was in bed, badly bruised, 
 but he looked as calm and imperturbable as ever. 
 He received me with his usual coldness, answered in 
 brief interjections my soUcitous inquiries, chilled me, 
 in fact, to the very marrow of my bones, until I was- 
 glad of the chance of getting away with the conscious- 
 ness that I had done my duty. Then, just as I was 
 turning away, he said: 
 
CONFIDENCES 11 
 
 "I'm much obliged for your visit, Father. I do 
 hope you will soon come again!" 
 
 That upset all my calculations. What a country 
 America must be, I thought, when a poor fellow has 
 to wear such a coat of mail of cold polished steel 
 aroimd him to cover his natural warmth and sincerity! 
 I came again and again. We became fast friends. 
 
 Now, I had become much fascinated by what that 
 old man had said, on the day of our great triumph, 
 about Casey the Hurler, because amongst my remi- 
 niscences of a thrice beloved curacy two refrains of 
 popular ballads were continually recurring to lip and 
 memory. The one was the chorus of a famous elec- 
 tion ballad in those days when we had borough elec- 
 tions in Ireland; and when fun, fighting and whiskey 
 were the order of the day. The other was a more 
 recent Homeric effusion, chanted outside my windows 
 in later years when I had a more appreciative sense 
 of the value of ballad literature as enshrining the 
 local history of the country. It was generally sung 
 in strophes, and by two voices, male and female 
 alternately, both combining in the fourth and final 
 line. It ran thus: 
 
 Then here's to bould young Casey, 
 Like a lion did he chase ye, 
 From the Galtees to the Funcheon, 
 From the Funcheon to the say; 
 Sure nayther Mars nor Hecthor 
 Would ever prove the victhor, 
 When bould young Casey's hurley. 
 It went dancing through the fray. 
 
18 GLENANAAR 
 
 "Bould young Casey" became a dim demigod in 
 my imagination, because, being somewhat enthusiastic 
 about Gaelic pastimes, I felt that this athlete was 
 great, excelling, unrivalled in his own department, and 
 that he was, in fact, a hero. 
 
 It was with no vulgar sense of a prurient and un- 
 chastened curiosity, therefore, that I introduced the 
 subject to the invalid in one of our numerous friendly 
 conferences by his bedside. I think that the man 
 that picks secrets is a hundred times worse than the 
 fellow who picks pockets; and, indeed, it was with a 
 certain kind of alarm I ascertained that "the Yank" 
 was none other than the redoubtable Casey himself. 
 I had a certain awe of him, as you feel before a great 
 personage who has hitherto been to you but a name; 
 and I had also a dim presentiment that there was a 
 story, perhaps a tragedy, behind this incognito. The 
 secret leaked out in this wise. 
 
 He was complaining of the attendance at the hotel, 
 — that it was not all a sick man had a right to expect, 
 etc. 
 
 "Well," I said, "the waiter is a good fellow, except 
 when he takes 'liminade, which does not agree with 
 him, because he says he has a 'wake' stomach; and 
 the doctor told him to avoid anything sweet. But it 
 seems to me, if you will pardon the suggestion, that 
 you need a woman's hand around you here, to tidy 
 up things a little, to get your drinks, etc." 
 
 "Wal, I was thinking so, too, myself," he said. 
 "But you see I don't like to offend those good people" 
 
CONFIDENCES 13 
 
 (which showed that he was a gentleman in heart and 
 feeling); "they have been very kind in their own way. 
 And then, well, your people, my good Father, are not 
 quite — shall I say, methodical enough — " 
 
 I guessed what he meant; and I flared up a little. 
 
 "As for that," I said, "I can get you as neat-handed 
 and as tidy a little woman as you'd get in Chicago or 
 Boston. She is a poor little widow with two of the 
 sweetest children you'd see in a day's walk; and I 
 guarantee that you'll like her." 
 
 "Widows are dangerous, Father," he said, smiling. 
 "We've old Tony Weller's authority for that. But 
 where is she from? From this parish?" 
 
 "No," I said, "not from here. I think she has come 
 down from the hills over there near Glen-an-aar " 
 
 I thought he looked frightened, because his eyes 
 widened, and he got quite white beneath them. He 
 said nothing for a while, but only shook his head. 
 Then: — 
 
 "Let it drop. Father! It wouldn't do, nohow." 
 
 Now, I marvelled much at this. I knew that Glen- 
 anaar was the Valley of Slaughter, and that a terrific 
 battle had been fought there several centuries before 
 the Christian era between the Tuatha-de-Danaans 
 and, I think, the Firbolgs. Is not the mountain stream, 
 amber, or wine-coloured, or tawny, called the Own-an- 
 aar, the River of Slaughter, to this day? Biit what 
 could that have to do with a returned American in 
 the very last decade of the nineteenth century? But 
 I let it drop. He wished it so; and there was an end 
 
14 GLENANAAR 
 
 of the matter. But we did manage to tidy things up 
 somehow, even without the help of the artistic waiter. 
 
 One day when he was nearly convalescent, I said 
 to him: 
 
 "You'll be prepared for an ovation, my dear sir, 
 when you are setting out for America. The people 
 are so enthusiastic about your great feat that they will 
 insist on inflicting on you some kind of popular 
 demonstration to show their gratitude." 
 
 "I hope not," he replied. "I came over just to see 
 things for myself and to remain quiet, and to return 
 safe." 
 
 " That won't do, my dear fellow," I replied. " They're 
 already chanting your praises by reviving an ancient 
 ballad, styled The Life and Adventures of Terence 
 Casey, the famous Hurler." 
 
 Again he was much disturbed, and looked in a 
 pleading way at me. Then, he got suddenly angry: 
 
 "Why the d — 1," he cried, "cannot they leave a fel- 
 low alone when he comes amongst them? I suppose 
 now, some inquisitive fellow has been searching and 
 raking up all my past; and it will be flung in my face 
 again." 
 
 I marvelled much at this sudden explosion of fury 
 from such a tranquil fellow. I marvelled much more 
 at the allusion. He saw my perplexity, and dissolved 
 it. 
 
 "Look here. Father," he said. "'Tis your business 
 to keep secrets, is it not?" 
 
 "Yes," I said, "some." 
 
CONFIDENCES 15 
 
 "AH, he cried passionately. "If I thought a priest 
 could blab about anything, I'd not trust him even in 
 confession." 
 
 "'Tis quite true," I replied. "Whatever you en- 
 trust to us as a secret will be inviolably preserved a 
 secret, wherever it is spoken." 
 
 "So I thought," he replied. "Now, I want none 
 of these folks to know who I am, or what I came here 
 for. They have been ferreting around here the last 
 couple of months to find out who I am. I can't see 
 what the d — 1 it is to them. They have bribed even 
 the unfortunate waiter to tell them the name on my 
 trunk and linen." 
 
 "That's going rather far," I rephed. "I always 
 gave them cre4it for drawing the line at a man's letters 
 and his own revelations. Inside that, of course, curi- 
 osity is almost a virtue. It really springs from benev- 
 olence." 
 
 "I can't understand that, nohow," he replied. "It 
 seems to me that you folks would do better, if you 
 would try mind your own business." 
 
 "Now, that's all your American prejudice," I re- 
 plied. "Or rather your Anglo-Saxon tradition; for 
 you Americans, unknown to yourselves, are Anglo- 
 Saxons. Why, I'm told that over there a man might 
 be your next-door neighbour for twenty years, and you 
 mightn't know his name, or what he has for breakfast. 
 Now, I call that downright selfishness. You must 
 be awfully afraid of each other, when you lock up 
 every secret in that way. Now, look at usl If my 
 
16 GLENANAAR 
 
 mare casts a shoe, or develops a splint, every man, 
 woman, and child in the parish knows it in twenty- 
 four hours. If I go up to Cork, everyone is asking 
 where I am gone, and how long I shall remain away. 
 And if I confess the least ignorance of what is going 
 on in the parish, from Glenanaar to Twopothouse, 
 they won't scruple to tell me I am a hermit; and that 
 I ought to be a Trappist monk. So, too, if a baby is 
 bom, we all want to know whether it is a boy or a 
 girl, whether it is like the father or mother, when it 
 will be baptized, what will be its name. And when 
 a man dies, we all go to his fimeral, and while away 
 the time between our prayers by asking how much he 
 left behind him, and who was to get it. Before he is 
 settled in his coffin, every old woman in the parish 
 must have a look at him, and a pull at his habit to see 
 is the hood straight; and when the coffin is lowered to 
 its last resting-place, there is generally a hot dispute 
 as to whether it is geometrically arranged. Then all 
 take a last look at the breastplate to see how old he 
 is; some shake their heads, as if even in his grave he 
 was not quite candid about his age; then with a final 
 valediction, 'He was an hones' man; God rest him!' 
 all depart satisfied with their own benevolence. Now, 
 I caU that Christian charity and kindUness, not like 
 your pagan exclusiveness." 
 
 "Wal," he said, Ufting up his hands wearily after 
 this homily, "I can't make it out. You are queer 
 folks over here." 
 
 "Maybe we are," I said, a little nettled, for nothing 
 
CONFIDENCES 17 
 
 angers me so much as this aflfectation of superiority 
 on the part of people whom we could teach for the 
 next thousand years. "But I tell you, you have a lot 
 to learn from us yet." 
 
 "Wal, to cut matters short," he said, "I'm Terence 
 Casey 1" 
 
 "Casey, the Hurler?" I cried, amazed at this sudden 
 impersonation of my ideal hero. 
 
 "Yes," he replied, "but you mustn't mention it even 
 after I'm gone." 
 
 "Certainly," I replied, "your secret will be relig- 
 iously respected. But ^— would you allow me to 
 touch your hand?" 
 
 "For what?" he said, starting back. 
 
 "Only to satisfy my hero-worship," I said. "You 
 must know, my dear fellow, that for over twenty years 
 you have been associated in my mind with the gods 
 of Grecian fable, with Ajax and Achilles, not to speak 
 of the Mars or Hector of the ballad. Why, if it were 
 known that you were Casey, I don't know what honours 
 would be heaped oh you. The band would be out 
 every night to serenade you; you'd have had deputa- 
 tions from every Gaelic club in the country; and I'm 
 quite sure you'd be presented with an illuminated 
 address on your return to the 'Stars and Stripes.'" 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 "It is a good escape," he said. "But, Father, I 
 bind you to your promise of secrecy. No one must 
 know who I am, and why I am here." 
 
 "As to the first part," I said, "'tis all right. No 
 
18 GLENANAAR 
 
 one knows who you are, or ever shall know, so far as 
 I am concerned. As to the seCond clause of the secret, 
 every man, woman, and child in the village knows 
 what you came for!" 
 
 " No ? " he interrogated with alarm. " What is it ? " 
 
 "Why, what could it be," I said, "but to take back 
 an Irish wife to the States? Why, every httle colleen 
 in the parish thinks that she will be your choice." 
 
 "The Irish are the devils painted," he said, sinking 
 into the pillows. 
 
 "That's a matter of opinion," I said. "My own 
 impression is, that they're angels without the paint. 
 At any rate, I can guarantee you a score of young 
 colleens here, any one of whom would do credit to the 
 finest brownstone mansion on the banks of the Hudson 
 or Mississippi. I?ll go farther and declare that you 
 might pick out one or two who would grace the par- 
 quetted floor of the White House itself." 
 
 "I've heard you saying these things, or something 
 like them, off the altar, since I came home," he said. 
 "But, of course, you exaggerate. You good Irish 
 priests think Ireland the 'hub' of the universe. But 
 these good people have guessed rightly, but not in the 
 way they think. I came to Ireland not to lose my 
 heart, but to get rid of an image that's there these 
 twenty years." 
 
 "The only way," I replied, "to manage that, is to 
 paint another over it." 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 "Many and many a fair picture has been painted 
 
CONFIDENCES 19 
 
 over it," he said, "but 'tis of no use. That face will 
 come up through all. 'Twill haunt me to my dying 
 day. Unless " 
 
 He stopped. 
 
 "Unless I can see it again, but that's not likely. 
 I was hoping that she had changed, and that I might 
 see the change, and be freed from the ghost of that 
 face. Or, if there were no change, to make it mine 
 own forever." 
 
 "Twenty years is a long time," I said. "Few are 
 unchanged in so long a period." 
 
 "True," he repUed. "That's why I despair." 
 
CHAPTER m 
 
 THREADS OF DESTINY 
 
 JirsT around the comer, as you turn toward Butte- 
 vant, lived the httle woman whom I had so confidently 
 recommended to the Yank as an amateur nurse. She 
 was small of stature, and somewhat faded in beauty, 
 both by reason of the transforming power of Time and 
 the more destructive agencies of trouble and want. 
 Yet there was a strange, pensive look in her face, as 
 of one who lived altogether in the past; and a tone of 
 quiet resignation, as of one who had parted with the 
 interests of life and was looking habitually toward 
 eternity. This feature, however, did not prevent her 
 from being cheerful, and even happy; and no one 
 could suspect from the bright way in which she spoke 
 that there was a deeper and holier feeling in her heart. 
 You should come on her unawares to know that that 
 steady gazing into the fire, or that abstracted look 
 through her Uttle shop-window, was that of one who 
 saw all earthly things rounded in the circle of eternity. 
 She was never seen on the street, except in the early 
 morning, when she was the first to take her place in 
 an obscure comer of the church to hear early Mass. 
 Even then no one noticed her, as she glided through 
 the street with her black shawl folded tightly around 
 
 20 
 
THREADS OF DESTINY 21 
 
 her and covering her head. She studiously avoided 
 all village gossipers, and therefore was never impli- 
 cated in a quarrel. At first this was resented as a 
 sign of exclusiveness and pride. Then it was un- 
 noticed, or noticed only to be respected. She had 
 two children, — Teresa, or Tessie, the eldest, just 
 breaking into womanhood; and so perfect a picture 
 of her mother, as she had been in her youth, that 
 friends who had not seen them for a long time used to 
 address her as " Nora," — her mother's name. Her 
 younger sister, Kathleen, was of a different type. For 
 whereas Tessie was grave, even to solemnity, and 
 seemed to have inherited her mother's pensiveness 
 with her beautiful features, Kathleen was so vivacious, 
 so fond of being out of doors, and romping and play- 
 ing, that her mother always spoke of her as "that 
 Tomboy." Several times I was requisitioned to lec- 
 ture her severely on these little indiscretions of youth, 
 but somehow I always broke down in the attempt. 
 Her look of demure' gravity would disarm a more 
 unrelenting Mentor; and besides, I knew she could 
 quote against me several little lectures that I impru- 
 dently gave in school, to the effect that they should 
 cram into their childhood years all the sunshine and 
 happiness they could find; for that the skies would 
 become grayer as they advanced in life and walked 
 under shadows not of their own seeking. But they 
 were both sweet children, as I told the Yank; and 
 Tessie, who had passed through the usual curriculum 
 of studies, was now learning such accomplishments as 
 
22 GLENANAAR 
 
 music, painting on glass and plaques, fancy needle- 
 work, etc. I have some specimens on my own walls 
 of her beautiful handiwork. 
 
 They were extremely poor. The wretched little 
 shop, with its window blocked with packages of Col- 
 man's Mustard, Cadbuiy's Cocoa, etc., did not realize 
 in its stock these splendid advertisements. A ie^f{ red 
 herrings hung from the ceiling, and a few strings of 
 onions. There was a make-beUeve of two or three 
 gorgeous canisters, on which "Tea" was printed in 
 crimson and gold letters. A few clay pipes and a 
 dozen or -two of candles completed its equipment. 
 But they were never hungry. He who feeds the ravens 
 had concern also for His children; and He who clothes 
 the lilies wrapped these little ones from the cold, ^ut 
 it was pathetic to see how they strove to be always 
 neatly clad. The efforts of the poor to conceal pov- 
 erty are always pathetic. And it was only when you 
 saw beneath the spotless pinafores the carefully in- 
 serted patch on the blue serge, or the dam on the sleQve, 
 or the slightly broken shoe, that you knew how gal- 
 lantly these brave, simple souls were fighting to keep 
 up appearances imder the perpetual friction and dis- 
 integration of great poverty. And when sometimes I 
 expressed my wonder that under such attenuated 
 circumstances they were able to survive, one word 
 always solved the puzzle to that good mother's mind, 
 and that was — God! 
 
 I am sure it was out of pure sympathy that I pro- 
 posed Nora Leonard as nurse to the wealthy Amer- 
 
THREADS OF DESTINY 23 
 
 ican. I broached the matter also to herself, rather in 
 a tentative way, and in the hope that the Yank might 
 change his mind. 
 
 "-I was hoping to see my way lately to get something 
 for you to do," I sa:id to her, a day or two after my 
 interview with the invahd. 
 
 "Well, then, Father," she said, "I would be very, 
 glad. The nuns wouldn't mind Tessie staying at 
 home a few days to mind the shop." 
 
 "Oh," I said, "Tessie is getting such a grand young 
 lady now, with her long dress and her hair turned up, 
 that we can't stand her at all." 
 
 Tessie was poring over a book on a desk near the 
 window. She was bent down over it, so that the coils 
 of her rich, auburn hair, so like her mother's — but 
 there were silver threads among the gold in the latter's 
 — were plainly visible. She blushed scarlet, for girls 
 are very sensitive just then when they are leaving 
 behind them the irresponsibilities of childhood and 
 assuming the duties of the larger Hfe. 
 
 "I'd just as soon," said her mother, "that she knew 
 nothing of business. I hope God has something better 
 for her in store." 
 
 "Business," I thought, as I looked around the bare 
 and desolate shop. "'Tis a big sacrifice, indeed!" 
 
 "I tell you now," I said, "as I often told you before, 
 that Kathleen will be the nun." 
 
 "Yerra, is it that Tomboy, your reverence?" said 
 Mrs. Leonard, raising herself from the counter. "I 
 promise you she has something in her head besides a 
 
24 GLENANAAR 
 
 convent. But you're spoiling that child, your rev- 
 erence, out and out. You're taking such notice of 
 her that we'll never get any good out of her." 
 
 "She's worth the whole box-and-dice of ye put to- 
 gether," I said. "Mark me, she'll have the veil on 
 her yet." 
 
 "Wisha, thin," said Mrs. Leonard, "I'd make a 
 present of her to any one of these nuns that do be 
 coming here from Texas, or South Africa, or Cali- 
 fornia. They're welcome to her, with my blessing." 
 
 I did not like this disparagement of my httle favourite 
 at all, and I told the mother so roundly. 
 
 "She won't go to South Africa, nor to Texas, nor 
 to California," I said, angrily. "We want our best 
 little girls at home. And leave it to me! You may 
 call me Davy, if I haven't that young lady, snug and 
 safe, in one of our best Irish convents before many 
 years." 
 
 "Well, God bless your reverence," said the grateful 
 woman. "I'll leave her to you and God, and she'll 
 be in good hands, I warrant. But what was the sit- 
 uation your reverence was going to get for me?" 
 
 "I wanted you to go to the hotel and nurse the 
 strange American gentleman that's sick there." 
 
 She started back in surprise and alarm. 
 
 "Yerra, is it me to be a nurse. Father? What do 
 I know about nursing?" she said. 
 
 "You know quite as much about it as any other 
 woman," I said. "Every woman is, or ought to be^ 
 a nurse." 
 
THREADS OF DESTINY 25 
 
 '"Twouldi be well in me way, indeed," she said, 
 with a little toss of her head, " to go fixing and bindin' 
 and sootherin' a sick man. Maybe," she said, with a 
 little stifled laugh, " he'd want to marry me in the end." 
 
 "He might do worse," I said, gravely. 
 
 "Well, thin," said she, "I'm not the woman for 
 him. I got enough of that before." 
 
 And as the old, pensive look came into her face, 
 the melancholy retrospect of the unhappy past, the 
 spirit of humour and bantering died away, and left 
 her but a woman of sorrow. 
 
 "In any case, 'tis all over," I replied. "He is on 
 the way to recovery now, and will soon be off to America 
 again." 
 
 "I hope he'll take a good wife with him," she said. 
 " Sure the people say that's what he kem for." 
 
 "And you won't go?" I said at parting. 
 
 She shook her head sadly. 
 
 No wonder, poor thing! She had had some bitter 
 experiences of life. If any one had told the young 
 belle of the country-side, Nora Curtin, that she would 
 wind up her days as a little shop-keeper or huckster 
 on the side of the street in Doneraile, she would have 
 deemed it an insult. And if any one had told her, on 
 the morning of her marriage, that Hugh Leonard would 
 lead her such a life that she would gladly pray for her 
 own death, not his, she would have called them ravens 
 of evil and prophets of misfortune. Alas! it so turned 
 out. Hugh Leonard was one of those worthless, heart- 
 kss fellows that should be whipped at the cart tail as 
 
26 GLENANAAR 
 
 women of Marblehead flogged the scuttling Captain. 
 It was pretty well known that Nora Curtin did not 
 care for him. It was whispered that her heart was 
 elsewhere. But she married to please her father; and 
 her young husband was so proud of his prize, that he 
 vowed by all that was sacred in heaven or on earth to 
 be kind to her beyond the hopes of woman. Alas! 
 A few years and he tired of her, and all was wreck and 
 ruin. He spent his days on the mountains coursing, 
 and his nights on the river poaching. He would be a 
 gentleman. Were not all the Leonards gentlemen? 
 He was told that he had "demaned" himself by mar- 
 rying a small farmer's daughter. He could not give 
 up his gentlemanly habits. He was caught and fined 
 heavily again and again. He laughed it off; and to 
 show his independence, he appeared at every fair and 
 market in the neighbourhood in shooting-jacket and 
 yellow gaiters. Then, their httle boy, their only son, 
 died; and what more cared Hugh, when he could not 
 leave his farm to a "Leonard" ? He became reckless, 
 bet heavily on race horses, and lost. And, at last, he 
 sank down to the level of a sot, spending his days in 
 the tap-room of a rural pubUc house, pipe in mouth, the 
 bottle by his side, and the blackened cards in his hands. 
 He speedily won the reputation of being the best hand 
 at "Forty-five" in the country, and he was proud of the 
 distinction. Meanwhile, the inevitable dissolution was 
 proceeding at home. Broken fences, repaired with a 
 furze bush, gates hanging from the hinges, cart wheels 
 minus their tires here and there in the yard, thatch 
 
THREADS OF DESTINY 27 
 
 rotting on the roof, great rents in the slated roof of the 
 out-ofiBces, — all told their tale. Meanwhile, in came 
 demand after demand for rents overdue. Leonard 
 became indignant. 
 
 "How dared they? Evict a Leonard? Never, so 
 long as powder and shot were sold," etc., etc. 
 
 "Bad — to you, you spalpeen," said a candid friend, 
 "you couldn't hit a haystack with thim hands of yours 
 shaking hke collywobbles. Give over the farm to your 
 wife, you fool, as you can't manage it yourself." 
 
 Then, one day the end came. They were flung out 
 into the world; and with their wrecked furniture had to 
 seek shelter in a half-ruined labourer's cottage. Some 
 •nontiis of misery elapsed, during which the snug old 
 iarm ran rapidly to ruin. And then Hugh Leonard 
 was on his death-bed. At the last moment he con- 
 sented to forego his pride and sell the farm. But even 
 in these moments his pride came uppermost and forced 
 him into an injustice from which his family were yet 
 suffering. For a "friend" was allowed to his bed- 
 side, who dinned into the ear of the dying man, that 
 he should forget his devoted wife even in that solemn 
 crisis. 
 
 "She's young and flighty, ye know," he said, "and 
 you won't be cowld in your grave whin she'll pick up, 
 with the first gallivanter that comes acrass her. Tie 
 up the money for your childhre, Hugh, so that she 
 can't tetch it." 
 
 And so he did. Tied it up with all the red-tape 
 and sealed it with all the sealing-wax the law would 
 
28 GLENANAAR 
 
 allow. Then Hugh, "Gentleman Hugh," as he was 
 called in scorn by his neighbours, died. And it was 
 pitiable to see that poor woman divesting herself of 
 every comfort to have Masses said for his soul. It 
 was years before the truth dawned on her. It was 
 only the pinch of poverty that revealed it; as she found 
 that the very interest on her children's money was 
 unavailable for their support. Then the sadness of 
 all her married life broke over her soul, like a torrent. 
 
 "Well, thin," she said to Tessie, when I had gone, 
 "that was a quare thing intirely to come into the 
 priest's head. He knew enough of me and me sorrow 
 to wish me dead, sooner than married agin." 
 
 "'Twas his anxiety about us, mother," said the 
 saintly girl. "We must keep on praying, he says. 
 Sooner or later the clouds will Uft." 
 
 And so this futile attempt to tie together the threads 
 of these two Kves that had fallen into my hands was 
 doomed to failure. But in the attempt I pulled open 
 the cabinets of history, so long locked that their hinges 
 were rusty; and saw there the parchment-scrolls of 
 records that are now almost forgotten, and yet are 
 worthy to be revealed. And if here and there, there 
 are gouts of blood upon them, I shall make them as 
 pale as possible; and I shall try to smooth out the 
 blisters left by human tears. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 ASTRAEA AND HER TEMPLE 
 
 Gloom, deep, sepulchral gloom, as of Phlegethon, 
 hiuig down on the city of Cork, the evening of October 
 21, 1829. It was not only that skies were dark and 
 weeping, anticipating the rain and sombre aspects of 
 the approaching November; but a heavy shadow was 
 over the city, as of some great event transpiring, or 
 some dread horror being enacted in its midst. And 
 such was the case. In the dingy courthouse, dimly 
 lighted with tallow candles in tin sconces, and heavy 
 with the damp air and the heated breath of hundreds 
 of human beings, an advocate of the Crown was put- 
 ting forth all his powers of eloquence; and satisfying 
 his employers, the greater part of his audience, and his 
 own professional conscience, by driving into the jaws 
 of death his first batch of victims, the four unhappy 
 prisoners who stared out despairingly from behind the 
 iron spikes of the dock. The voice of this man, clear, 
 modulated, precise, emphatic, was the only sound 
 heard in that chamber of death. It rose and fell in 
 waves of soimd that seemed to the doomed men like 
 the undulations of the bell that was tolUng for their 
 execution. And there was a tone of triumph in it, 
 that said plainly: "Death for you, my prisoners: and 
 
 29 
 
30 GLENANAAR 
 
 your corpses the stepping-stones to the Bench for me I" 
 It had all the fatal assurance of success in its ringing 
 tones. There was no pause, no waver, no trembling, 
 
 — only the deep tone of the prison bell, marking the 
 inevitable hour. 
 
 Those who heard it said: "No use in sending that 
 case before a jury I It is a waste of time! These 
 men are already convicted!" 
 
 And what was it all about? Well, it was the old, 
 old story, with which we are all so famihar in Ireland, 
 
 — the story of injustice and revenge; cruelty and 
 rapine, and consequent hate and reprisals. Men will 
 never learn that wrong begets wrong; but then you 
 have statesmen, jurists, philosophers, political econo- 
 mists, conjecturing in Parliamentary speeches and 
 learned folios the answer to the eternal riddle: 
 
 Whether is worst, 
 
 The child accurst, 
 Or else the cruel mother? 
 
 The mother worst! 
 
 The child accurst! 
 As bad the one as th' otherl 
 
 It was the lesson of every Greek drama; but we have 
 not yet learned it. But how easy the transition! How 
 swift and close the cause and consequence! 
 
 It was the time of the Whiteboy or Rockite agita- 
 tion. We, who barely remember hearing our fathers 
 speak of it, retain but one dim, troubled memory of 
 that fearful time — a sudden thunder of tramping 
 horses at midnight, a flash of white-shirted riders 
 
ASTRAEA AND HER TEMPLE 31 
 
 against the dark, the sudden halt at some doomed 
 house, the awful summons to the sleepers, the flash 
 and report of pistols, the sudden order to close up; 
 and again the tread and trample of the ghostly horse- 
 men, as they flashed by on their errand of destruction 
 through the night. When the morning dawned, a few 
 peasants and labourers, here and there, leaned lazily 
 on their spades, and stared innocently and wonder- 
 ingly at the yeomanry as they rattled by. Their deeds 
 were atrocious, it is said; and the terrible vendetta was 
 held in fear and horror by the people.' And yet these 
 latter rather seek to excuse them. The tradition is, 
 that the people were wrought to a pitch of madness 
 by the brutality exercised toward them. The Enghsh 
 King had come; and the excitable people, in a parox- 
 ysm of loyalty and hope, had rushed waist-deep into 
 the sea at Kingstown to embrace his feet. The Eng- 
 lish King had gone; and sworn a solemn oath that he 
 would lay down his crown and vacate his throne, 
 sooner than grant them emancipation. In every farm- 
 yard in Ireland the tithe-proctor was busy, distraining 
 from the poor for the support of an alien and hostile 
 clergy. Martial law obtained throughout the land, 
 and men were hung by the wayside without trial by 
 roving bands of mercenaries and yeopianry. Here, in 
 this parish, is shown the field where a poor woman 
 hid a hunted rebel beneath a flock of sheep; and here 
 
 'One of my teachers had in his possession until quite recently, a kettle, in which 
 were placed smouldering sodsof tui^, — the "seed of fire," — which the farmers were 
 compeUed to place outside their doors at night for the Whiteboys. Doors and win- 
 dows had to be locked and shuttered, and no one dared look out, under pain of 
 death. ' The kettle was to be found under a hedge in the morning when it had done 
 its deadly work. 
 
32 GLENANAAR 
 
 the tree where an innocent man was swung up by the 
 troopers; and here, pointed out still in whispers, is 
 the grave of an informer.' Very old people, on their 
 deathbeds, speak of that disastrous period as the "bad 
 times." It remains for some impartial historian to 
 apportion the blame equally belween gentry and rebel, 
 landlord and tithe-proctor and Whiteboy; yeomanry, 
 who, under the protection of the law, wrought murder 
 and havoc amongst the innocent; and outlaws, who, 
 against the law, took a fearful and an appalling revenge. 
 Between the two were the innocent, and law-abiding, 
 and inoffensive population, who were victimized by 
 both. These were the respectable, well-to-do fanners, 
 who tried to sufifer injustice in silence, and who, as in 
 the case we are going to mention, were marked for 
 vengeance by landlords and Whiteboys alike. 
 
 If ever you come to Doneraile, and your journey 
 should be from east to west, you will pass a white 
 house on the left-hand side of the road, just beyond 
 the ancient graveyard of Temple-Ruadhan, and just 
 above the ancient castle of Ballinamona. 
 
 Here, Edmund Burke came to school when he re- 
 sided with his relatives over there at Castletownroche; 
 and here lived, at the time of which we write, a land- 
 lord and a magistrate, named George Bond Lowe. 
 We know little of him, except that he was thoroughly 
 
 ' Quite close to this village, at the Cross of Brough, in the bed of Skehanagh 
 river, two bailifls, or tithe-proctors, were killed. The perpetrators of the evil deed 
 fled to America, disguised as women; but two respectable girls of the farming class, 
 one of them, tradition says, a noble type of Irish womanhood, were arrested and 
 hanged in Cork. The only evidence against Ihem was that of two children a boy 
 and a girl, aged seven and eight years, who swoie they saw these girls dosiiui their 
 doors, as the crowd swept by. -""s at 
 
ASTRAEA AND HER TEMPLE 33 
 
 hated by the peasantry around; and his life was sought 
 more than once. He has left amongst the people the 
 memory of a wanton libertine and a detested tyrant; 
 amongst the gentry, that of an intrepid and fearless 
 magistrate. So history is written; and so it remains, 
 and will ever remain, a rather dubious and discredited 
 art. You can hardly believe a Guelph about a 
 Ghibelline; and take not the verdict of the Bianchi 
 against the Neri. But about the fearlessness of George 
 Bond Lowe there is no question. He was never fired 
 at, but he pursued his enemies; and in nearly every 
 case captured some would-be assassin, and had him 
 promptly executed. Once his horse was shot beneath 
 him. He arose, leaped the hedge, was again fired at, 
 fired in return, and shot one antagonist, pursued the 
 other, and grappled with him and arrested him single- 
 handed, and had him promptly hanged in Cork gaol. 
 Not long after, the carriage of a Dr. Norcott was fired 
 into at the bridge of BaUinamona, and his footman 
 and groom severely wounded. His carriage was mis- 
 taken for that of another obnoxious landlord. Admiral 
 Evans of Oldtown. Clearly then something was 
 wrong in this parish of Doneraile. It would never do 
 that in the nineteenth century gentlemen cannot go 
 out to dine without a supper of musket balls and 
 slugs from blunderbusses. Some action must be taken, 
 prompt and decisive. But how? We cannot go round 
 in coats of mail and chain armour, or with a fosse of 
 special constables behind our carriages. Something 
 more expeditious must be sought; and it must be final 
 
34 GLENANAAR 
 
 and decisive, but above all, judicial. We are repre- 
 sentatives of law and order; and our actions must bear 
 the test of a strictly legal investigation. Nay, would 
 it not be better to throw over the responsibility on 
 Astraea herself? She hath the scales and the sword. 
 Let her weigh in the balance, and execute judgment. 
 But on whom? These masked and white-clothed 
 assassins elude our vigilance. We cannot see them 
 by night. Somebody must mark the victims, and 
 then—? 
 
 That "somebody" is never long wanting in Ireland; 
 and he was promptly forthcoming in this case. A 
 certain Patrick Daly, with "me cousin" Owen, and 
 some others, is quite ready to swear (for a considera- 
 tion) to the existence of a foul conspiracy, having for 
 its remote object the extermination of all Cromwellian 
 landlords; and for its immediate and pressing purpose, 
 the removal of three marked men, — Admiral Evans, 
 George Bond Lowe, and Michael Creagh. And how 
 many might be implicated in this plot of Hecate ? No 
 less than twenty-one, of whom the Catiline is one 
 Leary, an old man of seventy years, and hitherto of 
 unblemished reputation. It is solemnly sworn before 
 a senate of magistrates held in this very room where 
 I am now writing, that "Leary was the captain, the 
 leading conspirator; that in a tent, at the Fair of 
 Rathclare, he produced a paper, or agreement, for 
 signature by all who consented to murder Admiral 
 Evans, Mr. Lowe, and Mr. Creagh. Several signed 
 the paper, and consented to shoot the thi:ee»" 
 
ASTRAEA AND HER TEMPLE 35 
 
 Here then was the whole affair in a nutshell. The 
 conspirators are unearthed, twenty-one in all. The 
 sleuth-hounds of the law are put on their track. It 
 will be a Maccabean holocaust. Twenty-one corpses, 
 dangling in the frosty air of a November morning, will 
 assuredly strike terror into the whole army of the 
 disaffected. It is quite true that these Dalys are utterly 
 disreputable ruffians, whose word or oath no man 
 would believe. It is also true that Leary, with his 
 burden of seventy years, paying £230 a year by sheer, 
 honest labour to the landlord whose murder he was 
 sworn to be compassing, was a man of the highest 
 rectitude. And so of the others. What matter? 
 Astraea is blindfolded, if not blind. And is there not 
 a beautiful old Cromwellian doctrine, handed down 
 from generation to generation from that sainted soldier 
 of fortime: "If you can kill the nits you are safe from 
 lice?" This, of course, only applied to babies — the 
 spawn of rebels. But why may we, too, not extend it 
 to parents and grandparents ? Surely the converse is 
 equally true: "If we exterminate the lice, there is little 
 to fear from nits!" AUons, then! 
 
 And so, on this dull October afternoon, Doherty, 
 Solicitor General, "a man of iBne physique and gen- 
 tlemanly presence," is bearing down on his quarries 
 with all the tact and determination of a sleuth-hound 
 of the law. This is a cause cSlbbre, to be tried by a 
 Special Commission, sent down by Dublin Castle. 
 The panic-stricken gentry cannot wait for the ordinary 
 Assizes* The case came before Judge Grady at the 
 
86 GLENANAAR 
 
 last sittings in the summer; but his Lordship clearly 
 did not believe in the prisoners' guilt, for he said, with 
 much solemnity and significance, "that he perceived 
 that seventeen persons were charged with having par- 
 ticipated in this conspiracy. If bills in this case should 
 go before the grand jury, and he was not certain they 
 would, he besought that they should not be found 
 without their having received the weightiest considera- 
 tion." And out of an immense jury panel of one 
 hundred and thirty, altogether those of the county 
 gentry, but thirty answered their names. And so, 
 Judge Torrens and Judge Pennefather, duly commis- 
 sioned, and clad in red silk, as a symbol of terror, and 
 white ermine, symbolical of legal purity, are bending 
 over their note-books, and jotting down the excellent 
 points the eloquent and most gentlemanly advocate is 
 making. Stenography was not then the fine art it 
 is to-day; but there exist reports of that famous speech, 
 from which a few sentences are worthy of being culled: 
 "Gentlemen, I am highly gratified at seeing such an 
 array of the rank, property, and influence of your 
 great county, assembled together upon this occasion, 
 rallying around those laws which, no doubt, it is their 
 bounden duty to support . . . With respect to the 
 finding of two grand inquests, even their decision will 
 fail, unless the petty jury coincide; and when I see 
 before me such a selection of the grand yeomanry of 
 this county, I feel confident the subject will undergo 
 the strictest scrutiny ... I would call your special 
 attention to the case of Leary, who, removed from the 
 
ASTRAEA AND HER TEMPLE 37 
 
 temptation of poverty, remains aloof in comparative 
 security, sending out his less guilty emissaries to exe- 
 cute his bloody edicts. If the jury believe these facts, 
 his is not a case that will excite the greatest sympathy. 
 It is likely he will find many to speak for him as to 
 character; but if the facts against him be proved, what 
 will character avail? Of what avail is it, that he be 
 industrious in his pursuits, faithful in his contracts, 
 and sober in his habits, if foul conspiracy and mid- 
 night murder can be laid to his charge, and traced to 
 his suggestions ? There is a reign of terror that coerces 
 character. I do not anticipate that any such will 
 display itself here, — that the high-minded' gentry, the 
 impartial magistrates, or independent yeomanry of the 
 county will stoop to such a mode of conciUating a 
 disgraceful and paltry popularity." 
 
 "High-minded gentry!" "Impartial magistrates!" 
 "Independent yeomanry!" Where then were the pris- 
 oners' peers? Where, but set aside, and rejected, as 
 they always have been ? The very walls of that court- 
 house, could they speak, would echo as their first 
 articulate sound: "Stand by!" 
 
 Nay, in the whole vicinity, not a peasant or a labourer 
 was to be seen. The gentry filled the jury-room, over- 
 flowed into the benches of the^court and out into 
 the avenues. They thronged the steps, and stretched 
 along the streets, where cavalry and yeomanry patrolled 
 in rank and file, sentinels of justice, and symbols of 
 power. But the frieze-coat of the peasant was no- 
 where to be seen; nor the long, deep-hooded cloaks 
 
38 GLENANAAR 
 
 that wrapped the mothers, or sisters, or wives of the 
 men already doomed to death. Fear kept them apart 
 from those they loved. It was the Red Terror again, 
 transplanted from the Seine to the Lee. A look or a 
 nod of recognition, and they, too, might be looking 
 from between the spikes of that dreadful dock. And 
 this terror originated in the panic of the landlord class, 
 whose dread drove them hither in crowds as if to seek 
 mutual support. Fear is more fatal than hate. And 
 hence they thirsted for this banquet of blood. It is 
 all well here, for here are the cavalry and yeomanry, 
 and here are our lusty selves, side by side. But what 
 shall it be, if the accused go free, and we have to re- 
 turn to our isolated chateaux, — to barred windows 
 and loaded pistols there by the black mountain or the 
 lonely river amongst the nests of Whiteboys and rap- 
 parees ? No, there's but one thing clear, — to secure 
 a judgment that shall make the country white with 
 terror from the Glen of Aherloe to the sea! 
 
 And so, all day long on that eventful Wednesday 
 and Thursday, approver after approver came upon 
 the witness-table and swore coherently and categori- 
 cally to the guilt of these four men behind them. Why 
 should they not ? Were not seven hundred and twenty 
 pounds worth grasping even at the price of awful per- 
 jury? Are there not desert places away in imsur- 
 ' veyed America or in aboriginal Australia where their 
 names shall never be heard, and Nemesis, the ever- 
 pursuing, the all-seeing, carniot find them? 
 
 Two counsel were set apart by the judges for the 
 
ASTRAEA AND HER TEMPLE 39 
 
 prisoners. They were able men enough to argue out 
 a breach of promise case, or get probate of a will 
 refused in the Four Courts. Here, they were power- 
 less as infants to deal with those rascals, hardened in 
 iniquity and trained in their devilish vocation. A prac- 
 tised lawyer would have seen through them at once. 
 Chief Justice Grady at the last Assizes warned the 
 Grand Jury not to bring in bills against these prisoners 
 on the mere evidence of the informers. But this is a 
 Special Commission — and its specialty is to try — 
 no, to convict these unhappy men. McCarthy, leading 
 counsel for the prisoners, was a well-meaning but weak 
 man. The Solicitor General awed him; he had to 
 address a jury of gentlemen, and there was a general 
 conviction in the air all around that something must 
 be done. Clearly, he must do his duty and no more, 
 which generally means it is not done at all. For, why 
 did he not produce the prisoners' witnesses? They 
 flung it in his face from the dock, and told him plainly 
 he had betrayed them. The junior counsel, Pigot, 
 was a learned man, an elocutionist, more or less of a 
 dilettante; but attitudinizing before a cheval-glass in 
 your library is not the best way to prepare for the 
 arena. No man, not even the poet, needs to be dow- 
 ered with the "scorn of scorn, the hate of hate," so 
 much as an advocate pleading between life and death. 
 On Thursday night the case for the Crown closed; 
 the case for the prisoners was never opened. But on 
 Friday morning, as the Solicitor General had antici- 
 pated, witnesses were called as to character, — the 
 
40 GLENANAAR 
 
 weakest defence that can be made in a court of Justice. 
 Dr. O'Brien, parish priest of Doneraile, who built the 
 parish church and cotivent yonder, testified to the 
 good conduct of the four prisoners, — to the special 
 respectability of Leary. Mr. Harold-Barry, a Cathohc 
 magnate and a sturdy, masculine character, gave 
 similar evidence, was examined and cross-examined by 
 Doherty. Evidence invubierable and positive, — such a 
 man could not be guilty of such a crime. You appear 
 sympathetic, friend. May it not be that you are in 
 the conspiracy yourself? What if we should discover 
 that you. Deputy Lieutenant of his Majesty, hold 
 another commission as Captain of the Whiteboys? 
 Harold-Barry turns scornfully on his heel, and leaves 
 Doherty, "a gentlemanly man, of fine appearance," 
 somewhat disconcerted. Others, witnesses as to char- 
 acter and conduct and general good repute, come on 
 the witness-table, — some, let it be said to their infinite 
 honour, landlords and magistrates, who broke through 
 the iron regulations of caste and creed to testify against 
 judicial murder. Lastly, an old man stepped on the 
 table, — Leary's landlord, and father of the Michael 
 Creagh whose life, it was said, had been conspired 
 against. He was about the same age as the prisoner, 
 i-eary; and, as he mounted the steps, their eyes met. 
 What shall it be? We, landlord and tenant, have 
 stood side by side for fifty years, met our obligations 
 nobly (witness these two hundred and thirty pounds 
 annually paid by that man in the dock), coursed these 
 mountains together, fished that river side by side, 
 
ASTRAEA AND HER TEMPLE 4l' 
 
 broke bread and ate salt in that whitewashed cottage 
 above the Awbeg. Are we now to part? The tradi- 
 tions of his class, his love for his son, his own safety, 
 pull one way. Honour and loyalty, the other. "I 
 §wear," he cried, Ufting his hand to heaven, "that I 
 believe these men guiltless of the charge against them. 
 No evidence shall ever convince me that Leary had 
 hand, act, or part in any attempt on the Ufe of my 
 son." Noble words! and noble old man! If there had 
 been a few more of your type the tragic history of 
 Ireland would never have been written. What a ray 
 of sunshine these words shot across the gloom of that 
 wretched courthouse! How the prisoners must have 
 felt — Death now is easy after such a noble vindica- 
 tion! 
 
 And it was death! Judge Torrens, a dark, sullen 
 frown on his face, charged home against the prisoners. 
 The jury did not even retire. After five minutes' con- 
 sultation they returned their verdict. Guilty. Torrens 
 assumed the black cap, and sentenced the four pris- 
 oners, Leary, Shine, Roche, Magrath, to be executed 
 on November T4th, following. As they left the dock, 
 Leary cried: "We are murdered! There is no justice 
 here! There is nothing for us but revenge!" Quite 
 so! Judicial murder! Revenge! Our corpses swing- 
 ing here in the air of a wintry morning, and your 
 brains blown out there under the blacL mountains of 
 Limerick. A pretty cycle of events, is it not ? Cause 
 and effect; effect and cause, ad infinitum! So runs 
 the whole ghastly genealogy of Irish history: — 
 
42 GLENANAAR 
 
 Cromwell begat massacres and burning; and mas- 
 sacres and burning begat reprisals; and reprisals begat 
 Penal Laws; and Penal Laws begat insurrection; and 
 insurrection begat the Union; and the Union begat 
 outlawry; and outlawry begat Whiteboyism; and White- 
 boyism begat informers and judicial murders; and 
 judicial murders begat revenge, et da capo. Surely 
 Astraea hath left the earth. Not yet! She is called 
 back peremptorily for just a little while; and by a 
 voice she cannot disobey. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 A NIGHT RIDE 
 
 It would be difficult to put in language an adequate 
 description of the consternation that fell upon the whole 
 city, when at six o'clock on that fatal Friday evening, 
 the court broke up, and the alarming tidings spread 
 from mouth to mouth. The charge of Chief Justice 
 Grady at the former Assizes, the difficulty in empan- 
 elling a jury, the tradition that no conviction could be 
 >btained on the evidence of approvers, unsupported 
 by direct or circumstantial evidence, had made the 
 acquittal of the prisoners a foregone conclusion in the 
 minds of the people. The friends of the accused had 
 not even taken the trouble to secure the services of 
 counsel. Now all was changed. The convicted pris- 
 oners were warned to expect no mercy; and, as the 
 same evidence was forthcoming in the subsequent trials, 
 for the informers had boasted they would "swear up 
 to the mark," that is, to secure convictions for the, 
 Crown, it was clear there was no hope for the remaining 
 seventeen prisoners whose trials were to follow. De- 
 spair, deep despair was upon the souls of many who 
 had come up from the country to stand by father, or 
 husband, or brother, in this supreme crisis of their 
 lives. There was just one faint gleam of hope. The 
 
 43 
 
44 GLENANAAR 
 
 Solicitor General had announced that the trial of the 
 next batch would be deferred to Monday morning. 
 It would never do to lock up a loyal jury for forty- 
 eight hours. In the afternoon of Saturday, a hurried 
 conclave was held of all the prisoners' friends. No 
 one knew who were to form the next batch of pris- 
 oners to be placed on trial. But no matter! All were 
 friends and neighbours here. All should stand or fall 
 together. Yes! but what hope? The same judges, 
 the same approvers, the same prosecutor, and a similar 
 jury. Given these factors you must necessarily have 
 the same result. Certainly, if no one can be found to 
 knock that process to bits, and by breaking up one 
 factor, break up the whole result. But where can he 
 be found? There is but one man in Ireland — in 
 the world — that can do it; and he is ninety miles 
 away in his home by the Atlantic. Nay, he is engaged 
 for a great meeting in Tralee to-morrow about the 
 everlasting question of Tenant-right. There is no 
 train, no telegraph, no postal service. It is impossible! 
 Nay, not impossible to such love as brother has for 
 brother. They speak of a certain horse in the city 
 here, broad-chested, sinewy, deep-winded. He'll do 
 the journey to Macroom if put to it, and there we get 
 a relay of horses for the west. And you? Yes, I, 
 William Burke, whose brother is over yonder awaiting 
 trial, — I will ride to Derrynane Abbey, I will see the 
 Counsellor, I will offer him your behests, and bring 
 him hither if I can. But his fee? That's easily 
 settled. In one hour, a hundred guineas are collected, 
 
A NIGHT RIDE 45 
 
 the horse is duly fed and caparisoned, a little group, 
 outside the city, bid the young night-rider God-speed 1 
 pat his gallant horse on the neck, grip his hands in a 
 farewell; and the lights of Cork sink behind him, 
 swallowed in utter darkness as he plunges into the 
 night. 
 
 It is a wet, warm night, dark as Erebus; and the 
 twain, steed and rider, knew nothing of the road. All 
 they knew was, that they should follow for some time 
 the course of the river, which they could hear mur- 
 muring on the left, as it tore over stones and pebbles 
 on its mad rush to the sea. They were soon splashed 
 with mud from head to heel, and the soft, warm rain 
 had penetrated under and through the light garments- 
 the rider wore, that his weight might lie easy on the 
 gallant animal, on whose endurance and swiftness so 
 many lives were now depending. But neither animal 
 nor rider felt aught but the stimulus of some mighty 
 force that summoned all their energies, and would 
 make their success a triumph beyond description, and 
 their failure, — weU, as the thought of its possibility 
 flashed across the young man's mind, a great lump 
 came into his throat, and he had to gulp down his 
 emotion. His brother — the lad who was endeared 
 to him by a thousand associations, of childhood, boy- 
 hood and manhood, was within possible distance of 
 the hangman's grasp, — and oh! it was too terrible to 
 think of it! He freed his bridle hand, and dashed it, 
 wet with the rain of that winter's night, across his 
 eyes, and urged the brave animal more swiftly onwards 
 
46 GLENANAAR 
 
 on their great mission. He saw but the pale glimmer 
 of the road before him, and now and again the ghostly 
 trees that loomed up against the sky and disappeared. 
 He heard only the swish of the rain, that streamed on 
 his face and hands, and the hollow murmur of the 
 river on his left. No^ and again he dashed past some 
 labourer's cottage, saw the glimmer of Ught against the 
 tiny window-pane, or perhaps, if the half-door were 
 open, the humble family sitting around their frugal 
 supper, and thought of their happiness, and his own, 
 — O God! so great a trial. And it spurred him on- 
 wards into the night. People passed him, and leaped 
 aside into ditches from die furious horseman, who 
 tore through mud and slush along the road. "Life 
 or death!" they cried to one another; "'tis a ride for 
 life or death." Children cowered over the half smoul- 
 dering embers in their cabins when the swift, heavy 
 tread of the gallop smote their ears, and they whis- 
 pered: "The headless horseman!" Once or twice, a 
 word of warning was shouted after him, but he heeded 
 it not. There was one fearful object behind him, the 
 phantom of a horrible dread; and one objective before 
 him, — the man who could exorcise that phantom, 
 and he knew naught else. A few times he had to rein 
 up before a blazing forge, or a labourer's dwelling, to 
 ask the way, whilst the villagers, frightened at his 
 appearance, and his panting horse, would ask: 
 
 "What is it, boy? A sick-call?" 
 
 "A death-call," he would answer. "Which road? 
 quick, quick." 
 
A NIGHT RIDE 47 
 
 And they would point it out, with a muttered ejacu- 
 lation, as the phantom horseman disappeared in the 
 darkness: "God save us all, this blessed and holy 
 night!" 
 
 At last, without stumble or accident, the horse and 
 rider burst into the streets of Macroom about nine 
 o'clock, and drew up at the principal iim. It was a 
 strange apparition and presently attracted a crowd. 
 A great cloud of steam arose from the chestnut coat of 
 the horse, as he stood there panting and covered with 
 sweat; and a similar cloud arose round the rain-soaken 
 garments of the rider. And whither is thy night-ride ? 
 was the cry. Rest here! Horse and man both need it! 
 
 "Rest?" cried the young man. "I have done but 
 a fraction of my journey. Good friends, food and a 
 drink for this poor animal, and a morsel of food for 
 myself. Then, a fresh horse, if he is to be had for 
 love or money, and I'm off again!" 
 
 "But whither, boy? No man ever rode like that 
 before, except to flee death, or win a wife!" 
 
 And he explained. 
 
 "Derrynane? O'Connell? Sixty-five miles as the 
 crow flies! Nonsense, man, the thing is impossible. 
 Somebody arrest that boy! He's gone clean mad!" 
 
 But he only listened, and ate and drank, and said 
 nothing. 
 
 The ostler came forward. 
 
 "Not a horse to be had in Macroom. All gone up 
 to the Assizes. Big business there ! and all the lawyers 
 and gentry are gone up." 
 
48 GLENANAAR 
 
 The boy's heart sank. He looked at the weary, 
 foam-flecked horse, thought of the seventy miles of 
 road, declared it in his judgment an impossible feat. 
 But then the face of his brother, John, staring out 
 from the dock, rose before him. 
 
 "Look here, men of Muskerry, I am riding to-night 
 as no man ever rode before. We are aU on the same 
 side. The halter is around my brother's neck to-day. 
 To-morrow it may be around yours, or your sons'. Is 
 there no horse to be had? I was told I could get a 
 change of horses here!" 
 
 They greatly pitied him. But no! not a horse was 
 to be had. If McWiUiams could not give one, there 
 was nowhere else to look, unless he would take some 
 farmer's garron, that would pitch him before he was 
 half a mile on the road. But to-morrow, Sunday, the 
 farmers would be in town, and they would search 
 Muskerry for him. 
 
 "To-morrow! Alas! to-morrow would be too late! 
 Seventy miles to go and ninety to return ." 
 
 A gleam of hope shot up. 
 
 " Can you, good people, let me have a relay of horses 
 here for the Counsellor and myself to-morrow night?" 
 
 "Yes, lad, if they are to be had in Muskerry. Twenty, 
 if you Uke, and stout men to lead them." 
 
 "Can you send forward — say twenty miles or so — 
 a horse or two ? The Counsellor wiU probably drive." 
 
 "Ay, ay, lad, it shall be so. They'll meet him at 
 Keim-a-neigh, or beyond Inchigeela, so surely as I 
 hold the Muskerry Hotel." 
 
A NIGHT RIDE 49 
 
 "A thousand thanks! Now, give him his head," 
 and forward again into the night! 
 
 And the women said "God-speed! Surely God and 
 His Mother will help him! The brother of such a 
 cradle must be well worth saving!" 
 
 This time he missed the companionship of the river. 
 He had now to plunge into a wild, savage country, 
 across moorlands black with bog and turf, through 
 deep valleys and horrid crevasses between mountains, 
 where the dark night was even blacker than in the open, 
 and he had to trust entirely to the instincts of his 
 horse. He leaned forward and patted the neck of 
 the. noble animal and said: "So far, so good! But the 
 worst of our journey is before us. Can you do it?" 
 
 And the faithful beast, as if he understood, threw 
 back his ears, as if to say: 
 
 "Yes! barring accidents — the casting of a shoe, a 
 stone on the road, a mountain torrent, or a broken 
 bridge, — I shall carry you to your destination!" For 
 who shall say that some secret instinct does not awaken 
 in the minds of these poor dumb beasts, faithful ser- 
 vitors of man; or that some subtle, electric influence 
 does not pass from rider to horse and make them for 
 the moment one ? At least this brave animal breasted 
 the night and faced the struggle before it, as if he knew 
 that some great trust was reposed in him, as he strode 
 along through the darkness. For now no light in the 
 cottages by the wayside cast a cheerful gleam across 
 the rider's path. All was hushed into darkness and 
 a silence broken only by the hollow hoofs that echoed 
 
50 GLENANAAR 
 
 through the blackness, and the far-off bark of some 
 farmer's collie, awake in the watches of the night. 
 It was midnight as they passed Inchigeela, leaving 
 Lough Lua on the left, and the horse's hoofs began to 
 thimder and wake dreadful echoes from cHff to cliff 
 amongst the passes that guard the Kingdom of Kerry. 
 He guessed from the descriptions he had already heard 
 that they were now beyond the frontier; but the whole 
 width of Kerry was before them, afar to the very head- 
 lands that have breasted the Atlantic since Creation. 
 Will the brave animal do it? Well, who knows? 
 And surely God is with us. A little after six o'clock 
 in the morning a faint pearly light behind him foretold 
 the dawn; and soon the mists cleared away, and he 
 saw beyond the cloud of steam that rose from his 
 horse's neck and haunches that they were passing 
 through glens and valleys of great loveliness, though 
 the winter was upon them, and the shadow of the night. 
 Cattle browsed peacefully along the meadows that 
 skirted the wayside; and here and there, on knolls and 
 between rocks, hidden in moss and lichens, sheep lay 
 quietly awaiting the fuller dawn to go to their pastur- 
 age again. Signs of life, too, became soon visible 
 amongst this early-rising and industrious people; and 
 the weary rider was able to dismount and get food 
 and drink for his horse and himself. And everywhere 
 the same sympathetic inquiries were met by the same 
 repUes; and great pity was lavished on the boy who 
 had undertaken so tremendous a task for a brother's 
 life. But there was no staying nor stopping. The 
 
A NIGHT RIDE 51 
 
 goal was not yet reached, and there were difficulties 
 yet to be surmounted. The last hours of the weary 
 ride were the worst. 
 
 "Gro straight on," he was directed, "till you see the 
 say. Then turn sharp to the right, and down in the 
 valley you'll see the Abbey. And may God grant 
 you'll find the Counsellor before you this blessed and 
 holy Sunday morning." 
 
 And on he went, his hopes rising as the physical 
 faculties were giving way; on, on, in a kind of dream, 
 for the brain was weary after a night of anxiety. He 
 saw, as in a vision, houses, farms, trees, speeding past; 
 he returned the salute, "God save you! God save you 
 kindly!" as if he were talking in his sleep. He nodded 
 in his saddle, and even the mighty errand on which 
 he was sent was fading away into a thing of insignifi- 
 cance, when a stumble suddenly brought back his 
 senses; and pulling up the animal tightly, and as if by 
 instinct, to save the fall, he looked up and saw the 
 steel-blue sea, shivering in the dawn wind, and he 
 knew his journey was at an end. He turned swiftly 
 to the right, and io a few moments, saw deep down 
 in the valley, at the foot of a purple mountain, and 
 embowered in forest trees, the Abbey of Derrynane, 
 the home of the Liberator, and the goal of all his 
 desires. He stumbled into the courtyard, and dis- 
 mounted, or rather fell from the fagged and froth- 
 flecked beast. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 AVE, LIBERATORI 
 
 On that momentous Sabbath moming O'Connell 
 was at breakfast, after having heard Mass in his private 
 oratory, when it was announced that a man, quite 
 exhausted after a night-ride of ninety miles, wished 
 to see him on urgent business. The great tribune 
 was then more than fifty years old. He had won his 
 greatest triumph, when in the April of that year he 
 had wrung the measure of CathoHc Emancipation 
 from an imwilling King, Commons, and Lords. He 
 was now resting from professional and parliamentary 
 labours, away from the bustle and noise of cities, and 
 far from the treachery and hostiUty of men, here in 
 his quiet home by the seaside. He was decidedly 
 unwilling to be dragged from his peaceful retreat into 
 the arena of courts and camps. The ParUamentary 
 session of 1830 was looming up before him; and he 
 foresaw how tumultuous it would be. Yet the mo- 
 ment he heard of this midnight ride, he ordered the 
 young man to be brought into his Ubrary. Here, 
 young Burke, face to face with the man whose image 
 was before him all night, blurted out: 
 
 "I left Cork last evening at nightfall, and I rode 
 ninety miles to see you, Counsellor. There are four 
 
 S3 
 
AVE, LIBERATOR I 53 
 
 men already under sentence of death in Cork, on 
 account of the Doneraile Conspiracy. There are sev- 
 enteen more to be tried, amongst them my brother, 
 John. If you don't come, Doherty will hang e\ery 
 mother's son of them. Here are a hundred guineas! 
 If you come our men are saved, and you'll have the 
 blessings of their mothers and wives for ever!" 
 
 Briefly, O'Connell, touched with this signal proof 
 of public confidence, signified his assent. Burke 
 turned, with light in his eyes, to remount his jaded 
 horse, and ride back with the glorious news. But 
 this O'Connell would not allow. 
 
 "There's plenty of time. Rest here for the day; 
 and in the evening we leave together." 
 
 Monday morning, October 26th, dawned gloomy 
 and foreboding for the groups that were gathered here 
 and there around the comers of the city. The judges 
 had spent the Sunday at Fota, where they were enter- 
 tained by Mr. Smith-Barry. The people, the pris- 
 oners' friends, spent the same Sabbath in the churches, 
 hearing Mass and praying the Lord God of Justice to 
 show justice, which was also mercy, to the accused. 
 By order of the Bishop, the churches were kept open 
 all night, and were more or less filled with men and 
 women, who, leaning on forms and benches, besought 
 the Invisible Powers to interpose, and stop the iniquity 
 of men. At nine o'clock the Court assembled, the 
 Judges took their seats on the bench, and four pris- 
 oners — Edmond Connors, Barrett, Wallis, and Lynch 
 
54 GLENANAAR 
 
 — were put on trial. Edmond Connors was a respect- 
 able farmer, remarkable for his great strength, a frame 
 of massive proportions, a face of innocence, and the 
 heart of a child. Perfectly conscious of his freedom 
 from all guilt, he looked around at judges, barristers, 
 and jury with a calm, unembarrassed gaze. He was 
 innocent; and God was over him. If acquitted, well 
 and good! If convicted, welcome be the will of God! 
 You cannot hurt Christian stoicism of this kind. 
 
 Just as the proceedings were about to commence, 
 there was a faint cheeer outside the courthouse, and 
 yoimg Burke, after his return ride of ninety miles, 
 pushed his way through the throng and spoke to coun- 
 sel for defendant^. Scouts had been out all the morn- 
 ing watching for his arrival, and as he rode in triumph 
 into the city, he had been greeted by a hundred voices: 
 
 "What news, William? Is he coming?" 
 
 "He'll be here in an hour!" said the boy with 
 triumph and exultation in his suppressed tones. 
 
 Mr. McCarthy at once applied to the Bench for an 
 adjournment. Quite impossible! The business of the 
 Court has already been delayed over much. Proceed! 
 But there are little stratagems know^Tb men of the 
 kw by which they can throw little barriers and ob- 
 structions athwart the course of business, and these 
 McCarthy freely used. It was seen through, however, 
 and Judge Torrens, raising' his head from his papers, 
 said sullenly, but definitely: 
 
 "The Court should make it its business to prevent 
 delay and defeat artifice." 
 
AVE, LIBERATOR/ 55 
 
 So the jury (this time partly Catholic, partly Prot- 
 estant) were sworn,, and the Solicitor General was 
 glibly and gaily unrolling his long arguments against 
 the unhappy prisoners, when a mighty shout was heard 
 outside the courthouse. It was taken up and, in in- 
 creased volume, reverberated around the walls, and 
 penetrated into the sacred precints of the Court itself. 
 Even there, men could not control their enthusiasm, 
 and they cheered in the face of judges and counsel, 
 as O'Connell, clad in his great frieze-coat, travel- 
 stained and wet after his night's drive, strode into the 
 courthouse, surrounded by a wild, exultant crowd, 
 and escorted to his place by the friends of the pris- 
 oners, no longer cowed and frightened, but triumphant 
 and daring. A new light shone on the faces of the 
 prisoners in the dock, and the Angel of Resurrection 
 visited the condemned prisoners behind the bolts and 
 barriers of their convict cells. It was the Ave, Liberator! 
 put in their own rough way by the people, the people 
 who worshipped him and would have died for him. 
 
 Whikt writing these words, my eyes fell on an open 
 page, where a certain poet, an idolater of Napoleon, 
 describes the entry of that world-destroyer into the 
 streets of Diisseldorf. It was a triumphal march, sur- 
 rounded by all the pomp and splendour of military 
 display. Yet it was calm and serene as the face, 
 coloured and chiselled like that of a Greek statue, or 
 the little hand that toyed with the bridle of his richly 
 caparisoned horse. But, beneath that serenity, one 
 could easily hear "the 4ru™.s and tramplings of thre^ 
 
56 GLENANAAR 
 
 conquests," — the crash of artillery,: the thunder of 
 cavahy, the destruction of cities, the death-cries of 
 two millions of men, the rumble of ammunition-tum- 
 brils as they tore over the dead and wounded, and you 
 could hear their mutilated carcases crack beneath the 
 wagon-wheels that bore the thunderbolts of the little 
 god. Yes! all was here serene on the calm streets of 
 the German city; but every one, even to the boy- 
 bugler, or the drunken dragoon who shouted his Ave, 
 Imperator! knew that this little god was Apollyon, the 
 destroyed. How different the enthusiasm and accla- 
 mation that hailed the Liberator in this city by the 
 Lee! He comes to save, and not to destroy; to rescue, 
 not to capture; to open the prisons, not to fill them; 
 nay, to bring back the already dead from the grave, 
 and to restore them to their friends. And his very 
 presence, apart from his ministrations of mercy, is an ' 
 assurance that all will be right. The might of England 
 is against them; the Judges are plainly prejudiced; 
 most of the juries are packed; the Crown Advocate, 
 with his gentlemanly presence and aristocratic airs, 
 is bent on driving that large batch of peasant-farmers 
 into the hollows of prematura graves. But, no matter! 
 Here is the Deliverer! It shows the genius, as well as 
 the sufferings of the race, when this people struck on 
 the only title that was commensurate with O'Connell's 
 great services to them; and in a far-off echo of that 
 name which haunted the brains of king and prophets 
 for four thousand years, saluted their champion with 
 the ever memorable title, Ave, Liberator I 
 
AVE, LIBERATOR I 57 
 
 O 'Council bows to the Bench, salutes in a particular 
 manner Baron Pennefather, an old comrade on the 
 circuit, apologizes for his unprofessional appearance 
 (no time for toilettes on that night- journey), and asks 
 permission to breakfast in Court. Certainly! It is 
 
 unprecedented, but A formidable breakfast is 
 
 supplied, a pile of sandwiches, and a huge bowl of milk. 
 A meal for a giant; but then this is a giant. Meanwhile 
 the Sohcitor General goes on airily spinning his viscous 
 webs around these men in the dock — finely rounded 
 sentences, for he is a gentleman and an elocutionist, each 
 sentence loaded with its fatal innuendo and appeal to 
 prejudices already keen enough — when suddenly the 
 beautiful sentences are rudely broken by a voice :-r- 
 
 "That is not law!" 
 
 The Solicitor General is surprised at such audacity. 
 He has not heard anything like it before, — leastways 
 from the gentlemanly advocates who had been playing 
 tierce and quart with him for the last two days. He 
 appeals to the Bench. The Bench decides against 
 him. And on he goes in his spinning minuet, the web 
 now rudely broken, and he trying ineffectually to repair 
 it, when again, the same deep thunder echoes from a 
 mouth filled with meat: — 
 
 "And THAT is not lawl" 
 
 Hello, there! This is intolerable. The strands of 
 the web hang piteously broken in his hands, as he 
 appeals again to the Bench. Again the Bench decides 
 against him. With somewhat less assurance he 
 proceeds, again to have the airy fabric rudely torn: — 
 
fi8 GLENANAAR 
 
 "Thai statute has been repealed 1" 
 
 There is no gainsaying the fact The Bench up- 
 holds the/ interruption. Doherty, now quite angry, 
 forgets himself utterly, and unfairly twisting and 
 misinterpreting certain evidence given the day before, 
 asserts that John Harold-Barry had taken the White- 
 boy oath, and was privy to the intended murder of 
 George Bond Lowe. O'Connell springs to his feet, 
 and regretting that he is not permitted to rebut the 
 hideous calumny, requests the Solicitor General to 
 observe the rules of forensic debate, and not to refer 
 to evidence given in another trial. The Sohcitor 
 General sits down. Clearly this is no gymnasium 
 exercise; but a duel to the death. 
 
 The approvers mount the witness-table. In five 
 minutes O'Connell ehcits the important fact that two 
 of them had been kept for the last few months in 
 Dublin in a police-office; also, that Daly's brother had 
 been tempted by the gentle Owen to join the gang, 
 and secure a subsistence for Ufe at the simple cost of 
 perjury and murder of the innocent. 
 
 "I never saw such well-drilled witnesses in my 
 life," said O'Connell. 
 
 Sohcitor General protests. O'Connell threatens to 
 have him impeached before the House of Commons. 
 
 "The allegation is made on false facts" saith Solici- 
 tor. 
 
 "How can facts be false?" asks O'Connell. 
 
 "I have known false facts, and false men, too," 
 says Doherty, perturbed and illogical. The cross- 
 
AVE, LIBERATOR/ 59 
 
 examination proceeds. Patrick Daly, the gKb perjurer, 
 is somewhat embarrassed. 
 
 "Wisha, thin, Mr. O'Connell, 'tis little I thought 
 I'd have you before me this morning." 
 
 Yet, so well was the fellow drilled, that O'Connell 
 failed to shake his evidence. 
 
 Late at night another approver, named Nowlan, 
 touched by remorse, or irritated at the evident supe- 
 riority of Patrick Daly, shouted out, as he went down 
 from the witness-table: 
 
 "An' if the thruth wor known, there are the innicent 
 there as well as the guilty." 
 
 An admission that didn't seem to create any qualms 
 of conscience in the prosecutors or judges. 
 
 Jury retires late. Promptly returns to declare there 
 is not the shghtest chance of agreement. Ordered 
 into retirement again. Doors thrown open at 10.30 
 at night. Tumultuous crowd rushes in. "Well, gen- 
 tlemen, have you agreed to your verdict?" No chance 
 of agreement whatever! Go back and ruminate. No 
 fire, no food. That may bring you to your senses. 
 At two o'clock in the morning, judges summoned from 
 their lodgings. Jury agree to acquit one prisoner, 
 Barrett, who instantly vanishes in the darkness. Jury 
 also acquaint judges with their conviction that they 
 do not believe one single word sworn by three of the 
 informers. Defiant, almost treasonable; but they are 
 cold and very hungry, and these two factors do away 
 with a great deal of caution. Next day it is the same 
 story. One juror, Edward Morrogh, is for acquitting 
 
60 GLENANAAR 
 
 all the prisoners. Nine for acquitting two. At six 
 o'clock a certain juror, Atkins, complains of gout, — 
 a strange experience after an enforced fast. Dr. 
 Townsend, promptly summoned, is put on oath, and 
 after some demurring is duly commissioned to briefly 
 examine the patient, make his diagnosis, speak to this 
 subject and to other jurors not one word on any other 
 topic whatsoever, report to Court if life is in danger, 
 etc., etc. Dr. Townsend is introduced amongst these 
 weary and doleful gentlemen, examines foot of Atkins, 
 finds it much swollen (patient has touched no food 
 since he ate a crust of bread the foregoing morning), 
 returns to Court, reports juror's life in danger. Judges 
 wish to discharge jury. Prisoners' counsel, McCarthy, 
 probably instructed by the wily O'Connell, strenuously 
 objects. It is quite illegal. They cannot be discharged 
 until they find a verdict one way or the other. He is 
 merciful, however. He will allow the jury any food 
 or refreshments they may require. Court rules this 
 to be strictly illegal. They must be discharged, or 
 consent to be starved into a verdict. At last, and after 
 many a weary legal argument, the jury, after their 
 forty hours' session, are discharged, and the prisoners 
 put back for a second trial. But the watchful and 
 wary O'Connell, who had purposely absented himself 
 from this discussion between his junior counsel and 
 the Court, instantly seized on this illegal proceeding 
 to demand the liberation of the prisoners. During the 
 whole day, October 28th, there raged a triangular 
 crossfire between him, the Solicitor General, and Judge 
 
AVE, LIBERATOR/ 61 
 
 Pennefather, O'Connell strenuously contending against 
 the Court and Crown Counsel that, according to the 
 law, the jury. could not be legally discharged; that if 
 discharged, the prisoners should have the benefit of 
 acquittal, and that the presence of the physician con- 
 stituted a breach of the principle of non-access, and 
 therefore vitiated the entire proceedings. As a mere 
 forensic debate it is extremely interesting, as found in 
 the Southern Reporter and Commercial Courier of that 
 date. One can easily read that O'Connell was no 
 mere platform orator or Parliamentary debater, bearing 
 down all before him in the torrent of his vituperative 
 eloquence, but as close and skiKul a reasoner as ever 
 took a knotty point of law, and tried to disentangle it, 
 or use it against his antagonists. He succeeded so far 
 that he compelled the Crown to postpone to next 
 Assizes the trial of those three men, who would other- 
 wise have been arraigned the following morning. 
 
 Just before this great debate arose a characteristic 
 episode took place. A poor fellow, named O'Keeffe, 
 forgetting his frieze-coat, had the presumption to show 
 himself on the courthouse steps the previous evening, 
 and was promptly arrested. The other vermin were 
 run to earth; but here was a new quarry. Stunned 
 and bewildered, the unfortunate man bleated pitifully: 
 
 "Why am I brought here? I have been tried on 
 this charge before at Doneraile, before Colonel Hill, 
 Major Yokes, and other magistrates, and acquitted. 
 I am as innocent as the judges on the Bench, and am 
 brought here wrongfully. I met Daly the day of the 
 
62 GLENANAAR 
 
 Fair, and he was so stupidly drunk he was turned out 
 of the tent. This was the plain truth. If there was 
 anything against me, why was I not arrested before?" 
 Then it transpired that a most important witness 
 for this prisoner, and for John Leary and the other 
 prisoners, named Heireen, had been taken away from 
 the office of the prisoners' solicitor, Mr. Daltera, by 
 the chief constable, Keily, under a distinct engagement 
 that he would be forthcoming at the trial; but he had 
 been spirited away, no one knew where, and was not 
 to be found. It also appeared that one Daniel Keeffe, 
 another material witness for the prisoners, had been 
 seduced away by a man named John Shinnor, connected 
 with Crown affairs, and had not been seen since. 
 Other httle things are coming to light, for Astraea is 
 not altogether bUnd; and Pennefather, apparently a 
 just man, is becoming somewhat scrupulous and con- 
 cerned. He animadverts bitterly on this system of 
 tactics; men's lives are concerned; already one man, 
 lying now under sentence of deaths might have been 
 saved; what were counsel for the prisoners doing, that 
 not a word was said about the spiriting-away of wit- 
 nesses during Leary's trial ? Mr. McCarthy is put on 
 his defence, and pleads that it was Leary's own wish 
 to proceed without this witness. Yes, but Leary was 
 too sure of his innocence. He did not know the subtle- 
 ties of the law. One witness, more or less, he thought, 
 could make no material difference. But you knew the 
 law, friend McCarthy, its pitfalls and dangers; and 
 these were ignorant peasants. No wonder, they cried, 
 
AVE, LIBERATOR/ 63 
 
 in the fatal dock: "We are betrayed!" Baron Penne- 
 father is evidently angry. There is some foul play 
 here, or gross neglect; and he, orders the humbled and 
 penitent McCarthy to sit down. Then he relents a 
 httle and excuses the crest-fallen counsel. But he has 
 his own ideas clearly on the whole matter. Suddenly 
 Daltera declares that he had submitted the affidavit 
 to Leary's counsel, and they had dechned using it. 
 This puts a new complexion on the affair. The 
 Judge's indignation is rising again. Mr. Pigot admits 
 that they had read the affidavit, but dechned using it 
 because Heireen could not be got at, and they were 
 strengthened in that behef by the manner in which 
 this most important witness had been spirited away 
 from Daltera's office. So the matter drops. Baron 
 Pennefather leans back in his seat and thinks a good 
 deal, — thinks especially of these four men, who are 
 to swing in the frosty air in two weeks' time. Keeffe 
 is put back; and the hounds are drawn off. The great 
 forensic debate commences; and so ends the second 
 act in the httle drama. But somehow the judges seem 
 a httle abstracted; the Crown counsel are a httle dis- 
 concerted. This httle episode has introduced the first 
 element of panic, which is to end in absolute rout. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 ASTRAEA REDUX 
 
 "This will never do!" So said a famous critic 
 when guillotining a certain poet. So said Solicitof 
 General Doherty, when this mixed jury disagreed, and 
 three of his victims ran the chance of escaping. It was 
 quite clear that mixed juries, hke everything else that 
 is mixed and mongrel, are bad. This time we shall 
 take care to have the sang pur. There shall be no 
 mistake. Hence, on Thursday morning, young Burke 
 (brother of our midnight rider), Shine (whose brother 
 is already sentenced to death), Connor, and Murphy 
 are in the dock. The panel is called. Gentlemen of 
 the highest respectability, land-owners and agents, are 
 ruthlessly set aside on account of their religion, and an 
 exclusively Protestant jury is carefully empanelled. 
 There shall be no loophole of escape this time. There 
 will be the additional gratification of defeatiag this 
 Boanerges from Kerry, who, most assuredly, cannot 
 be described as of "very gentlemanly appearance and 
 decidedly aristocratic address." 
 
 Patrick Daly improves as he goes along. He wishes 
 to earn his portion of that £720 honestly, and to give 
 good value to his employers. In his own choice lan- 
 guage he wants to "swear up to the mark," a pretty 
 
 64 
 
ASTRAEA REDUX 65 
 
 simile taken, I believe, from a certain measure of 
 porter. It has transpired already that Patrick Daly 
 was so drunk at that Fair of Rathclare that he couldn't 
 stand. Nevertheless, he testifies gUbly as to what took 
 place there; how the famous assassination paper was 
 produced for signature; how Burke, the prisoner, was 
 present as a member of the committee; and how he, 
 Patrick Daly, told it all to Colonel Hill, immediately 
 after the Fair. 
 
 This was very satisfactory. But here a dramatic inci- 
 dent occurred. Judge Pennefather beckons to O'Con- 
 nell to approach the Bench. O'Connell approaches; 
 the Judge shows a paper, and both heads — Judge's 
 and advocate's — are bent in consultation for a few 
 minutes. There is a hush in court. Patrick Daly is 
 melodiously silent, and somewhat perturbed. Doherty 
 cannot make it out. At last, O'Connell returns to 
 his place, the paper in his hand; and, after Daly's 
 direct examination had concluded, O'Connell arose. 
 
 "The day after the Fair you described to the magis- 
 trates in detail all that had occurred in the tent?" 
 
 "Yes!" 
 
 "You mentioned the assassination order?" 
 
 "Yes!" 
 
 "And the names of the committeemen?" 
 
 "Yes!" 
 
 "This is your signature, I presume?" 
 
 "'TisUkeit!" 
 
 "Then you have told the jury all that happened in 
 the tent?" 
 
66 GLENANAAR 
 
 "Well, thin, since you want the whole information, 
 Murphy here said that there was as bad min in the 
 counthry as the three gintlemin that wor to be killed; 
 that Major Maxwell and Misther Batwall ought to 
 be killed too; Mr. Daniel Clanchy of Charleville, he 
 said, will give ;£ioo to the man that kills MaxweU, 
 and £200 to the man that 'uU kill the two." 
 
 O'CormeU read over Daly's deposition (the paper 
 handed him by Baron Pennefather). There was not 
 one word about the assassination order, nor of the 
 other details just sworn to by the accomplished wit- 
 ness. 
 
 "Me cousin Owen" appears on the witness table. 
 Patrick has sworn that Owen was not with him in the 
 tent. Owen swears that he was. It would never do 
 that Patrick should pocket the whole bribe. He must 
 "swear up to the mark." Of course he was there, and 
 can tell everything just as glibly, and even more pic- 
 turesquely than " cousin Pat." His zeal and eloquence 
 are wonderful. But, Uke many in other spheres of 
 life, zeal and eloquence lead him astray. He contra- 
 dicts " cousin Pat" in a dozen particulars, and is ordered 
 peremptorily from the witness box. 
 
 This time Baron Pennefather addresses the jury in 
 a solemn, lengthened speech, daintily balancing the 
 scales of Astraea, instead of flinging in the sword of 
 justice, with a "Vae victis!" against the prisoners. 
 Jury this time, exclusively Protestant as they are, do 
 not leave the box, but promptly acquit the prisoners 
 with their verdict: "not guilty." There is a sense of 
 
ASTRAEA REDUX 67 
 
 relief visible in the entire court; and Judge Pennefather 
 leans over the Bench, and whispers to Mr. Bennett, 
 one of the junior counsel for the prosecution: 
 
 "George, let me not see you here again!" 
 
 The following day, the defeated Solicitor General 
 announces that "his learned friends and himself have 
 decided not to proceed with any further trials at pres- 
 ent, and that the remaining untiied prisoners might be 
 let out on bail." 
 
 Soon after, the sentence of death on the first batch 
 of prisoners was commuted to penal servitude for life, 
 although they were convicted on exactly the same 
 testimony that was so promptly rejected by the third 
 jury. However, that sentence, too, was relaxed after 
 they had been transported; and their children and 
 children's children are here in Doneraile to-day. 
 
 The duel, however, between the Sohcitor General 
 and O'Connell did not end here. In the next session 
 of Parliament O'Connell moved for the depositions of 
 Patrick Daly, and also for the notes taken by the 
 Judges during the trials. It was unusual to demand 
 the production of the Judges' notes; but O'Connell 
 explained the importance of the case, and in doing so 
 he paid a tribute to the justice, courtesy, and honour 
 of Baron Pennefather, and, by implication, he. passed 
 a decided censure on his brother-judge. But the main 
 object of the motion clearly was to indict the Solicitor 
 General, for that he, with such remarkable discrep- 
 ancies in his hands as existed between the depositions 
 of Daly and his after-testimony, did press home against 
 
68 GLENANAAR 
 
 the prisoners for conviction, and suppressed these facts 
 in his charges to the three juries. The debate opened 
 up the wide question — Whether counsel, with direct 
 testimony or circumstantial evidence before him as to 
 the innocence of a prisoner on trial, could in honour or 
 conscience either suppress such evidence or influence 
 the jury for conviction? The debate was singularly 
 interesting op account of the principle involved. 
 O'Connell's speech was remarkable for its wonderful 
 moderation, a fact on which he had to bear a good 
 deal of hostile chaff from the ministerial side of the 
 house. The Solicitor General's reply was singularly 
 feeble, wandering away to poUties, and quoting O'Con- 
 nell's speeches at dinner-tables and on platforms 
 against his studied moderation in the House. The 
 Member for Mallow, C. O. Denham Norreys, backed 
 up O'Connell in a lucid and argumentative speech, in 
 which he insisted that the point of debate was — Had 
 the Solicitor General in his possession at each of the 
 three trials the very depositions, etc., on which Judge 
 Pennefather directed the acquittal of the prisoners? 
 A Mr. North, defending the SoUcitor General, attacked 
 O'Connell in a furious piece of declamation; and so 
 the debate raged during a sitting of Parliament, until 
 at last the heavy weight of votes on the ministerial 
 side bore down all opposition, and O'Connell's motion- 
 was negatived by a majority of fifty-eight.' And so 
 the Doneraile Conspiracy passed into history, and is 
 
 / >It was this victory that emboldened Doherty to bring on again at the Spring 
 Assizes the prisoners let Out on bail. 
 
ASTRAEA REDUX 69 
 
 now but a name signifying but little to the minds of 
 the peasantry. 
 
 The name of the SoUcitor General' has passed into 
 obUvion so complete that I should never have heard it, 
 but that it echoed out of the recesses of history which 
 I have opened. If, however, there be any immortality 
 on earth, surely it will be that of the great advocate, 
 who, from the first years of his striking career, took up 
 the people's cause and defended it, often at the risk of 
 personal losses in the profession he had chosen to 
 foUow, and sometimes at the risk of his Ufe. Yet, 
 amidst all the triumphs of his career, poUtical and 
 forensic, I understand that he deemed this rescue of 
 the Doneraile peasants and labourers not the least; 
 and, as he said in the House of Commons, it was a 
 case into which he threw his whole heart and soul. 
 And amongst the many incidents that he loved to 
 recall from a life full of every kind of dramatic episode, 
 I understand that he dwelt with particular pleasure on 
 that memorable night-ride through the mountains and 
 by the lakes of his native county; and with particular 
 emphasis on the tremendous contrasts between the 
 beauties and sublimities of Nature, as he saw it that 
 morning by hill and valley and river, and " the rascali- 
 ties of an Irish Court of Justice." 
 
 The peasants returned to the homes, they thought 
 they should never behold again. They sat once more 
 by firesides which they thought were extinguished for 
 
 • He lived a short time in history as " Long Jack Doherty," a nickname given 
 him by O'Connell; he had realized ;^,ooo by his profession and speculations, but 
 died penniless. 
 
70 GLENANAAR 
 
 them forever. And slowly a better feeling crept in 
 between the people and the local gentry. The very 
 gallant way in which many of the latter, at the risk of 
 social ostracism, protested against what they rightly 
 deemed a miscarriage of justice, touched the hearts of 
 the people, and dissipated the unhappy hostility that 
 had arisen from poUtical causes. Providence has 
 balanced very hghtly this airy Irish nature. It swings 
 to a touch. Where heavier natures creep slowly up 
 and down according to the weight or pressure of cir- 
 cumstances, the Celtic temperament leaps to the weight 
 of a feather; and you have sullen depression, or irre- 
 sistible gaiety, murderous disloyalty or more than 
 feudal fealty, in swift and sudden alternations. 
 
 During these momentous trials, for instance, O'Con- 
 nell thought it his duty to challenge a Protestant juror. 
 It was reported that this man had said, after the con- 
 victions on the first trial, that there should be a gibbet 
 at every cross-roads in the county. A wave of indig- 
 nation swept over the minds of the people at this 
 truculent, unscrupulous expression. But lo! a witness 
 testifies that the words were used in quite a different 
 sense, and were condemnatory of Crown methods of 
 prosecution, and sympathetic with the prisoners. "If 
 this kind of thing is to go on," he said, "they might as 
 well erect a gibbet at every cross-roads in the county." 
 Quite a different thing! And so Irish anger swept 
 around and evaporated in a cloud of incense about the 
 popular magistrate. And so these sad winter days a 
 great deal of public indignation ebbed away in a more 
 
ASTRAEA REDUX ' 71 
 
 gentle and kindly feeling, or was diverted against that 
 class which has always been an object of particular 
 horror in Ireland, — the approver or informer. There, 
 there is no relenting, no pardon! The awful stain 
 goes down from generation to generation; and their 
 children and children's children are the pariahs whom 
 no man will willingly converse with, and with whom 
 any aUiance, particularly of marriage, is regarded as 
 treasonable and dishonourable to the last degree. Hence 
 every one of these hated wretches had to quit the 
 country, and even in foreign lands to change his name. 
 And even to this day, the old people will not speak 
 about them, except in a whisper; and then only when 
 they have looked carefully around them to see that no 
 one is listening, but friends. But the magistrates, 
 against whom the conspiracy was supposed to have 
 been formed, remained in their country-seats and hved 
 honoured and revered by the people, and died peaceably 
 in their beds. And then every remnant of the memory 
 of this drama was swept aside when the terrible spectre 
 of the famine appeared. And as we read how, in 
 sudden torrential deluges in American sand-prairies, 
 beasts, the most hostile to each other, will gather and 
 congregate on some vantage point of safety to escape 
 destruction, and forget their natural antagonism in 
 the common instinct for safety; so, in view of that 
 dreadful scourge of 'forty-eight and 'forty-nine, all 
 lower feelings of caste and race were blotted out, and 
 in the common peril men forgot everything but the 
 common safety. It was the new genealogy (alas! so 
 
72 GLENANAAR 
 
 often interrupted since in favour of the spurious and 
 historical lineage which we have mentioned above), — 
 justice begat confidence; and confidence begat tolera- 
 tion; and toleration begat mutual understanding; and 
 mutual understanding begat love; and love begat that 
 Union which we all desire. 
 
 Here we shut up the cabinet of history, and pass 
 out into the gardens of tradition and romance. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 WAIFS 
 
 GiENANAAR, the glen of slaughter, is a deep ravine, 
 running directly north and south through a lower spur 
 of the mountains that divide Cork and Limerick. 
 The boundary line that separates these counties, and 
 also the dioceses of Cloyne and Limerick, and the 
 parishes of Ardpatrick and Doneraile, runs right along 
 the top of the glen, and close to that boundary line on 
 the southern side was the farm of Edmond Connors, 
 one of the men who had been put back on the second 
 trial in the Doneraile Conspiracy, of which we have 
 just written. His farm lay along the slope of the 
 valley, facing directly east. It extended right over 
 the slope, and was terminated there by the wild heather 
 of the mountain; and it stretched downwards to the 
 river, always full even in summer, but a fierce, angry 
 torrent in winter; and which took its name, Avon, or, 
 as it is pronounced, Own-anaar, from the same terrific 
 battle after which the glen is named. The house, a 
 long, low building, thatched with reed, fronted the 
 south; and, although very remote from village or town, 
 the whole place — farm, field, and river, were as cosey 
 and picturesque as could be found in Ireland. Ed- 
 mond Connors, the proprietor, was, as we have said, 
 
 73 
 
74 GLENANAAR 
 
 a man of Herculean strength, broad-shouldered, deep- 
 chested, strong-limbed; but you needed only to look at 
 that calm, clear face, and those mild, blue eyes, that 
 looked at you with a half-pitying, half-sorrowful glance, 
 to see, as every one said, that Edmond Connors "would 
 not hurt a child." He was, in fact, a superb- type of 
 a very noble class of peasants, now, alas! under modem 
 influences, dying away slowly in the land. They were 
 all giants, largely formed, strongly thewed. They 
 rarely touched meat. At Christmas and Easter it was 
 a luxury. Their dietary was simple and ascetic — 
 meal, milk, and potatoes. But their constant exposure 
 to rough weather, their incessant labour, and the iron 
 constitutions they inherited from their forefathers and 
 conserved by the purity and temperance of their hves, 
 were better adapted than the feeble helps civihzation 
 gives to create a hardy and iron race. It was of such 
 men and their forefathers that Edmund Spenser, a 
 rabid exterminator, wrote in despair to Queen Ehza- 
 beth, that they were quite hopeless — these attempts 
 that were made to destroy or root out such a people; 
 for they were so hardy, so fearless of death, so con- 
 temptuous of fatigue and wounds, that even the savage 
 efforts of EUzabethan and CromwelUan freebooters 
 failed to destroy what Providence evidently intended 
 to maintain and preserve. With these strong peasants, 
 too, modem worries and vexations had no place. They 
 had their trials; but they rehed so implicitly on the 
 maxims of their religion, which was also their philoso- 
 phy, that they bore every reverse of fortune, and sick- 
 
WAIFS 75 
 
 ness and death, with the most profound and tranquil 
 equanimity. A few times during their long and labo- 
 rious Uves, they might flash out in some sudden flame 
 of anger, and then it was bad for those who crossed 
 their path. But that died away in remorse immediately, 
 and the old, calm, patient way of life was resumed 
 again. It was' really pathetic the way these gentle 
 giants used to look out from their clear blue eyes, in 
 which there was always a depth of sorrow hidden 
 under their strong bushy eyebrows; and how patiently 
 they took the events of life, and calmly the wildest 
 vagaries of destiny. You could not disturb their equa- 
 nimity. Tell them of the most wonderful or dreadful 
 thing, and they accepted it without surprise or alarm. 
 They would be the despair of a dramatist. He could 
 not astonish them, or excite their enthusiasm. To 
 sleep, to wake, to work, to pray, to die — that was 
 the programme of existence. To wonder, to admire, 
 to be angry, to be enthusiastic — they knew not the 
 secret of these things. All things are ordered by a 
 Supreme Will, of whom we are the puppets — that is 
 all! Who does not remember them in their strong 
 frieze cutaway coats, their drab or snuff-colored vests 
 and knee-breeches, the rough home-woven stockings, 
 and the strong shoes — all made, like themselves, for 
 hard work and wild tempestuous weather ? No Words- 
 worth has yet sung the praises of these Irish dalesmen; 
 but this, too, will come in the intellectual upheaval that 
 we are witnessing just now. 
 Since the time of the trial, and his merciful escape 
 
76 GLENANAAR 
 
 from a horrible death, old Edmond Connors was 
 accustomed to remain even more alone than was his 
 usual wont. Always of a soHtary turn of mind, he 
 began now to haunt the mountains continually. Some- 
 times he was seen sitting on the low parapet of a bridge 
 that crossed the mountain stream, sometimes on a 
 great boulder deep down in some primeval valley, 
 visited only by sun and moon and stars; and some- 
 times his great form was seen outUned against the 
 wintry sky, as he knelt and prayed on one of those 
 immense stones that form caims on the crest of the 
 hills looking down into the glens and dales of Limerick. 
 What were his thoughts no one knew, for hke all his 
 class he was a silent man, and rarely spoke but in 
 monosyllables. 
 
 There was a heavy fall of snow a few days before 
 Christmas of this year; and, as the weather was intensely 
 cold, there were none of the usual thaws, but the frost 
 knit the snow-flakes together and crusted them all over 
 with its own hard but brilliant enamelHng. The whole 
 landscape was covered with this white, pure surface, 
 except where the river, now blackened by the contrast, 
 cut its cold, dark way between the clefts it had made 
 for itself out of the soft sand of the hills. The bleak, 
 dreary appearance of the landscape, however, did not 
 deter Edmond Connors from his daily ramble in the 
 mountains. His strong gaiters and boots defied the 
 wet of the snow-clad heather; and he trudged along 
 through slushy bog and across wet fields, only stopping 
 from time to time to look down across the white. 
 
WAIFS 77 
 
 level plain that stretched its monotone of silver till it 
 touched the sky-Hne, and was merged in it. One 
 evening, just as dusk fell, about four o'clock, and the 
 atmosphere became sensibly colder, he turned his 
 footsteps homeward. His way led across the little 
 bridge down beyond the plantation of fir-trees on the 
 main road. As he came in sight of it he saw in the 
 twihght a woman sitting on the low parapet, with a 
 child in her arms. His footsteps were so completely 
 muffled by the soft snow that she was unaware of his 
 approach, until he came quite close to her, and she 
 woke up from her reveries and stared at him. She 
 was quite young, but the child in her arms told that 
 she was married. Her face would have been very 
 beautiful, except that it was now drawn tight as parch- 
 ment; and two great black eyes stared out of the pallor, 
 as if in fright at some undefined but yet unreaUzed 
 sorrow that was haunting her with its shadow. On 
 seeing the great, tall figure near her, she drew up her 
 black shawl hastily and covered her head, and turned 
 away. The old man seeing this, and thinking that 
 she had been suckling her child, and had turned away 
 in modesty, approached and said, kindly: 
 
 "God save you, honest 'uman! Sure 'tis a cowld 
 evening to be out; and a cowld rest you have got for 
 yerself." 
 
 The woman did not answer. 
 
 "Wisha, thin, me poor 'uman," said the old man, 
 kindly; "you ought to seek shelter to-night, if not for 
 yerself, at laste fer yer little child." 
 
78 GLENANAAR 
 
 The woman remained silent, with averted face. He 
 fumbled in his pocket and drew out a silver piece. 
 
 "Here, me poor 'uman," he said, extending the coin 
 toward her. "I haven't much; but the Lord has been 
 good to me, and we must be good to every poor crachure 
 that wants it." 
 
 She put the hand aside with an angry gesture; and 
 rising up to her full stature, she looked at the old man 
 with blazing eyes. 
 
 "Edmond Connors," she said, "I know you, and 
 you don't know me. But you go your ways, and 
 lave me go mine. It will be better for you in the 
 ind." 
 
 "Wisha, thin, agragal," he said, humbly, "sure I 
 meant no harrum; but I thought it 'ud be murdher 
 intirely to see you and your little gorlach on the road 
 a night like this." 
 
 "Why do you talk to me of murdher?" she said. 
 "Haven't you murdher on your own sowl? And isn't 
 the rope swinging for you a-yet?" 
 
 "I have not murdher, nor any other crime on my 
 sowl," he said, meekly, "though, God knows, I am 
 a sinful man enough. But you're out of your mind, 
 me poor 'uman, and you don't undershtan' the words 
 you're spakin'." 
 
 "I wish 'twas thrue for you, Edmond Connors," 
 she said. "I wish to God to-night that I was mad out 
 intirely; and thin I could do what I was goin' to do, 
 whin God or the divil sint you ^crass my path." 
 
 "I don*t know what you mane," said the old man. 
 
WAIFS 79 
 
 now very anxious, "but if you wor thinkin' of doin' 
 any harrum to yerself or yer child, may God and His 
 Blessed and Holy Mother prevint you. Sure that's 
 the last of all." 
 
 "Wouldn't it be betther for me to be dead and 
 buried," she said, somewhat more calmly, "than be 
 harried from house to house, and from parish to parish, 
 as I am, wid every dure slammed in me face, and a 
 curse follyin' me on me road?" 
 
 "That's quare," said the old man, "sure, haven't 
 you the ring on your marriage-finger as well as the 
 best of thim?" 
 
 "I have so," she said. "More bad luck and mis- 
 fortune 'tis to me. 'Tis I'd be the happy 'uman if I 
 could brake that ring, and put the pieces where they 
 couldn't be found." 
 
 "At laste," said the old man, compassionately watch- 
 ing the blue eyes that stared up at him from the pinched, 
 starved face of the child, "you should consider the 
 child that God sint you; and if you cannot do anything 
 to help yourself, or if you wor thinkin' of somethin' 
 bad agin it " 
 
 "What could I be thinkin' of?" she said, defiantly. 
 "If you have murdher in your own heart, Edmond 
 Connors, that's no rayson ye'd suspect me of the 
 same." 
 
 "I see, me good 'uman," said the old man, moving 
 slowly away, "you're not from this neighburhood, the' 
 ye seem to know me name. No body in this parish 
 'ud spake as you have done. And," he said, with 
 
80 , GLENANAAR 
 
 some little temper, "it 'udn't be safe for thim if they 
 did." 
 
 It seemed to touch some latent sensibility in the 
 wretched woman, for after some hesitation she called 
 after him. 
 
 "I ax your pardon," she said, "for the hard words 
 I said agin you just now. You didn't desarve them; 
 and no wan knows that betther than me. If I could 
 say all I'd Uke to say, Edmond Connors, there 'ud be 
 short work wid your next thrial. But me mout' is 
 shut. But only for this Uttle crachure, me Annie, me 
 only tie on airth, I'd very soon put the says betune 
 me and thim you know. An' I suppose 'twas God sint 
 you this cowld, dark night, to save me sowl from hell; 
 for, Edmond Connors, the murdher I said wos on 
 your sowl, and 'twas a lie, was very near bein' on me 
 own." 
 
 The old man looked at h^r sorrowfully in the grow- 
 ing twilight. There was something in her aspect, 
 something in her words with their mysterious allusions, 
 that attracted and interested him. And the blue eyes 
 of the child seemed to haunt him, and ask for protec- 
 tion. 
 
 "Now, me poor 'uman," he said, "you're back in 
 yer sinses agen. Sure I know well how the hardship 
 and distress dhrive people out of their mind sometimes. 
 But it may come on ye agen; and remimber this is a 
 Christian counthry, where any wan would be glad to 
 take from ye that purty, weeshy little crachure in yer 
 arms, and save it from the cowld river. Here, now, 
 
WAIFS 81 
 
 take these few shillings, and buy somethin' warm for 
 yourself, for ye need it; and keep God and fiis Blessed 
 Mother ever afore yer sight." 
 
 She stretched out her hand, and it lingered long in 
 his great rough pahn, whilst she fixed her glowing 
 eyes, shaded with anxiety, upon him. Then, in a 
 sudden impulse, she raised the big, strong hand to her 
 lips; and, dragging her wretched shawl more closely 
 around her, strode away. The old man stood and 
 watched her tall, girlish figure, as it swayed along the 
 road, darkly outlined against the white background of 
 the snow. Then he moved slowly homeward. As he 
 reached the crest of the hill through a short cut across 
 the heather, he turned round, and looked back. The 
 woman's figure stood forth clearly outlined against 
 the darkening sky. She, too, had stood still, and was 
 looking toward him. Seeing him still watching, she 
 raised her hand, and waved a farewell, and passed out 
 of his sight as he thought for ever. 
 
 He was more than usually silent, as he sat by the 
 fire that night, and watched the red turf and blazing 
 wood, as they poured from the open hearth great 
 volumes of smoke up through the wide chimney that 
 yawned darkly above. The eyes of that Uttle child 
 haimted him. He was troubled in conscience about 
 it. He thought he should have asked the poor, lone 
 woman to allow him and his vanithee to be her pro- 
 tector. One mouth more was not much to feed; and 
 He who giveth food to the sparrows on the house-top 
 would help to feed a little child. He was quite angry 
 
82 GLENANAAR 
 
 with himself, and once or twice he was about to rise 
 and go out, and follow the waifs. But he argued, 
 they are gone too far on their way now. Yet when he 
 came to the Fifth Joyful Mystery, as they recited the 
 Rosary that evening, the remorse came back, and 
 choked his voice with the emotion. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 NODLAG 
 
 Christmas morning came round; and the snow was 
 still heavy in cleft and hollow; whilst on the open 
 roads it had been beaten by many feet of men and 
 horses into a sheet of yellow ice that made walking 
 very troublesome and dangerous. The great white 
 sheet was yet drawn across the landscape to the horizon; 
 and on distant mountains it shone clear as amber in 
 the light of the wintry sun. The eyes of men were 
 yearning for the more soothing green colour of field and 
 copse; for in this country, where we are so unaccus- 
 tomed to snow, the eyes soon begin to ache at the 
 dazzling whiteness, and seek reUef in little spots or 
 nooks of verdure unHer the shade of trees, or in hidden 
 places, where the great crystal flakes could not pene- 
 trate. 
 
 The family had gone to early Mass, some to Ard- 
 patrick or Ballyorgan, some down to their own parish 
 church; for, despite the inclement weather, there was 
 some pleasure in meeting friends on such a day, and 
 exchanging Christmas greetings. The boys who had 
 been home early from Mass went out with their sticks 
 to hunt the wren; and Hy, Droleen! Hy, Droleen! 
 echoed from copse and thicket, as the young lads 
 
 83 
 
84 GLENANAAR 
 
 shouted the hunting cry far away across the mountains. 
 The rest of the family got back early from Mass also, 
 and the deep hush of a Christmas Sabbath fell swiftly 
 down over the entire land, for it was a matter of honour 
 in Ireland that each family should be swiftly gathered 
 together, and have their fireside consecrated against 
 all intrusion on that day. So far is this rigid tradition 
 maintained that it is most rare to find any one sitting 
 down to the Christmas dinner who is not an immediate 
 member of the family circle; and the happy-go-easy 
 intimacy of other days, when a neighbour might freely 
 cross the threshold with a "God bless the work!" is 
 sternly interdicted on that day. The strict privacy of 
 each household is rigidly maintained. 
 
 When night fell, aU gathered together around the 
 table, where smoked the Christmas dinner. This, too, 
 was invariable in ever}' Irish household. The roast 
 goose, stuffed with potatoes and onions, the pig's head, 
 garlanded with curly cabbage, a piece of salt beef, and 
 an abundance of potatoes was, and is, the never- 
 changing menu in these humble. Christian households. 
 In places where there is a Uttle more pretension, a 
 rice pudding, plentifully sprinkled with currants, or a 
 plum pudding, is in much request. And then the 
 decks are cleared for action; and the great Christmas 
 cake, black with raisins, is surrounded and steamed 
 by smoking tumblers of punch; and aU relax for a 
 cosey, comfortable evening of innocent mirth and en- 
 joyment around the glowing fire of turf and logs, on 
 the sacred hearths of Ireland. And there are songs 
 
NODLAG 85 
 
 and dances galore, and absolute fraternity and equality, 
 for servant boys and girls mix freely with the family 
 on this great hohday of Christian communism; and 
 many a quaint story is told and many a quaint legend 
 unearthed, as the mfemory of the old travels back into 
 the past, and the hopes of the young leap forward to 
 the future. And all then was Umited between the 
 four seas of Ireland. America had not yet been dis- 
 covered; and the imagination never travelled beyond 
 the circle of the seas. And so there was nothing but 
 Ireland to talk about, nothing but Ireland interesting; 
 the Ireland of the past so dark, so tragical; the Ireland 
 of the future so uncertain and problematical. 
 
 Late in the evening, or rather night, in this little 
 home of Glenanaar, the thoughts of the family took a 
 melancholy turn. The song had been sung, the story 
 told; the girls and boys were tired after jig and reel, 
 and the whole family circle were gathered around the 
 fire now smouldering down in hot cinders and white 
 ashes. The dim, crimson hght predisposed them to 
 meditation and even gloom, as the huge giant shadows 
 were cast on the walls and upwards where the blackened 
 rafters glistened under the dark, smoke-begrimed 
 thatch. After a long silence, the vanithee, Mrs. Con- 
 nors, with her hands folded upon her lap, said, looking 
 intently at the fire: 
 
 " I hope we'll all be well and happy, this time twelve- 
 month! Sure, 'tis little we know what's before us! 
 Who'd ever think last Christmas that we'd see what 
 we saw this harvest?" 
 
86 GLENANAAR 
 
 "There's no use in dhrawin' it up to-night, Bess," 
 said the old man. "The comin' year, and every year 
 of our Uves, is in the hands of God ! " 
 
 "Thrue for you," said the vamthee. "But, sure 
 how can we help talkin' about what our hearts are 
 full of?" 
 
 "'Tis all over now," said her husband, spreading 
 his hands before the embers. "At laste, we may hope 
 so. As long as the Counsellor is to the fore, the people 
 are safe." 
 
 "You never know," said his wife, whose feminine 
 instincts inclined to despondency. " It's clear as noon- 
 day, that there's thim in the counthry still that 'ud 
 swear black wos white, and night wos day." 
 
 "Ontil they're made sich an example of," said a 
 deep voice from the settle, " that no wan of their seed, 
 breed, or gineration shall be left to swear awaj honest 
 lives agin." 
 
 "They gay," added another of the boys, "that 
 Cloumper Daly* is sperrited away already; but the 
 other ruffian is undet thrainin' agin be the poUce in 
 Dublin to swear harder the nixt time." 
 
 "They're to be pitied, the poor, ihisfortunate cra- 
 chures," said Edmond Coimors. "It must be hard 
 times that dhruv them to sich a trade." 
 
 "Wisha, thin, father," said one of the girls, who 
 could make bolder on her parents than her brothers, 
 "I wish you'd keep your pity for them that desarve 
 
 * " Cloumper Dawley" is the name by which the famous informer is still spolceH 
 ef in the pansh. 
 
NODLAG 87 
 
 it better. Hard times, indeed! As if an)rthing could 
 excuse wholesale perjury and murdher!" 
 
 "You have your feelings, Kate," said the old man, 
 "and sure I don't blame you. 'Twould be a lonesome 
 Shrove for you, if Willy Burke hadn't done what he 
 done." 
 
 This allusion to Kate's approaching marriage with 
 John Burke only exasperated her the more. 
 
 "Yes, father," she said, "but as Donal here sez, 
 what purtection have anny of ye, so long as anny of 
 that dirty spawn of informers is left in the counthry?" 
 
 " 'Twas a brave ride, surely," said the old man, not 
 heeding. "I hard Dr. O'Brien say from the altar, 
 that in a hunder' or two hurider' years' time, there'll 
 be ballads and songs about it." 
 
 "You hard him say, too," said Kate, flushed and 
 excited with the dance, and the thought of her lover's 
 peril thus brought back to her mind, "that he hoped 
 every approver and informer would clear out of his 
 parish, and lave no trace behind them in wife or child." 
 
 "Go out, Donal," said the old man, not relishing 
 this turn the conversation was taking, "an' bring in 
 a creel of dhry turf and fagots for the fire. Sure we 
 have some hours yet before bed-time, and the sight of 
 the fire is good. And," he continued, turning around, 
 as Donal promptly obeyed, " take a look at the cows in 
 the stalls, and see they're all right agin the night. It 
 is as cowld for thim crachures as it is for ourselves." 
 
 Donal, a "boy" of thirty-five or forty, went out into 
 the keen frosty air; and first approached the outhouse 
 
88 GLENANAAR 
 
 where the wood was kept. Having collected a goodly 
 bundle, he went over to the great long rick of black 
 turf, now blanketed under a heap of frozen snow. He 
 could not find the usual creel; so, lighting a stable 
 lantern, he went over to the byre where the cattle were 
 stalled fol: the night. Three of the beasts were com- 
 fortably asleep in their stalls; the remaining three 
 bent down their wet nozzles, and breathed on some- 
 thing that lay on the floor. Surprised beyond measure, 
 Donal went over, and stooping down saw his turf-creel, 
 and lying therein, warmed and saved by the breath of 
 the dumb oxen, was the sweetest and prettiest child 
 he ever saw. The httle creature opened its blue eyes 
 at the lantern hght, and stared and smiled at its dis- 
 coverer. The cows drew back. Their services were 
 no longer wanted. But one came back from the stalls; 
 and, as if loath to leave its little charge, put down its 
 wet nose again, and breathed the warm vapour of 
 breath on the infant. 
 
 The big Donal was so surprised that, as he said, 
 you could knock him down with a feather. But, 
 leaving the lantern on the floor, he came over leisurely 
 to the house, smiling at the surprise he was going to 
 give the family. Then he stopped a moment, debating 
 with himself what would be the most dramatic form 
 in which he could make the revelation. Like a good 
 artist he finally decided that the simplest way would 
 be the most effective; so he pushed open the kitchen 
 door, and said: 
 
 "Come here, Kate, I want you a minit." 
 
NODLAG 89 
 
 "Wisha, thin," said Kate, reluctant enough to leave 
 the warm house and go out into the frosty air, "'tis 
 you're always wantin' somethin'. What is it now?" 
 
 When they were in the yard, Donal said to her: 
 
 "Keep yer sinses about you, Kate; for you'll see the 
 quarest thing you ever saw now!" 
 
 "Yerra, what is it," said Kate, now quite excited, 
 "is it a ghost or wan of the 'good people'?" 
 
 "'Tis a fairy whatever," said Donal, going over and 
 letting the light fall down on the smiUng face of the 
 child. " Did ye ever see the likes before ? what'll they 
 say inside?" 
 
 Kate uttered a little scream of surprise, and clasped 
 her hands. 
 
 "Glory be to God! Did any wan ever see the likes 
 before? I wandher is it something good, or " 
 
 The dumb beast rebuked her superstition, for again 
 she bent down her wet mouth over the child and 
 breathed softly over her. And the infant, as if appeal- 
 ing against the increduHty of the girl, twisted and 
 puckered its Uttle face, as if about to cry. 
 
 "Here," said Donal, "ketch a grip of the creel, and 
 let us take the crachure into the fire. And I suppose 
 she's starving." 
 
 The brother and sister lifted the basket gently, and, 
 leaving the lantern behind them, took the infant across 
 the snow-covered yard, and pushed open the kitchen 
 door. 
 
 "Here's a Christmas-box for ye that we found in 
 the stable," said Donal, with great delight. "Begobs, 
 
90 GLENANAAR 
 
 whoiver sint it made no mistake about it. She's a rale 
 little jewel." 
 
 The whole family rose, except Edmond Connors, 
 who kept his place by the fire. He was always proof 
 against sudden emotions of all kinds. They gathered 
 around the basket which Donal and Kate brought over 
 to the fire; and there was a mingled chorus of wonder, 
 surprise, anger, pity, as the Httle creature lay there 
 before them, so pretty, so helpless, so abandoned. 
 
 "Glory be to God this blessed and holy night, did 
 any wan ever hear the Uke before?" 
 
 "T'will be the talk of the three parishes before 
 Sunday!" 
 
 "Wisha, who could it be at all, at all? Sure that 
 child is six months old." 
 
 "Sweet bad luck to the mother that abandoned ye, 
 ye poor little angel from heaven! Sure she must have 
 a heart of stone to put ye fram her breast this cowld, 
 bitther night!" 
 
 "Wisha, I wandher who is she? Did ye hear of 
 anny child about the neighbourhood belonging to anny 
 poor, misforthunate crachure?" 
 
 The only member of the family who did not evince 
 the least surprise was Edmond Connors himself. He 
 continued staring at the little waif that lay at his feet, 
 blinking up at him with her clear, blue eyes, as the 
 ruddy flames from the wood and turf now leaped up 
 merrily again. He at once recognized the child whom 
 he had seen in the arms of the half-demented creature 
 who had accosted him on the bridge; and he remem- 
 
NODLAG 91 
 
 bered, and smiled at the remembrance, how earnestly 
 he had implored her to commit that child to the care 
 of some Christian household, who, for the love of God, 
 would preserve the Uttle life and cherish it. 
 
 The vanithee, at last, impatient at his silence, said: 
 
 "Wisha, thin, Edmond Connors, wan would think 
 ye warn't in yer own house, ye're so silent, sittin' there 
 and twirUn' yer thumbs, and with yere 'Well! well!' 
 Can't you say somethin' to relieve our feeUn's?" 
 
 "I think," said the old man, deliberately, and with 
 a httle chuckle of amusement, "that it 'ud be no 
 harrum if ye wanned a Uttle sup of milk and gave it 
 to the crachure . " 
 
 "Thrue for you, faith," said his wife. "You always 
 sez the right thing, Edmond Cojinors, if you don't say 
 much!" 
 
 The milk was warmed; and the Httle creature drank 
 it eagerly, and brightened up after its simple supper. 
 And then began an eager search in its clothes for some 
 sign or token of its birth or parentage. This was 
 imavailing. The Uttle garments were clean, and 
 sound, and warm; but no scrap of paper nor sign of 
 needle afforded the least indication of who the child 
 was, or whence it had come. And the uncertainty 
 gave rise to a warmer debate — about the reUgion of 
 the child, and whether she had been christened, and 
 what might be her name. 
 
 "Av coorse, she's christened," said one of the girls. 
 "Av she was the blackest Prodestan' in Ireland, she'd 
 have her child baptized." 
 
92 GLENANAAR 
 
 "Begor, that's true," said another. "An' faith, 
 it might be some fine lady that's tired of her little 
 baby " 
 
 "Nonsense!" broke in Mrs. Connors. "There's not 
 a dacent woman in the land would abandon her child 
 like that." 
 
 "Take my word for it," said one of the servant girls, 
 "the mother that carried that child is no great things. 
 Perhaps 'twas that mad 'uman who was around here 
 a couple of Weeks ago." 
 
 "The mad 'uman!" said Edmond Connors, for the 
 first time turning aroimd. "What mad 'uman?" 
 
 "Some poor angashore of a crachure, that kem 
 round here a couple of weeks ago; and asked wos this 
 where Edmond Connors Uved," said his wife. "We 
 tried to be civil to her; but she cursed and melted us 
 all, yourself in the bargain." 
 
 "And had she a child wid her?" asked the old man 
 innocently. 
 
 "We don't know. She had some bundle in her 
 arms whatever. But we thought she wos getherin' up 
 for the Christmas time. But whoever she wos, she 
 wos no great things. We wor glad when she took her 
 face off av us." 
 
 "But what are we to do with the child, at all, at 
 all?" asked one of the girls. "And why did her 
 misfortunate mother pick us out to lave her with 
 us?" 
 
 "I suppose she thought we'd keep her," said her 
 mother. 
 
NODLAG 93 
 
 "And won't you?" said the old man, looking at the 
 child and the fire. 
 
 "Won't we? Did any wan hear sich a question?" 
 said Mrs. Connors. " Faith, I'm sure we won't. Nice 
 business we'd have rearing a child that might be ill-got. 
 We've enough to do, faith, these times to keep our- 
 selves, with everythin' thr^atenin' around us. We'U 
 take her down, next Sunday, plaze God, to the priest, 
 and let him see afther her." 
 
 "And why should the priest do what Christians 
 refuse to do?" said the old man. "Why should he 
 have the burden of rearin' her?" 
 
 "He can put her in somewhere," said his wife. 
 "An' perhaps, there may be some lone crachure who'd 
 take her off his hands for a thrifle." 
 
 "Thin you won't throw her out amongst the cows 
 to-night?" said the old man, sarcastically. 
 
 "That's a quare question," said his wife. "Yerra, 
 what's comin' over you at all? Sure you used to be 
 as fond of childre' as their mother. But we'll keep 
 her a few days; and thin " 
 
 "What night is this, Bess?" asked the old man, 
 rising up, and speaking solemnly, his back to the fire 
 and his hands clasped tightly behind him. 
 
 There was something in the tone assimied by the old 
 man that hushed the whole place instantly into silence. 
 He so seldom manifested any sign of temper, or even 
 assumed a tone of authority that, when he spoke as 
 he now did, his words came Weighted with all the 
 earnestness of a power that was seldom asserted. His 
 
94 GLENANAAR 
 
 wife, who, in ordinary every-day life, was supreme 
 mistress and ruler of the establishment, bore her mo- 
 mentary dethronement badly. She shuffled about 
 uneasily, and affected to be very busy about household 
 affairs. 
 
 "I suppose 'tis a Christmas," she replied without 
 turning round, and in a very sulky tone. 
 
 "And do you remember what happened on this 
 blessed night?" he said, now removing his hat and 
 placing it on the sugan chair where he had been sitting. 
 
 "I suppose I do," she answered. "The Infant 
 Jaysus wos homed in the stable of Bethlehem. Have 
 ye anny more of the Catechism in yer head?" 
 
 "And I suppose," said the old man, "that if that 
 poor woman and her husband (God forgive me for 
 speaking of the Blessed Vargin and holy St. Joseph in 
 that way) kem to the dure with their little Child a few 
 nights after, and asked Bess Connors to take the baby 
 from them for a while, Bess Connors would say: 'Next 
 dure, hones' 'uman!'" 
 
 "You know very well, Edmond Connors," said his 
 wife, now thoroughly angry, " that Bess Connors would 
 do nothing of the kiad." 
 
 " I know you long enough, Bess," said the old man, 
 "to know that. But whin God sint this httle cra- 
 chure," here he stooped down and took the smiling 
 child up in his great arms, "do you think He sint it 
 as a sign and token of nothin' ? And whin the same 
 all-merciful God saved me from the gallows and a 
 grave in Cork gaol, where I might be rotting to-night, 
 
NODLAG 95 
 
 instid of bein' here amongst ye, wouldn't it be a nice 
 return to throw out this little orphan into the cowld, 
 hard wurruld outside? No!" he said with emphasis. 
 " If God has' been good to us let us be tindher wid wan 
 another." 
 
 There was no reply to this. The young men would 
 have liked to side with their father, but they were 
 afraid of their mother's keen tongue. The girls were 
 bolder; and the elder, Joan, or Joanna, a very gentle, 
 spiritual being, said meekly: 
 
 "I think father is right, mother. We mustn't fly in 
 the'faceof God." 
 
 "Here," said the mother, completely conquered, 
 " let ye nurse her betune ye. I wash me hands out of 
 the business intirely." 
 
 "Take the child, Joan," said the father, handing 
 the infant over to his eldest daughter. "So long as 
 there's bit, bite and sup in the house, she shall not 
 want, until thim that owns her, claims her." 
 
 "Do so, and nurse her betune ye, afld may she 
 bring a blessing on yer house, Edmond Connors,", said 
 his wife. " But av it be the other way, remimber that 
 ye got yere warning." 
 
 "What will we caU her?" said Joan, taking the 
 infant from her father's arms. "We must christen 
 her agin be some name or anuther." 
 
 "We'U call her Bessie for the present," said the old 
 man. "The laste honour we can pay yer mother " 
 
 "Be this and be that ye won't," said his wife in a 
 furious temper. "I had always a dacent name, an' 
 
96 GLENANAAR 
 
 me family before me wor dacent, an' I never brought 
 shame or blame on thim — " 
 
 "Here, here," said Donal, to end the discussion 
 "annything will do. Call her Nodlag,^ afther this 
 blessed night." 
 
 And Nodlag remained thp child's name. 
 
 iPtoaoimced NiUHg — Irish for Christmatt 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 THE MIDNIGHT OATH 
 
 The defeat of the Crown in these half-political, 
 half-social trials had been so utter and complete, that 
 it was generally regarded as the merest formality that 
 the prisoners, let out on bail, should be again sum- 
 moned before the Judges. Besides, the belief in 
 O'Connell's great forensic abilities, so well manifested 
 before the Special Commission, created the hope that 
 amounted to certainty in the public mind, that no 
 matter what pressure was brought to bear by the 
 Crown, no jury could convict on what had already 
 been proved to be the perjured and suborned evidence 
 of approvers. In fact, it was fully believed by the 
 general public, that the Crown would not renew the 
 prosecution. Hence, during the months of January 
 and February, great contentment reigned in the humble 
 cottage at Glenanaar. The early spring work went 
 on as usual, and no apprehensions darkened the bright- 
 ness that always shone around that peaceful Christian 
 hearth. Nodlag, too, was a ray of sunshine across 
 the earthen floor. Gradually she grew into all hearts, 
 and even the vanithee, struggling a long time against 
 her pride of power so rudely shattered on Christmas 
 night, yielded to the spell of enchantment cast by the 
 
 97 
 
98 GLENANAAR 
 
 foiindling over all else. The men of the household 
 never went out to work, or returned from it, without 
 a word or caress for Nodlag; the girls went clean mad 
 about the child; and often, when no one was looking, 
 the vanithee would remain a long time by the child's 
 cradle, talking motherly nonsense to it, and always 
 winding up with the comment: 
 
 '"Twas a quare mother that put you among the 
 bastes a Christmas night, alanna!" 
 
 Edmond Connors, too, was completely fascinated by 
 her childish charms. He would often go in and out 
 of the room where her cradle lay to caress her, and 
 when she was brought near the fire, and he could look 
 at her, long and leisurely, he would plunge into a 
 deep meditation on things in general, and wind up 
 with a "Well, well, it is a quare wurruld sure enough!" 
 But the secret of her abandonment and her parentage 
 was jealously guarded by him. He knew well that 
 if he so much as hinted that that winsome child was 
 the daughter of the perjured ruffian, Daly, who had 
 tried to swear away his life and who had sent decent 
 men to transportation, not even his supreme authority 
 would avail to save the child from instant and peremp- 
 tory dismissal from that house. When he found the 
 secret safe, for all the inquiries made in the neighbour- 
 ing parishes had failed to elicit any information about 
 the child or its parents, although it was still the com- 
 mon talk of the people, he often chuckled to himself at 
 the grim joke he was playing, and he could hardly 
 help saying in his own mind, as he saw his daughters 
 
THE MIDNIGHT OATH 99 
 
 fondling the child and his sons kissing her — " If ye 
 only knew!" Then, sometimes, there would come a 
 sinking of heart as he thought of the possibilities that 
 might eventuate from his approaching trial, and the sig- 
 nificant hint from the wretched woman : — 
 "An' isn't the rope swinging for ye a-yet?" 
 At last, the Spring Assizes came around; and the 
 three men, Connors, WaUis, aniLynch, were ordered 
 to Cork for trial. It was a surprise; but still regarded 
 as a mere matter of form. The Sohcitor General, 
 Doherty, was again to prosecute; and he came, flushed 
 from his triumph over O'Connell in the House of 
 Commons, and determined to prove by the conviction 
 of his prisoners that the famous Conspiracy was as 
 deadly, and as deeply spread as he had represented. 
 Public interest was not so keen as on the first trials at 
 the Special Commission; and therefore that secret and 
 undefined pressure of public opinion did not lean so 
 heavily on judges and jury. The prisoners were not 
 aware of this; but came into court with hope high in 
 their hearts that this was but a mere formality to be 
 gone through to comply with the law. They would 
 be acquitted by the Sohcitor General himself in his 
 opening speech. 
 
 As they passed into the dock to surrender to their 
 bails, Edmond Connors was aware of the dark figure 
 of a woman, clad in black, and with a black shawl 
 tightly drawn about her head, as she stood so close to 
 the door that her dress touched him hghtly. The 
 yeoman on guard apparently did not *\^*ice her, or 
 
100 GLENANAAR 
 
 made no attempt to remove her from a place usually 
 occupied by ofi5cials. As her dress touched the old 
 man, he looked down; and she, opening her black 
 shawl, revealed the pallid face and the great wild eyes 
 of the woman he had accosted at the bridge. At first 
 he shuddered at the contact. Then, some strange 
 influence told him that it was with no evil intention 
 she was there. Yet, his thoughts began to wander 
 wildly, as his nerves sank und«r the fierce words of 
 the indictment, charging him with intent and con- 
 spiracy to murder; and the words of the woman would 
 come back: — 
 "An* isn't the rope swinging for ye a-yet?" 
 To their utter dismay and consternation, too, O'Con- 
 nell, their champion, their deliverer, did not appear; 
 but there was the arch-enemy, Doherty, "six feet 
 three in height, and with a manner decidedly aristo- 
 cratic." On went the dreadful litany of their imputed 
 crimes; on went the appeals to prejudice, sectarian 
 and political; on went the smooth, studied language, 
 all the more terrible for the passionless tones in which 
 it was uttered; and alas! there was no stern friend here 
 to cry, "Stop! That is riot law!" Counsel exchanged 
 notes, looked up, hesitated; but it needed the fearless 
 and masculine tribune to block that stream of deadly 
 eloquence. Overawed by the position and personality 
 of the Crown Prosecutor, and afraid to get into close 
 contact with him, they were silent. And then the 
 approvers came on the table. 
 
 It would seem to ordinary minds incredible that the 
 
THE MIDNIGHT OATH 101 
 
 evidence of these ruffians, completely disproved on the 
 score of self-contradiction, and rejected by the mixed 
 jury at the Special Commission, should ever be de- 
 manded again. But it was. The scene in the tent at 
 Rathclare, the document of assassination duly signed, 
 the supplementary evidence that was furnished to sup- 
 port and buttress a tottering cause, were all again 
 paraded, until Daly, turning around to identify the 
 prisoners, surprised the court by affirming that he 
 could not swear to Edmond Connors ; that to the best 
 of his belief he was not there. Nowlan succeeded 
 Daly, corroborated every word sworn to by that 
 worthy, and wound up his evidence by the solemn 
 declaration : — 
 
 "But there's wan pris'ner there, that shouldn't be 
 there; and that's as innocent as the babe unborned; 
 and that is Edmond Connors. He had nayther hand, 
 act, or part in the Doneraile Conspiracy!" 
 
 There clearly then was but one course. Jury con- 
 sults; and hands down a paper to the Judge. And 
 Edmond Connors is dismissed from the dock — a free 
 man. As he passed out with a courteous, but digni- 
 fied:— 
 
 "I thank ye, gintlemjn!" 
 he felt a cold hand touch his own. He pressed it 
 tightly, as much as to say: 
 
 "Yes, I understand. I owe my life to you, for 
 having protected your Uttle child." 
 
 Such is the strange magnetism that flashes from 
 soul to soul in this world, when the mighty current is 
 
10^ GLENANAAR 
 
 directed by kind thoughts, helpful deeds, and divinely- 
 human sympathies. 
 
 He whiled away the day in handshakings from 
 friends, and weeping congratulations from those who 
 were dear to him. For the friends of all the other 
 prisoners were there; and where there was a common 
 cause, there was a common triumph. He lingered 
 around the city, though anxious to get home to his 
 little paradise beneath the black hills. He felt himself 
 bound in honour to wait and sh3,re the certain trium- 
 phant acquittal of the men whose shoulders touched 
 his in the dock. But, as the evening shades closed in, 
 and no news came from the courthouse, he decided 
 to get out the common cart, with its bed of straw and 
 the quilt, in which the peasantry then, and now, used 
 to travel from place to place, and he made all his 
 preparations for his night-journey homewards. Donal, 
 his eldest son, was just turning his horse's head from 
 the city, when a wild shout arrested them. 
 
 "We might as well wait and be home with thim," 
 said the old man. 
 
 A few of the crowd came up. There was, alas! no 
 triumph on their faces, but the pallor of great fear. 
 
 "What is it? how did it turn?" asked the old man. 
 
 "Wallis acquitted; Lynch, convicted and sentenced 
 to be hanged," was the reply. 
 
 "God presarve us!" said the old man. "'Tis only 
 the turn of a hand between life and the grave." 
 
 Thie crowd melted away; and the two men, father 
 and son, passed out beneath the stars. 
 
THE MIDNIGHT OATH 103 
 
 After a good many exclamations of fear, anger, 
 pride, joy, they both sank into silence, as the horse 
 jogged on swiftly enough, for his head was turned to 
 home. A thousand wild thoughts chased one another 
 through the old man's brain — the thought of his 
 narrow escape from death, of the loyalty of that poor 
 woman, of the strange instinct that had made him 
 adopt her child — a deed of charity now requited a 
 hundredfold. Then he looked forward and began to 
 calculate the chances against the child. If the least 
 whisper of the truth were known — and why should it 
 not transpire at any moment ? — he felt he could not 
 retain the child, and this would be a breach of faith 
 not only with the woman, but with all his own most 
 cherished principles. He felt he needed an ally, and 
 that ally should be his son, who had first discovered 
 Nodlag, and who, when his father died, should succeed 
 to the duty of her protector and father. But how 
 could he break the terrible revelation ? and how would 
 Donal take it ? Would he have manUness enough to 
 rise above the traditions of his class and do what 
 would be most noble and generous? Or would the 
 inborn instincts of the Celt revolt at the thought that 
 the child of such blood should be harboured as one of 
 their family? It was really a cast of the die, how 
 Donal would take it; but it was absolutely necessary 
 to make the revelation, and, with a silent prayer to 
 Him who sits above the stars, the old man coughed, 
 and said: — 
 
 "Are you awake, Donal?" 
 
104 GLENANAAR 
 
 "Yerra, why wouldn't I be awake?" said Donal, 
 rubbing his eyes; for he had been dozing, "Where 
 are we?" 
 
 "I knew you were dozing," said his father; "and 
 sure small blame to you. We're between the half-way 
 house and Mallow." 
 
 "The night is so dark," said Donal, illogically, "I 
 didn't know where we were. Did we pass the half-way" 
 house?" 
 
 "An hour ago," said his father. "Don't you see 
 the owld castle of BaUinamona over there on the 
 height?" 
 
 "Sure enough," said Donal. "We'll be in Mallow 
 in an hour. I wandher what time is it?" 
 
 "Betune three and four in the momin', I think," 
 said his father. "We'U have the light soon." 
 
 "'Tis mortial cowld," said his son, whipping up the 
 horse. "Why didn't you stop at the half way house? 
 Sure any wan would want a dhrink to-night." 
 
 The old man was silent. The occasion was not 
 auspicious. Then he resolved it must be done. 
 
 "Donal?" 
 
 "Yes, sir!" 
 
 "I have somethin' to say to you that's on me mind. 
 Did you notice annythin' in the Coort to-day?" 
 
 "Nothin' but the usual blagardin' and ruffianism," 
 said Donal. "I'm glad we're done with judges, juries, 
 and informers forever." 
 
 This staggered the old man; but he knit his brows 
 and went on. 
 
THE MIDNIGHT OATH 105 
 
 "Thin you didn't remark the evidence of Daly and 
 Nowlan?" 
 
 "I did," said Donal, drily. "Maybe the grace of 
 God is tetching the rufi&ans; or, begobs, maybe they 
 got a bribe." 
 
 "That's it," said the old man, gleefully. "They 
 did. Daly was bribed." 
 
 "I didn't think you used do much in that way, 
 sir," said Donal, half joking, half resenting. "An' 
 it must take a big bribe to get thim riiflSans to spake 
 the truth." 
 
 "No, thin," said his father. "It was a little, weeshy 
 bribe enough; and 'twas God sint it." 
 
 "I'm glad you're left to us, sir," said his son; "but, 
 be all that's holy, I'd rather swing than tetch the palm 
 of these thraitors to creed and counthry." 
 
 The omens were growing more inauspicious; but the 
 old man was determined. 
 
 "Donal," said he, "-can you keep a saycret?" 
 
 "Did you ever know me to blab anything you ever 
 tould me?" said his son. 
 
 "No!" was the reply. "An' that's the raison why 
 I'm goin' to teU you somethin' that I wouldn't tell to 
 any wan Hvin', excep' the priest and yourself." 
 
 "It must be a grate saycret out an' out," said his 
 son. "Perhaps you would want to sware me?" 
 
 "Yes, I do," said his father, "although the word of 
 sich a son as you have been, Donal, is as good to me 
 as if you kissed the Book! Pull up the horse for a 
 minit!" 
 
106 GLENANAAR 
 
 Donal drew the reins; and they came to a standstill 
 on the hump of a little bridge that crossed a brawling 
 river. 
 
 "Where are you?" said the old man, feeling for his 
 son's hand, hke the blind patriarch of old. 
 
 "Here, sir!" said Donal, placing his strong, rough 
 hand in the palm of his father's hand, which instantly 
 closed over it. 
 
 "I want you to swear by the Gospels v/hich we 
 haven't wid us, and by Him who wrote thim Gospels, 
 that you'll never breathe to morchial bein' what I am 
 tellin' ye now; do you swear?" 
 
 "I do," said the young man, rather frightened at 
 the solemnity of the place and scene. 
 
 "Will you also swear that whin I am dead and 
 gone, you will be a father to that child you foimd in 
 the cowhouse a Christmas night?" 
 
 "Nodlag?" said Donal, utterly amazed. 
 
 "Yes, Nodlag," replied his father grasping the son's 
 hand more tightly. 
 
 "Av coorse, if you wish it," said the son, reluctantly. 
 "Whatever is there is yours; and will be mine only 
 because you giv' it to me." 
 
 "An' I do give it to you, Donal, my son," said the 
 old man, affectionately. " For never did man rear a 
 better boy than you. An' now go on, an' I'U tell you 
 all. 'Twas little Nodlag whom you brought in from 
 the cows that cowld, bitter night, that saved me from 
 the gallows to-day." 
 
 Wondering, fearful, not knowing what to think, 
 
THE MIDNIGHT OATH 107 
 
 Donal whipped on the horse, and his father, sitting 
 by him, commenced his dramatic tale. 
 
 "Do you remimber the women talkin' that night 
 about the mad crachure who wos carryin' about a 
 bundle wid her at the Christmas time?" 
 
 "I do well. I saw her meself; and the divil's own 
 bad tongue she had, especially for yerself," said Donal. 
 
 "Did you see her in Coort to-day?" said his father. 
 
 "No!" said Donal. "I can't say that I did." 
 
 "She was there thin," said the old man. "She 
 bribed Daly and Nowlan in my favour; and Nodl^g 
 was the bribe." 
 
 "Thin she is Nodlag's mother?" cried Donal in 
 amazement. 
 
 "She is," said his father, trying to suppress his 
 excitement. "And now remember your oath, Donal. 
 She — is — Daly's wije 1 " 
 
 The young man was so stvumed by the information 
 that he remained speechless for some minutes, trying 
 to piece things together. He was dazed by the infor- 
 mation. Then, suddenly, the horror of the thing 
 seemed to smite him, and he said, in a suppressed but 
 terrible way: 
 
 " Thin, be all that's holy this blessed night, out she'll 
 go on the road the minit I crass the thrishol." 
 
 "Is that the way you keep your oath?" said the 
 father, pleadingly. 
 
 "I'll say nothin' to no wan," replied his son. • "But 
 out she'll go; and may the divil fly away wid her an' 
 all belongin' to her." 
 
108 GLENANAAR 
 
 "There's more ways of breakin' an oath than by 
 shpakin,'" said his father. "You can't do what you 
 say you'll do, but which," he added, determinedly, 
 "you won't do without teUin' what you know." 
 
 "Thin, who's to prevint me?" said his son, sullenly. 
 
 "I'll prevint you, and God wiU prevint you," said 
 the old man, solemnly. "Glenanaar is mine tiU I 
 dhrop; and no wan wiU tetch that child so long as my 
 name is Edmond Connors." 
 
 Donal knew well the iron determination of his father 
 when he had made up his mind to a particular course 
 of action; so he dropped his threatening manner, and 
 pleaded with his father on another side. 
 
 "The Connors of Glenanaar were never disgraced till 
 now," said he. "I never thought I'd see the day whin 
 me father would bring shame and sorrow upon us." 
 
 "Dhrop that, I say," said the old man, "or maybe 
 only wan of us 'ud see your mother to-night." 
 
 "To think," said the young man, sullenly, "that 
 the house that sheltered a dacent family for four giner- 
 ations should cover the child of an informer — oh, my 
 God! how can we ever shtand it?" 
 
 " By houlding your tongue, and keeping your oath," 
 said his father. 
 
 "And do you mane to say, or think, that this won't 
 be known?" said Donal. "I tell you 'twill be known 
 before a week's out; for there never yet was dug a 
 grave that could keep a saycret deep enough from 
 thim we know. And thin — thin they'll burn down 
 the house before our eyes." 
 
THE MIDNIGHT OATH 109 
 
 "The saycret is in God's keepin' and yours," said 
 his father. "And He won't tell it." 
 
 There was a long silence between father and son, 
 for now the day was breaking beyond the hills; and 
 very soon the sun would be peeping above the dark 
 shoulder of Knockroura. They soon entered the sub- 
 urb beyond Mallow Bridge. Not a soul was stirring. 
 Dogs barked at them from behind stable gates, as the 
 deep wheels of the cart rumbled over rough stones; 
 but these sounds of life were soon quiet, as they rolled 
 over the wooden bridge that spanned the river, and 
 heard the deep murrnur of the waters beneath. Here, 
 a sudden thought seemed to strike Donal; for he sud- 
 denly reined in the horse, and confronted his father. 
 
 "Father," said he, in a trembling voice, "forgive me 
 for what I said agen you just now. Sure I never 
 thought that you were to blame. What could you 
 know more than me that night you sint me to the 
 cowhouse? Sure, I ought to know that if you knew 
 that night who it was we were bringin' in to our house, 
 you'd have towld me to thrun her out in the pit. 
 Father," said he, dubiously, noticing the silence of 
 the old man, "say you never knew that it was an 
 informer's child you were bringin' in upon a dacent 
 flure that night; an' I'll forget all." 
 
 "I knew it well," said the oldman, solemnly. " 'Twas 
 I asked the mother to lave her child wid us." 
 
 Donal said not a word, but whipped up his horse. 
 In the afternoon of that day he made up his mind that 
 his father had gone mad. The terrors of death and 
 
110 GLENANAAR 
 
 disgrace had unhinged his mind. It was ail a pure 
 fabrication of a demented mind. And he feh he could 
 now keep the secret well. Time would reveal every- 
 thing, if there was anything to reveal. Meanwhile he 
 would watch and note all things carefully. And — 
 Donal felt a real glow of pleasure as the thought 
 occurred to him — they could keep Nodlag, who, 
 unknown to himself, had really grown into his great, 
 big heart. 
 
 Edmond Connors felt a sensible relief when, as they 
 jogged along the road homewards, Donal manifested 
 the greatest concern about him; and, once or twice, 
 whistled softly to himself the Cailin deas Crilidhte 
 nam-bd. 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 FORESHADOWINGS 
 
 DjD Donal believe his father was really insane? 
 No! but he tried to believe it, or rather persuade his 
 judgment that it was so. That .is, he wanted to fling 
 away into the background the strange, and indeed 
 terrible revelation his father had made; and cloak its 
 awfuhiess by the belief that his father was the victim 
 of a delusion. Hence, he tried to make no change in 
 his manner toward Nodlag; nay, if anything, he was 
 more affectionate than before, and his sisters jested 
 and said: 
 
 "Begor, Donal, it is clear you are goin' to wait for 
 Nodlag; but you'll be the bald old bachelor thin!" 
 
 And his father said to himself: 
 
 "Did Donal understan' me rightly? He's the 
 wandherful play-actor intirely, knowin' what he 
 knows!" 
 
 By degrees, however, the ever-haunting idea of her 
 parentage created a strong revulsion in the mind of the 
 young man. He became moody and discontented; 
 and, as is usual in such cases, he placed the blame 
 everywhere but on himself. Most of all, he threw the 
 whole responsibility on the child. From time to time, 
 in his lonely communings, the horror of the thing 
 
112 GLENANAAR 
 
 would burst on his imagination; and he would pull in 
 the horses when he was ploughing, and take off his 
 hat, and wipe his brow, and say, half aloud : 
 
 "Good God! think of it. Yonder, in my mother's 
 house, taken to her bosom, kissed by my sisters, is the 
 child of the informer, who has sent one dacent man 
 to the gallows, and a half-dozen good neighbours to 
 Botany Bay. An' I can't say a word. Gee-up! It 
 bates the divil hollow!" 
 
 Then, one day, the dread of what would happen if 
 the secret were discovered suddenly struck him, and 
 intensified his aversion. His own words to his father 
 came back: 
 
 "They'll bum the house about us; and shoot every 
 mother's son of us." 
 
 Would they? Faith, they would, and never think 
 the smoke of a pipe about it. If it were whispered 
 abroad that Daly's child was harboured, clothed, fed, 
 at Edmond Connor's house, their Uves would not be 
 worth a moment's purchase. There were a hundred 
 ruffians in a circuit of five miles, who would make a 
 holocaust of the whole house and family. Yes! but 
 where's the remedy? To reveal the matter to even 
 one, would be disastrous. He might put it on the plea 
 of his father's insanity; but then who'd beUeve him? 
 And there was his oath, taken imder the stars that 
 momentous night! No, clearly there was nothing to 
 be done but await the development of events. 
 
 And so the years went by, the child growing steadily 
 into the affections of mother, sisters, and brother at 
 
FORESHADOWINGS 113 
 
 Glenanaar, but most of all, into the deep, soft heart 
 of Edmond Connors himself. Donal alone regarded 
 the child with indifference, if not aversion. The 
 shadow of a forthcoming revelation seemed always to 
 hover around her to his mind. She became a very 
 sweet, winsome child, every year seeming to add some 
 new charm to her beauty. She was quite unlike her 
 mother, who" was dark and sallow of complexion; 
 whereas Nodlag was exceedingly fair, with large, inno- 
 cent, blue eyes and a great wealth of yellow hair, 
 which she tossed into h6r eyes and face, as she ran 
 around the yard or across the fields, or leaped Ughtly 
 over the river that ran zigzag beneath the farm in the 
 valley. Often, however, when she was alone, and free 
 from observation, she had a peculiar habit of suddenly 
 standing still, and waiting and listening, as if she 
 heard a voice afar off, and awaited its repetition, 
 thinking herself deceived. On such occasions she 
 leaned her head gently downwards, and sometimes 
 put up a warning finger, as if to arrest her own atten- 
 tion; then, after a pause, as if she had been mistaken, 
 she ran around gaily again. This mood would seize 
 her at aU times; and as she grew in years, it became 
 more persistent, so much so that, even at meals, she 
 would forget herself, and pause to listen for the strange 
 voice. So, too, if she leaped a brook, or mounted a 
 ditch, she would stand transfixed for a moment, and 
 lean and listen, and then leap on lightly as before. 
 By degrees, this peculiarity began to be noticed; and 
 she was questioned about it. 
 
114 GLENANAAR 
 
 "What's the matter, Nodlag? What do you hear?" 
 the old woman would ask. 
 
 And Nodlag would give a start of surprise, and 
 laugh, and say: 
 
 "Oh, nothin', ma'am. I don't hear nothin'.'' 
 
 But it gave rise to a great many surmises, the more 
 common interpretation being that it was her cruel 
 mother, who, in some far place, was repenting, and 
 calling, caUing for her abandoned child. 
 
 She was not more expUcit, however, with the old 
 man, ■ — her protector and friend, as she knew instinct- 
 ively. She became, as she advanced toward the years 
 of reason, the companion of his walks across the moun- 
 tain and down the valleys; and he used to feel an un- 
 usual thrill of pleasure, as he lifted her over a brook, 
 or across a stile, or took her up in his strong arms and 
 carried her across a tract of wet bog or moorland, or 
 over one of those deep ravines cut by the wdnter torrents 
 out of the soft, pebbly sandstone. He once ventured 
 to ask her more particularly what she waited and 
 listened for, when those strange moods seized her. 
 
 "Oh, nothin', daddy. Only I thought some one 
 was callin'." 
 
 "Was it like the way the boys are called to dinner, 
 acushla?" 
 
 "It was, daddy!"' 
 
 "Or was it like the way they call after the cows?" 
 
 "It was, daddy!" 
 
 " Or was it hke the chapel-bell for Mass on a Simday 
 morning?" 
 
FORESHADOWINGS 115 
 
 "It was, daddy! Ding-dong, ding-dong, an' 
 mo-o-o-o-o!" as she tried to imitate the echo of the 
 beU. 
 
 And as all this was very vague, and left things just 
 as they were, they ceased to ask her questions, but 
 all agreed that she was a "quare" child, out-and-out, 
 and altogether. 
 
 One day in the early spring of the year in which 
 Nodlag attained her majority of eight years, and was 
 classed amongst those who can distinguish good from 
 evil, the gentleman who possessed rights of shooting 
 over the mountains came in to Edmond Connors' 
 cottage. He had had a good day, for several brace of 
 wild fowl hung from his shoulder, and he appeared 
 tired. Things had now settled down somewhat; and 
 better relations had sprung up between the gentry 
 and the peasantry of the neighbourhood. So he was 
 welcomed with a Cead mile failte; and took his glass 
 of milk with a little potheen mixed, as humbly and 
 gratefully as possible. He put his gun into a cor- 
 ner, sat on the sugan chair, and sipped his tumbler 
 of milk slowly. When about to leave, he glanced 
 anxiously around the room, and toward the doors 
 of the double bedroom across the kitchen; and said 
 at last: 
 
 "By the way, I heard you had a remarkably hand- 
 some child here, — a little foundling?" 
 
 "Yes," said the old man, somewhat anxiously, for 
 he had an intuitive fear of the "gintry"; and always 
 suspected, even under the most friendly exterior, dan- 
 
116 GLENANAAR 
 
 gerous and hostile motives. " Is Nodlag there, Joan ?" 
 addressing his eldest daughter. 
 
 "She is not," said Joan. "She's gone down to the 
 forge with Jerry." 
 
 "It was good and kind of you," said the stranger, 
 "to take in a homeless waif like that; and to have all 
 the expense of rearing her, in addition to your own 
 family." 
 
 "As to that," said the old man, watching the gen- 
 tleman anxiously out of his mild, blue eyes, "the 
 crachure is no expinse. One mouth, more or less, 
 does not make sich a difference." 
 
 "No, but she'll be growing, and will be soon a 
 young woman," rejoined the stranger. "And that will 
 mean responsibilities which few men but yourself 
 would face." 
 
 "Well, sure if she grows, God bless her! she'll be 
 the help, too; and sure the girls will be laving us, wan 
 by wan; and we'll want some woman around the 
 house," said the old man. 
 
 " True ! I heard, indeed, that one of your daughters 
 was about to marry young Burke " 
 
 "Begobs, your Honor, you have all the gossip of 
 the parish picked up. We thought you knew nothin' 
 but the best covers for the woodcock or the plover," 
 said Edmond Connors, with mild sarcasm. 
 
 "When you're out all day alone with your wood- 
 ranger, you must hear things," said the gentleman. 
 "And we have a deeper interest in our tenants and 
 neighbours than we get credit for." 
 
FORESHADOWINGS 117 
 
 "That's thrue, too," said the old man, still on the 
 alert for aU that was to follow. "We never suspect 
 how many friends we have, till we need them." 
 
 "I wish to show my friendship for you, Connors," 
 continued the gentleman, "by telling you that I'll 
 take that child off your hands, educate her, rear her, 
 and put her in a position in life where you'll be proud 
 to see her." 
 
 "I am much behoulden to yer Honor," said his 
 host. "But for aU you're worth in this world, and 
 they say 'tis a good dale, I wouldn't part with that 
 child. But, here she is herself," he said, as Nodlag 
 ran into the kitchen, flushed by her ride on the bay 
 mare, which had been just shod, down at the forge. 
 Donal entered by the front door just at the same 
 moment. 
 
 "Good-day, Donal," said the gentleman. "I hope 
 you're well. And this is the little one. What's that 
 you call her? Come here, httle one, come to me!" 
 
 But Nodlag shrank terrified from him, and put her 
 two arms around the old man's leg for support and 
 protection. 
 
 "Well, 'tis a quare name, sure enough," said Ed- 
 mond Connors. "We call her Nodlag, because 'twas 
 on a Christmas night we found — God sent her," he 
 said, checking himself before the wistful eyes of the 
 child. 
 
 "Well, Connors," said the gentleman, preparing to 
 depart, "please yourself about my offer. I'll take the 
 child, and relieve you of all further responsibility about 
 
118 GLENANAAR 
 
 her. I promise you she'll be cared for well, — nearly 
 as well as you can care for her yourself." 
 
 "I'm very much obligated to you," said the old 
 man, this time searching the face of Donal, who was 
 listening attentively. " But she's one of ourselves now; 
 and we can't part with her." 
 
 There was a deep silence for a few moments, during 
 which the child's grasp tightened around the legs of 
 her protector; and then Donal, looking up, said, as if 
 that discussion was well over and ended: — 
 
 "You had a good day on the mountain, Sir. That's 
 a heavy bag." 
 
 "Yes, indeed," replied the gentleman. "I have 
 never seen so many birds on the hills before. The 
 place is thick with woodcock and gray plover. I think 
 we are near cold weather. The birds are migrating 
 in large coveys to the South and West." 
 
 "And the sky is as black as midnight," said Donal. 
 "I think the snow is comin'; and I wish it was, to take 
 away the bitther cowld." 
 
 " So Linehan says. He thinks we're near a big fall. 
 In that case the sooner' I'm near home the better. 
 Good evening!" 
 
 "Good-bye and good luck!" said Donal. 
 
 "Donal," said the father when the stranger had 
 departed, "wouldn't it be well to gether in the sheep 
 from the hills? It may be a big fall; and there's 
 twenty young lambs, or so, I think." 
 
 "There are twenty-four," said Donal. "Yes, I'll get 
 Owen and wan of the min; and we'll gether them in." 
 
FORESHADO WINGS 119 
 
 "An' my lamb, daddy!" said Nodlag, her eyes wide 
 open in fear and sorrow, "I must go and save Nanny." 
 
 "She's not far," said the old man, "but you can go 
 out^ and wait for the boys; and they'll search for you." 
 
 Nodlag went out; and Donal turned fiercely on his 
 father. 
 
 "Why, in the name of God," said he, "didn't you 
 take his offer? It would rid us of all our troubles." 
 
 " It might add some others," said his father, meekly. 
 "In any case, I have made a promise, and I'll keep it." 
 
 "Sure 'twas God sint Mr. Dunscombe with that 
 grand offer," cried Donal. "It was the best chance 
 we ever got; and it mightn't come agin." 
 
 "What was the best chance that might never come 
 agin?" asked Mrs. Connors, coming in from the yard. 
 "I'm thinkin' we're' in for somethin' hot an' heavy 
 to-night; and we haven't a hundred of flour in the house. 
 But what wos the offer, Donal, ye were spakin' to 
 your father about?" 
 
 "Nothin'!" said the young man, sulkily. 
 
 "It can't have been any great things, thin," said his 
 mother, nettled at the reply. 
 
 " 'Twas only Mr. Dunscombe wanted to get Nodlag !" 
 said the old man, in the interests of peace. 
 
 "An' what did you say?" she asked, fiercely, for she 
 had acquired a great love for the child. 
 
 "What 'ud I say; but that God sint her to us, and 
 we'U keep her?" replied her husband. 
 
 "It would be the quare thing, out an' out, if you 
 said anjrthin' else," she answered. "And was that 
 
120 GLENANAAR 
 
 what you called a great chance, me bouchal?" she 
 demanded, angrily turning to Donal. 
 
 "I think," he replied, sullenly, "that, as the child 
 didn't belong to us, it was a good chance to get rid of 
 her, especially whin she 'ud be well done for." 
 
 "You never showed that child a fair face since she 
 kum into the house," said the mother. "Begor, you 
 begrudge her the bite and sup we giv' her, as if' it 
 would lessen you — and thim you want to bring in 
 here to us." 
 
 This was an allusion to Donal's projected marriage, 
 — a subject of painful interest always to motliers, who 
 are obliged to abdicate the moment the bride crosses 
 the threshold of the door. It nettled Donal, because 
 this very matter had been a subject of debate between 
 himself and his future bride, who had tried to make it 
 one condition of the marriage contract that Nodlag 
 should be sent away. Nay, this very question, and 
 some delay about her sister's arrangements with young 
 Burke, were the main causes of the delay in his own 
 settlement. He had, then, a double reason for wishing 
 that Mr. Dunscombe's offer had been accepted by his 
 father. 
 
 "How do we know who or what she is?" he answered 
 in a high temper. 
 
 "You know as much now as the night you brought 
 her in the creel, and put here there be the ifire. But 
 you have the cowld hard heart, Donal," said his 
 mother. " But take care ! 'Tis dangerous to thrample 
 on the widow or the orfin." 
 
FORESHADOWINGS 121 
 
 Donal was about to make another angry reply, which 
 would have imperilled the sacredness of his oath; but 
 his father, going to the door, looked up and said: — 
 
 "I'm thinkin' if you spind much more time in 
 codrawlin', ye'll be lookin' for a needle in a bundle of 
 straw, whin you search for the lambs this awful night." 
 
CHAPTER Xn 
 
 THE GREAT SNOW 
 
 So, indeed, it was. A double darkness had come 
 down from sky to earth; and the great eclipse of the 
 heavens began to break into tiny flakes of Ught, which, 
 hung in the atmosphere, made the darkness deeper, 
 and then shone in a great sea of pearly whiteness, 
 when the soft clear crystals heaped themselves into 
 fleecy masses upon the earjh. It was the first fall of 
 the "Great Snow," which commenced that night of 
 the 15th of February, 1837, lasted for three days, and 
 remained two months on the ground, blotting out 
 every trace of verdure, and imprisoning hundreds of 
 people, who, far away from the towns, had to endure 
 the horrors of a half-famine during those miserable 
 weeks. At nine o'clock that night there were three 
 feet of snow in the yard and fields around Glenanaar; 
 and deeper drifts in the hollows beneath hedges, or 
 piled against stable walls, where the light wind had 
 drifted them, and no stronger wind could dislodge 
 them. From time to time, Donal and Owen and the 
 servant-men came into the yard, sweating and panting, 
 as they flung down a sheep or a lamb, which they had 
 saved. And every time they went forth, their quest 
 became mote dangerous and trying, as their strength 
 
THE GREAT SNOW 123 
 
 grew less beneath the strain, and the snow mounted 
 higher and higher in soft hillocks, which concealed 
 dangerous places, and made by their very sinking and 
 yielding beneath the feet the task of walking painful 
 and laborious. 
 
 It was ten o'clock, and the snow was yet falling in 
 larger and thicker flakes, when the boys announced 
 that all the sheep had been brought into safe shelter, 
 but that a few lambs had been lost in the snow. 
 
 "Thank God," we won't miss 'em, said the vaniihee. 
 "Was Nodlag's lamb brought in?" 
 
 "Nodlag's?" said Donal, half dazed and blinded 
 from the snow and the fierce exertion he had made. 
 
 "Yes," said his mother. "Her pet lamb, with the 
 blue ribbon around her neck." 
 
 "I don't know," said Donal, wearily, and half asleep 
 on the hard settle. 
 
 "Where is Nodlag herself?" said Edmond Connors, 
 turning around from the fire. 
 
 "Where 'ud she be, but in bed these hours?" said 
 his wife. "Look, Joan, -and see how's the child!" 
 
 Joan took up the candle, and entered the bedroom, 
 where Nodlag's tiny cot lay close up against one of the 
 larger bedsteads.' She returned in a moment with a 
 face full of terror. 
 
 "Nodlag is not here!" she said. 
 
 "I thought so," said the old man, rising up. 
 "Whilst we were thinkin' of nothing but our sheep 
 and lambs we've allowed God's child to be taken 
 from us." 
 
124 GLENANAAR 
 
 "She was with the boys," said Joan, looking at 
 Owen and Donal. 
 
 "No, she wasn't," said Donal, sullenly. "At laste, 
 she wasn't wid me." 
 
 "Nor wid me," said Owen. "I never laid eyes on 
 the child since Mr. Dunscombe left the house." 
 
 "She wint out into the yard," said the old man, 
 "and I tould her wait for ye outside, and go wid ye." 
 
 "She must have gone off by herself thin," said Owen, 
 " for sorra an eye I put on her, since the snow begin." 
 
 Edmond Connors said not a word; but went over 
 and took down his yellow leather leggings from the 
 rack near the fire, and drew them on, and buttoned 
 them. 
 
 "Where are you goin', father?" said his daughter, 
 Joan, in dismay. 
 
 "Where am I goin'?" he cried. "I'm goin' to seek 
 after that child. Do you mane to think that I'm goin' 
 to lave her out there in the bitther cowld to perish?" 
 
 "Ye're takin' lave of yer senses," said his wife. 
 "Run out, Donal; run out, Owen; she can't be much 
 farther than the ploughed field." 
 
 "I'm afeared 'tis a poor search we're goin' to make," 
 said Owen, rising wearily. "Come, get the lantern, 
 Jerry, and let us see what we can do." 
 
 And Donal rose sulkily and followed his brother. 
 Their clothes were wet through with the snow, and a 
 great steam ascended from them as they stood up to go. 
 
 "Give 'em a dhrop of whiskey," commanded the old 
 man. " They may have to go farther than they think." 
 
THE GREAT SNOW 125 
 
 i 
 
 They needed it; for weakened by long exertion as 
 they were, they had to summon all their strength for 
 the search now before them. It was quite possible 
 that they would have refused to undertake it but that 
 they expected it would be a short one. The child, 
 they reasoned, could not haye gone far from home^ 
 They would find her in the outhouse, or somewhere 
 sheltered under one of the hawthorn trees that crowned 
 all the ditches and fences on the farm. When, however, 
 their search in the vicinity of the house was fruitless, 
 and no answer came to their muffled cries: "Nodlag! 
 Nodlag!" across the snow, they became anxious, and 
 agreed to separate, — Owen and Jerry taking the hills 
 behind the house, and Donal going down toward the 
 river. In a few seconds they were out of sight and 
 hearing of each other, as they moved in different 
 directions, each a ghostly heap of snow, and quite 
 indistinguishable from rifts and white hillocks, or 
 burdened shrubs or trees across the dreary landscape. 
 
 It was weary work; and Donal was alone in that 
 terrible night-quest. Every limb and muscle ached 
 with pain, as they were strained by the violent and 
 quite unusual exercise, for the young man had to leap 
 and throw himself forward from rift to rift; now falhng 
 into wet slush, now stumbling forward, and trying to 
 catch a foothold for a further leap, and always flashing 
 his lantern to and fro in the darkness, and shouting 
 "Nodlag! Nodlag!" across the valley. But no reply 
 came. Only the soft, silent snow sifting down from 
 the blackened heavens, glinting one moment a golden 
 
126 GLENANAAR 
 
 colour in the light of the lantern-candle, and then 
 sinking into the soft drift, where it was lost. 
 
 Donal began to lose temper. It was only the per- 
 emptory challenge of his father that drove him out 
 from the warm kitchen on such an errand. Somehow 
 he had come to persuade himself that this child of 
 misfortune, this inheritress of evil, would be as swiftly 
 and mysteriously taken from them as she was sent. 
 He could not imagine her growing up like other girls, 
 and passing on to honourable wifehood and mother- 
 hood. There was something uncanny about the whole 
 affair, and it would end dramatically and mysteriously 
 as it had begun. Is this the end, here and now? 
 What could be more opportune, more appropriate, than 
 that the child of shame and sorrow should be buried 
 deep in the snowdrifts ? It is an easy death, they say. 
 The cold numbs the senses, and then there is sleep 
 and unconsciousness, and death comes gently in the 
 sleep. He sat down beneath a willow, which was so 
 loaded with snow that there was just a tiny space of 
 wet grass beneath. There he began to think. Then 
 the very fate that he dreamed and half-hoped for 
 Nodlag came to himself. He got numbed, and a 
 strange, drowsy feehng came over him. He tried to 
 shake it off, but couldn't. His aching limbs yielded 
 to the momentary rest, the lantern fell from his hands, 
 and he sank into an uneasy slumber. He had a horrible 
 dream. The last things he saw were the great broad 
 flakes reddened in the lantern-flame; and he thought 
 these were turned into flakes of fire that fell on him. 
 
THE GREAT SNOW 127 
 
 one by one, and burned through the clothing into his 
 flesh, and made him one hot, pierciag blister. He 
 flung them aside and rubbed his hands of them; but 
 down they came, mercilessly tormenting him, until at 
 last he woke with a shudder, and saw to his infinite 
 rehef that it was the cold snow that was enveloping 
 him and paralyzing his hands with cold. He leaped 
 up, rubbed his palsied hands, beat them under his 
 arms, until a little warmth came back, and, after a 
 little thought, took up the lantern again and strode 
 homewards. But the dream came back. His con- 
 science upbraided him. It said plainly: "The wish is 
 the deed! To abandon is to destroy! Go back!" 
 And he feebly argued: "Am I to roam about all night, 
 looking in vain for what may never be found ? Is not 
 my own life in peril? Was I not near death a few 
 minutes ago?" And then again the thought would 
 arise: "How will my father look if I go back with- 
 out the child? How will his keen eyes pierce me? 
 He'll say nothing; but he'll never forgive! He will 
 teU me forevermore by his silencp that I am a 
 murderer." 
 
 This thought determined him. He made a savage 
 resolution to find that child, living or dead, or to be 
 found dead himself. He would not return home with- 
 out her; and, with his strength fast ebbing away from 
 fatigue and cold, he knew what that meant. He turned 
 his face from the direction of home and went down 
 toward the river. It rolled by in the darkness, a dark, 
 turbid Styx, its blackness made deeper by the white 
 
128 GLENANAAR 
 
 banks of snow that leaned above it and over it. There 
 was the chill of death in the look of it, and a sound of 
 despair in the swish of its waters, as they swept in 
 mad tumult from side to side. 
 
 "God help her if she has fallen in there!" he mur- 
 mured. 
 
 He raised the lantern and tried to throw its light 
 across the roaring torrent. A circle of crimson fell on 
 the banks of snow at the other side as he walked slowly 
 along by the river; and — his heart stood still! There 
 was something dark in the midst of the circle. It was 
 the foot of a child! With sudden, renewed energy he 
 leaped down the drifts along the bank until he came 
 to a wooden bridge, frail and uncertain, for it consisted 
 of but one plank and a fragile hand-rail. The snow 
 was sifted hghtly upon it, because it got no foothold 
 on the narrow board, and there in the white powdered 
 crystals were immistakably the print of Nodlag's feet. 
 He flashed the lantern on them for a moment, then 
 leaped across the bridge, and sped up along the bank 
 at the other side, throwing the light before him. In a 
 few seconds he was on his hands and knees shovelling 
 away the soft snow which enveloped the child, and at 
 length revealed her little figure, with the dead lamb 
 clasped to her bosom. He flung this aside into the 
 stream, and sitting down and opening up his great 
 coat, he gathered the child into his arms. She was 
 apparently dead. No sign of life appeared in the blue, 
 pinched face, or closed eyes, and she hung limp and 
 listless in his arms. In a moment a sudden and com- 
 
THE GREAT SNOW 129 
 
 plete revolution took place in his feelings toward her. 
 All the aversion of the last few years grew into a 
 sudden, overwhelming love for the seemingly dead 
 child. He felt that he would gladly give his life there 
 in that awful wintry night to bring back hfe to those 
 dead features and limbs. The powerlessness, the piti- 
 fulness of the little waif, the remembrance of her sad 
 destiny, appealed to him so strongly that he wept like 
 a child. And then he prayed to God as he had never 
 prayed before, to give him back that soul that seemed 
 to have sped on its eternal errand. Half-frantically 
 he beat the httle hands in his strong palms, rubbed 
 and fomented the stiff hmbs, breathed on the stony 
 face, which his tears also washed. For a long time 
 (it seemed to him years in his agony) no sign of life 
 appeared; and he had made up his mind to he down 
 there beside her and let them be found dead together, 
 so that no man should say he had failed in his duty, 
 when he suddenly noticed that the httle hand shrank 
 from the hot glass of the lantern. He redoubled his 
 efforts, drew the lantern closer, and shed its soft heat 
 over the httle hmbs; and in a few moments the purple 
 colour on the cheeks gave way to a soft rose-tint, and 
 opening her eyes she said, wearily: — 
 
 " Who's that ? Is that Owen ? " 
 
 The words cut him Hke a knife. He knew how the 
 heart of the child, which he had steeled against him- 
 self, softened out to the kindher brother; and here in 
 the first moment of consciousness, the instinct of trust 
 revealed itself. 
 
130 GLENANAAR 
 
 "No! 'Tis I, — Donal! Don't you know me, 
 Nodlag?" 
 
 " Why are you batin' me, Donal ? What did I do ? " 
 For he was still chafing gently and slapping the httle 
 hands. But the little appeal almost broke his heart. 
 
 " I'm only thryin' to dhrive away the cowld, Nodlag. 
 Do you know me now ? " 
 
 "I do. But where is Owen? I'll go home with 
 Owen." 
 
 He said nothing. But leaving the lantern behind 
 him, he took up the child, and folding her close to him 
 that the warmth might vivify her, he said: 
 
 "Tighten your arms round my neck, Nodlag, an' 
 don't let 'em go. And may God and His Blessed 
 Mother give me strinth to reach home. But I am 
 afeared you and I will have a cowld bed before momin'." 
 
 For now he felt that his strength, momentarily ex- 
 cited by the emotions he had just experienced, was 
 again rapidly ebbing away; and he began to fear that 
 he could never face that hill and the long fields before 
 him, filled deep with the drifts that every moment 
 grew higher and higher. And the terrible flakes, 
 faUing so silently, so noiselessly, so mercilessly, bUnded 
 his eyes, and weighed heavily on his shoulders, and 
 clogged his feet. And here in his arms was a burden, 
 which, as Nodlag fell into a sleep again, had become 
 more passive and helpless than before. But Love, 
 pure, unselfish Love, especially the Love that grows 
 out of the black root of Hate, is a powerful thing; 
 and Donal felt himself driven forward, as if a power 
 
THE GREAT SNOW 131 
 
 impelled him, and took from him the oflBce of rescue; 
 and on, on he went, lifting his feet, as if in a treadmill, 
 yet cautiously feeling his way, for he knew the value 
 of the burden which he bore, and the principle of 
 honour had yielded to the stronger propulsion of love. 
 But nature is nature; and, as he threw out the disen- 
 gaged arm, blindly feeling his way before him, and 
 took great, long strides, feeUng for crevices and hollows, 
 he became aware that his mind was beginning to 
 wander. He struggled against it; but in vain. He 
 shouted aloud with the fuU strength of his lungs; and 
 he thought he heard answering voices. But the delir- 
 ium from cold, hardship, and hunger, was seizing upon 
 him. He was in the dock; and the Judge was placing 
 the black cap upon his head, as a preliminary to the 
 death-sentence for the murder of Nodlag, when a 
 woman's form, clothed in black, shot up from the 
 ground, and flinging out her arms wildly, commanded 
 the Judge to desist. Then the lights of the courthouse 
 began to flash and flicker before his eyes. The woman 
 turned to him, and cried: "Donal! Donal! Nodlag! 
 Nodlag!" Then everything began to reel aroUnd. 
 He felt a burden falling from him; there was a general 
 upheaval and cataclysm; and he himself, in the general 
 horror and disruption, fell forward, dead. 
 
CHAPTER Xm 
 
 A WEDDING AND A WARNING 
 
 The lights that he saw in his delirium were the lan- 
 terns of the rescuing party, who had been sent forward 
 to search for him, after their unavailing quest for 
 Nodlag in the mountains; and the voices were the 
 voices of his brother Owen and the men-servants. 
 When he awoke from the stupor and delirium he 
 found himself lying on the hard settle in the kitchen, 
 propped with pillows; and as the cells of memory 
 began to awaken, and he wandered over the events of 
 the night, he turned suddenly, and said: 
 
 "Nodlag?" 
 
 "Thanks be to the great God," said his mother, 
 coming over, "you're yourself agin." 
 
 "Nodlag?" he said, impatiently. "Where is Nod- 
 lag?" 
 
 "She's all right. She's in bed; and nothin' the 
 worse for her sousin'." 
 
 He relapsed into silence. They gave him some 
 drinks of milk and whiskey. But for a long time he 
 could not catch on to what had occurred; and the 
 dream of his dehrium was yet havmting him. Then 
 he asked: 
 
 "Who saved us? Where were we?" 
 132 
 
A WEDDING AND A WARNING 133 
 
 "You were near enough," said his sister, "in the 
 ditch at the end of the church-field. But a miss is as 
 good as a mile. You must change, and be a good boy 
 now, for you were never so near your ind before." 
 
 "Was it so bad?" he asked. 
 
 "'Twas, and worse. You were talking all the 
 raimeis in the world." 
 
 "I felt my mind wandering before I fell," he said. 
 "It was the quare thing, out and out, altogether." 
 
 "Betther get on to bed, now," said his mother. 
 " 'Tis time for us aU to be there." 
 
 "What time is it?" said Donal. 
 
 "Just four o'clock!" said his mother. "And the 
 boys must be up at five." 
 
 The next day he was all right, except for the intense 
 muscular pains in back and shoulders. His father 
 said nothing; but looked at him with his keen, kind 
 glance, and gripped his hand with a fervour that was 
 more than eloquence. Little Nodlag lay unwell in 
 the inner room. The chill had brought on a slight 
 attack of pneumonia; and when Donal entered she 
 looked very ill and feverish. But she fixed her great 
 shining eyes upon him, and said not a word. The 
 strong man shook with emotion. The very sense that 
 he had saved her intensified the great love newly- 
 born in that night and on that drift where he had 
 found her. 
 
 "We lost the lamb, Nodlag," he said. "He wint 
 down the river. I found him dead in your arms, when 
 I pulled you from the snow." 
 
134 GLENANAAR 
 
 "Was he dead?" she gasped. 
 
 "He was, and cowld and hard as a stone. But I'll 
 give you another, whin you're up and around." 
 
 "This is the second time Donal saved you, Nodlag," 
 said his mother, coming in. "Begor, you'll have to 
 marry him now, whether you like him or no." 
 
 "She doesn't want me," said Donal, in a bantering 
 tone; "'tis Owen she wants. She wouldn't beheve it 
 was I saved her from the snow and the river." 
 
 The large shining eyes of the child were fixed on 
 him. Then she did a pretty thing. She put aside the 
 hot drink which Mrs. Connors was offering her, and 
 asked Donal to give it to her. He held the vessel to 
 the child's lips, and she drank eagerly. But his hand 
 trembled. His mother wiped her hps with a handker- 
 chief; and the child made a sign. 
 
 "Stoop down," said his mother, "she wants you." 
 The big man stooped; and Nodlag put one hot arm 
 around his neck, and drew him closer. He pressed 
 her hot lips with his own, and went out to have a good 
 cry. 
 
 When they were gathered around the fire that night, 
 old Edmond Connors in the centre, looking, as was his 
 wont, dreamily at the blazing wood-blocks, there was 
 a good deal of banter and fun, which Donal had to 
 bear. 
 
 "Begor, Owen, you're cut out altogether. Nodlag 
 and Donal now are bound to one another; and 'twbuld 
 take the Pope himself to brake it." 
 
 "No matther," said Owen, "we must get somebody 
 
A WEDDING AND A WARNING 135 
 
 else, I suppose. 'Twill be a quare story if we can't 
 pick up some likely colleen at Joan's wedding." 
 
 "There'll be the power an' all of people here, I 
 suppose," said Donal. "Where'U we put 'em?" 
 
 "Aren't the bams big enough for the whole parish?" 
 said the old man. "But, if this weather lasts, the 
 neighbours won't come." 
 
 "Won't they, though?" said Owen. "'Tisn't snow, 
 nor hail, nor wind will keep the boys and girls away 
 from a good wedding." 
 
 "Wisha, thin, Donal," said Joan, who was anxious 
 to turn away the conversation from herself, "wasn't it 
 the quare things you wor sayin' last night, whin you 
 wor brought in ? " 
 
 "What things?" said Donal, anxiously looking at 
 his father. 
 
 " Never mind ! " said the old man. " Shure you were 
 out of your min' with the cowld and the hardship; and 
 you didn't know what you were sayin'." 
 
 "You wor talkin' and talkin' about jedges, and 
 black caps, an' informers, an' Daly and his wife, and 
 Nodlag." 'Tis quare how thl- gs mix themselves up 
 in drames like that." 
 
 "I remimber," said Donal, cautiously, "jest before 
 I fell, I thought I was in the dock, an' the jedge was 
 puttin' on his black cap, whin a woman, a great tall 
 woman stood up, and stopped him. An' thin I heard 
 voices: 'Donal! Donal! Nodlag! Nodlag!' an' I fell." 
 
 "'Twas we wor callin'," said Owen. "An' 'twas 
 the devil's own job to make you hear. An' sure 'twas 
 
136 GLENANAAR 
 
 well we didn't miss you both; for ye were like a big 
 snowball for all the world." 
 
 "How is the night?" said the old man, anxious to 
 change the conversation. "Do you think ye'U have 
 everythin' in for the weddin', Bess?" he said to his 
 wife. "How many gallons of sperrits did ye ordher?" 
 
 "We ordhered thirty," said the vanithee. " But sure 
 we can get more." 
 
 "An' the rounds of beef?" 
 
 "They're all right!" 
 
 "An' the hams?" 
 
 "They're all right," said the wife, impatiently. 
 "Can't you lave thim things to ourselves; and not be 
 interfaring with our work? Did you settle wid the 
 priest yourself?" 
 
 "I did, God bless him!" said her husband, "an' 
 'twas aisy settlin'. He'U have twinty weddings that 
 day, and more cummin' in; but he'll be here at three 
 o'clock to the minit, he says; so that we can have 
 nine hours rale Keol, before Ash Winsday breaks 
 upon us!" 
 
 And they had, — rep I downright, tumultuous, Irish 
 fun and frolic. From North, South, East, West, the 
 friends came, as heedless of the snow that lay caked 
 upon the ground, and the drifts that were piled in the 
 ditches and furrows, as a Canadian with his horses 
 and sleds. There was the house far off — the objec- 
 tive of aU the country that night — with its small 
 square windows blazing merrily under the fierce fires 
 upon the hearth; and afar off, clearly outlined against 
 
A WEDDING AND A WARNING 137 
 
 the white pall on the ground, were the dark figures of 
 the guests who had gathered to do honour to a family 
 on which no shadow of a shade of dishonour had ever 
 rested. And they feasted, and drank, and danced; 
 and, late at night, the old people gathered around the 
 fire in the kitchen, and told stories, whilst the young- 
 sters, to the sound of bagpipes and fiddle, danced them- 
 selves into a fever in the decorated and festooned 
 bam. And Donal led out Nodlag, and insisted on 
 dancing an Irish reel _with her, much to the disgust of 
 his intended bride, who watched the child with no 
 friendly eyes, and half determined that the moment 
 she became mistress of Glenanaar farm, out that waif 
 and foundhng should go, and seek a hotoe elsewhere. 
 But no shadow crossed the mind of the child, now 
 thoroughly recovered from her illness; but she danced, 
 and danced with Donal, and Owen, and Jerry; and 
 some old people shook their heads, and said 'twas the 
 fairies brought her and left her, and that somehow 
 there was something uncanny about it all. 
 
 At last, twelve o'clock rang out from the kitchen 
 timepiece — an old grandfather's clock, an heirloom 
 in the family for generations — and Lent broke sol- 
 emnly on the festivities of the night. Some of the 
 youngsters, a little heated, insisted on keeping up the 
 fun till morning, and quoted as an excuse for additional 
 revels the old distich: 
 
 Long life and success to the Council of Trint, 
 That put fast upon mate, but not upon drink I 
 
 But the elders were inexorable. This was the day of 
 
138 GLENANAAR 
 
 ashes and humiliation, the first day of penance, and 
 all should yield to the Church's behests in this grave 
 and solemn matter. So, in the moonlight of that March 
 night, the great crowd dispersed with many a good 
 wish for the happiness of the young people who com- 
 menced to carry the burden of life together that solemn 
 night. 
 
 As they said goodbye! after many a dhoc-a-dhurrus, 
 young Burke, the bridegroom, whispered to Donal: — 
 
 "Light your pipe, and walk down a bit of the road 
 with us!" 
 
 Donal did so. Burke and he had been always close 
 friends, even before they assumed this new relationship. 
 They allowed the cars to go on before them with their 
 female relatives, and trudged along the hardened snow, 
 smoking leisurely. 
 
 '"Twas a pleasant night enough!" said Donal, not 
 wishing to make too much of their profuse hospitaUty. 
 
 "Nothin' could be grander," said Burke. "It bate 
 every weddin' in the parish." 
 
 He went on, smoking silently. 
 
 "I hope you'll be good to Joan," said Donal; "there 
 isn't, and 'tisn't because I say it, a better girl nor a 
 claner housekeeper in this counthry." 
 
 "Do you doubt me?" said his companion, half- 
 offended. 
 
 "Divil a doubt," said Donal, "but we were fond of 
 Joan, an' we'll miss her." 
 
 Burke was again silent. 
 
 "You've somethin' on your mind to tell me," said 
 
A WEDDING AND A WARNING 13P 
 
 Donal. "Wasn't every thin' right, marriage-money 
 an' aU?" 
 
 His companion gave him a rude shove. 
 
 "Thin you have sometWn' to say," cried Donal. 
 "Out wid it, man! What have you to be afeared of?" 
 
 "I'm afeared of nothin' for meself," said Burke. 
 "But I'm afeared for ye." 
 
 Then suddenly turning, he asked fiercely: — 
 
 "Who's that girl ye have up at the house?" 
 
 "Girl? What girl? We've no girl there but Norry 
 and Peggy!" 
 
 "I don't mane thim. We all knovfr who thim are. 
 But who's that young thucka ye danced with to- 
 night?" 
 
 "I danced with many a one," said Donal, on his 
 guard. "With your sisters, and your cousin, Kate 
 Heaphy, and Lucy Kelly, and " 
 
 "I don't mane thim naither," said Burke. "I mane 
 that youngster whom ye tuk into yere house, and 
 who's been wid ye since." 
 
 "Oh! Nodlag!" said Donal, waking up. 
 
 "That's her! Who is she? Where did she come 
 from? Who're her belongings?" 
 
 "Ask me somethin' aisy," said Donal, fencing and 
 parrying the question. 
 
 " Do ye mane to say, Donal Connors, that nayther 
 you, nor your father, nor your mother, know who the 
 divil's breed it is ye are keepin' on a flure that was 
 wanst dacent enough?" 
 
 "You've taken a little dhrap too much to-night," 
 
140 GLENANAAR 
 
 said Dotial, "altho' ye seldom do it, and 'tis a good 
 man's case. All that I can tell you is, that no sign or 
 token has come to us to tell us who the girl is, since the 
 night I found her meself amongst the cows." 
 
 Burke walked on in silence, till they came to the 
 forge just at the cross-roads above the bridge where 
 old Edmond Connors had interviewed Nodlag and her 
 mother. Here he stood still, and hailed the cars that 
 were beneath them in the hollow where the bridge was 
 sunk. He held out his hand. 
 
 "I see ye don't know it, nor suspect it," he said in a 
 hollow voice, "tho' it is the talk of the country-side, 
 and is spoke of where you wouldn't like to hear. 
 Thiggin-thu! Well, I'm your brother-in-law now; and 
 wan of the family. So I put you on your guard. If 
 the boys," he whispered, hoarsely, looking around 
 cautiously at the time, "find out that what they suspect 
 is true, there'll be a bonfire at Glenanaar before St. 
 John's Eve." 
 
 "Yerra, what is it all about?" asked Donal, affecting 
 great ignorance and alarm. "What do they suspect? 
 Or, what harrum can a poor little girsha, hke Nodlag, 
 be to any wan? If they want to do mischief, haven't 
 they Bond Lowe and his Ukes " 
 
 "There are worse than Bond Lowe," said Burke, 
 meaningly. "The thraitor within dures is worse 
 than the inimy without." 
 
 And swinging his hands loosely, he passed on, and 
 overtook the cars that held his young bride and the 
 members of his own fandily. 
 
A WEDDING AND A WARNING 141 
 
 Donal stood still for a moment, shocked at the unex- 
 pected revelation of his father's secret. Then, when 
 he thought of all he had suffered for Nodlag that 
 night, three weeks gone, when he rescued her from the 
 snow, and the winning ways of the child, and her 
 utter helplessness, he muttered between his teeth: — 
 
 "Why the d 1 can't they keep their selves quiet? 
 
 There's always some blackguardin' and ruffianism 
 brewing betime them. What's it to thim who Nodlag 
 is, or where she kum from ? But, be the powers " 
 
 " Fine night, Donal Connors," said the cheery voice 
 of the blacksmith, Redmond Casey, or, as he was 
 popularly known, "Red" Casey, partly as an abbre- 
 viation of his name, and partly explanatory of a red 
 shock of hair which was always victoriously engaged 
 in a deadly struggle against the black dyes of the 
 smithy. He was a young man, and had taken over 
 the business on his father's death a few years pre- 
 viously. His aged mother was his housekeeper; and 
 his smithy was, as is usual in Ireland, club and news- 
 shop and House of Parliament for half the country-sidt. 
 Here, in the fierce light of the mighty fire, fanned by 
 the huge bellows, and to the music of the clanging 
 sledge and anvil, were all subjects of parochial, national, 
 political, and ecclesiastical affairs discussed, — the only 
 silent man being the smith himself, who pared and 
 cut, and measured and nailed, drinking in every kind 
 of information, but saying nothing. He stood this 
 night of the wedding, calmly smoking at the door of 
 his forge. He had been kept busy up to the last 
 
142 GLENANAAR 
 
 moment, "frosting" and "kniving" the horses that 
 had borne the merry crowds to and from the wed- 
 ding. 
 
 '"Tis a fine night, Red," said Donal, coming over. 
 "I'm sorry you couldn't be with us." 
 
 "So was I; but there was no help for it. Ye broke 
 up airly." 
 
 "We did. The ould people would have no more 
 dancin' nor sportin' after twelve o'clock. An' now we 
 have to face the black tay in the momin'." 
 
 "Well, but ye'll be havin' your own wedding 
 soon," said Red. "An' I hope we'll have a rale 
 night of it." 
 
 "I hope so," said Donal, moving homeward. 
 
 " I say, Donal," said Red, as if suddenly recollecting 
 himself. 
 
 "Well, Red, what is it?" said Donal. 
 
 "'Tis a family business, an' I suppose I shouldn't 
 interfare," said Red, blushing in the darkness. "But 
 they say your intinded, Donal, don't want Nodlag on 
 the same flure wid her, an' the ould woman here does 
 be lonesome sometimes " 
 
 "You mane you'll Uke to have her here?" said 
 Donal. 
 
 "That is, av there's no room for her at Glenanaar," 
 said Red. 
 
 "So long as there's bit, bite and sup yonder," said 
 Donal, solemnly, "Nodlag will have her place at our 
 table, no matter who comes in " 
 
 "Oh, I meant no offince," said Red. 
 
A WEDDING AND A WARNING 143 
 
 "An' I take none," said Donal. "An' at laste, it is 
 somethin' to know that she has a friend in you, Red, if 
 all fails her." 
 
 "That she has, and some day I may have the chance 
 to prove it," said Red. "Good-night!" 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 A MIDNIGHT SYNOD 
 
 It was iti an old gray keep, one of the square fron- 
 der-fortresses, built in Queen Elizabeth's time, that 
 the midnight synod was held. The castle rose from 
 a httle swell, or knoll, wliich probably was in ancient 
 days the moraine of some mighty glacier that had shd 
 down from the mountain valleys and pushed the 
 detritus of sand and earth before it. ' It was built of 
 gray limestone, and " stood full square to all the winds 
 that blow." 
 
 Here, in past ages, were entrenched the mail-clad 
 warriors, who held the whole country-side against the 
 rapparees; and here this moonlit, frosty night, with 
 the snow still glittering all around, were gathered the 
 descendants of these same rapparees, as fierce, as 
 generous, and as vindictive as their sires of three hun- 
 dred years gone by. Some sate on the stone steps that 
 led to the upper stories of the old castle; some leaned 
 against the heavy walls; and two or three were on the 
 summit, hidden behind the parapets, sentinels against 
 the approach of strangers or enemies. They were all 
 young men, of the farming and labouring class. A few 
 were still members of the Whiteboy vendetta. All had 
 worn the white shirt in their time. Two were the sons 
 of the Dan Lynch who was executed at the same assizes 
 
 144 
 
A MIDNIGHT SYNOD 145 
 
 at which Edmond Connors had been acquitted. Years 
 had wrought no change in their hearts, although time 
 and trouble had laid heavy hands upon them. The 
 smouldering fires of hatred were newly lighted by the 
 startling report that had gone far and wide over the 
 country. These boys, too, were first cousins to Nano 
 Hegarty, Donal's future bride. 
 
 There were few preliminaries. At least, there were 
 no synodical prayers. 
 
 "Boys," said young Lynch, "ye know what ye're 
 here for. It has gone round the counthry that the 
 seed and breed of that infernal ruffian, Cloumper Daly, 
 is ia our midst, left here by her father and mother. 
 And, the question is, what's to be done?" 
 
 "Is that what we're summoned for?" said a young 
 farmer, no great friend of the Lynch's. 
 
 "'Tis, and isn't it enough?" hotly repHed Lynch. 
 " Do ye mane to say that we're goin' to stand by, and 
 see that Hellspawn amongst dacent people, who never 
 had shame, altho' they had their fill of sorrow at their 
 dure?" 
 
 " 'Tis a quare thing, though," said the former speaker, 
 "that we should be called upon to make war upon a 
 slip of a child that never did nobody harm. How can 
 she help those from whom she was got ? " 
 
 "'Tis aisy for you to talk, Connor Brien," said 
 Lynch, "but if you knew what it was to rise in the 
 mornin', and think of your father swung by the throat 
 by thim Sassanachs in Cork; and he, before the High 
 God, innicent " 
 
146 GLENANAAR 
 
 Here the poor fellow's emotion smothered him; and 
 he could not proceed. But it had the effect of the 
 most deadly eloquence upon his audience. 
 
 "Thrue for you, Dan," said a great, burly fellow, 
 rising. '"Tis only whin it comes home to our own 
 dures, that we feel for other's troubles." 
 
 "If I thought," said another, "that the spawn of 
 that sarpint was amongst us, be the Holy Moses, 
 'twould soon go down the river, or up the sky in 
 smoke." 
 
 "We're all of wan mind in that matther," said a 
 peacemaker. "But, before ye go farther, wouldn't it 
 be well to know what 'tis all about?" 
 
 "What the diVil, man," said young Lynch. "Don't 
 we all know what 'tis about? Are our heads growin' 
 onder our oxters that we haven't hard what everyone 
 is sayin' ? " 
 
 "Aisy now, aisy now, Murty," said the peacemaker. 
 "Does anny man mane to tell me, that Edmond Con- 
 nors would give food and shelter to any wan of that 
 seed, breed, and gineration?" 
 
 "They say he don't know it," replied the other. 
 "All he knows is, that he picked up the child on a 
 Christmas night, and kep' her out of charity. That's 
 all." 
 
 "An' how can anny wan prove she's Cloumper 
 Daly's child?" asked another who was for peace, and 
 who was tired enough of violence. 
 
 "There's no proof if you come to that," said Murty 
 Lynch. "But Cloumper Daly's wife wint to America 
 
A MI'DNIGHT SYNOD 147 
 
 without her child; and the child at Connors's was found 
 about the same time." 
 
 "Yerra, what proof is that?" asked the pleader. 
 "And was there anny more onUkely place on the face 
 of the airth for Cloumper Daly, or his wife, to put their 
 child than at the dure of the man whose life they wor 
 swearing away?" 
 
 "Begor, that clinches the matter, Dan," said a 
 young fellow, who had been hitherto silent. "Sure, 
 in the whole wurruld they couldn't find a worse spot 
 than Glenanaar. Ould Ned Connors would have 
 pitched her straight to the divil." 
 
 "But sure, man, I tell you he didn't know it; nor 
 does he know it till this day. Thin, ye heard what 
 Dunscombe said to his wood-ranger, just before the 
 great snow fell?" 
 
 "No! no! what's that?" said many voices, whilst 
 all faces were turned up expectant. 
 
 "Is it Linehan you mane?" said one, to make quite 
 sure of the personality. 
 
 "Yes, Thade Linehan " 
 
 "The divil a much I'd give for what that rufi&an 
 and rint-wamer would say," cried a boy, who had 
 been prosecuted by Linehan for poaching. "He's not 
 much better than an informer himself." 
 
 "No matter for that!" said Murty Lynch, angrily, as 
 he felt the tide of opinion setting against him, " the divil 
 himself will tell the truth whin it suits his purpose." 
 
 "Well! well! what did Dunscombe say? Let us 
 hear it!" cried a dozen voices. 
 
148 GLENANAAR > 
 
 "What did he say?" repeated Murty, to emphasize 
 the answer. "He said he made an offer to ould Ned 
 Connors about that child, which he'd be sorry for not 
 takin'." 
 
 "What was the offer?" cried the incredulous ones. 
 "It must have been a chape bargain that Dunscombe 
 offered for. He'd split with the divil himself." 
 
 "He offered to take the child, and do for her, and 
 rare her up a lady " 
 
 "An' make a souper of her?" 
 
 "He didn't say that." 
 
 "He meant it." 
 
 "Well, I see ye're all agin me," said Dan Lynch. 
 "But, be this and be that, I'll take the thing into me 
 own hands, as ye haven't the heart of a hare " 
 
 "Yerra, now, aisy, Dan," cried the great big giant. 
 "You know us as well as any wan " 
 
 "I know you, Dinny; an' I know you're a man, an' 
 a man's son." 
 
 "You know well, Dan," said the giant, soothed by 
 the flattery, "that I'd face all the landlords, an' agents, 
 an' bailiffs in Munster; an' if it come to that, I'd think 
 no more of spitting one of thim thin I'd think of spearin' 
 a salmon in the close saison. But 'tis different alte- 
 gither, whin it comes to talkin' of doin' away wid a 
 little slip of a colleen, that never did no harrum to no 
 wan." 
 
 "An' who the divil talked of doin' away wid her?" 
 said Lynch, angrily. " I never mintioned it, av ye did." 
 
 "Hallo! me bouchal, is't that ye're afther?" said the 
 
A MIDNIGHT SYNOD 149 
 
 giant. "Ye want to save yere own skin; and let uz 
 pay the piper. Is that it?" 
 
 "Ye're a parcel of white-livered kinals," said Lynch-, 
 now losing all control of himself. "'Tis aisy to see 
 that none of ye, nor of thim belongin' to ye, ever swung 
 for yere creed or counthry." 
 
 "Begor, you're right, Dan," said one of the "boys," 
 passing his finger inside his collar. "That's a cravat 
 that must be cut to be loosened. None of us ever 
 wore it." 
 
 "'Tisn't too late a-yet," said Lynch, moving away. 
 "High hangin' and the divil playin' is what some 
 of ye will see before ye die. Come, Murty! Come, 
 Darby! All the sperrit is died out of the counthry!" 
 
 And he and his brother and the one follower left the 
 meeting. 
 
 "Wisha, in the name of God," said one of the boys, 
 rising up to return home, "is that what we're brought 
 here for this cowld night, whin we ought to be in our 
 warrum beds? Begobs, some people will soon call a 
 meeting if they want to snare a hare, or spear a salmon." 
 
 "Lynch thinks we're obligated to him and his, on 
 account of his father," repUed the giant. "An' if it 
 wor a clear case, and somebody besides a woman or 
 child consarned, I'd not be for backin' out of anything 
 in fairity. But, be the hole in my coat, I'm not goin' 
 to pick a quarrel with Edmond Connors, nor his family, 
 bekase he chuse to take in a little gorlach of a child on 
 a Christmas night." 
 
 "I was spakin' to his son-in-law, John Burke," 
 
150 GLENANAAR 
 
 replied the former. "He tould me he gave a hint to 
 Donal, which he wouldn't have done, only he had a 
 sup in him the night of the weddin', — an' sure if he 
 hadn't it thin, whin would he have a right to it ? An' 
 he tould me, from the way Donal took it, he had no 
 more idee of it than the babe unbomed." 
 
 "Av coorse," said the giant, "ould women's talk 
 will go far an' wide across the counthiy. Give 'em 
 the tay an' the snuflf, an' begob, they'll invint stories 
 and romances for ye, as long as from here to Bantry 
 Bay!" 
 
 "But why are the Lynches so hot about it?" was 
 asked. "Sure, it can't be they want to revinge the 
 murdher of their father on such a child as that?" 
 
 "No! but there's another weddin' comin' on, I'm 
 tould," was the reply. "Donal Connors is bringin' in 
 Nano Hegarty from out there beyant Ardpatrick, and 
 sure she don't want any wan to share the flure wid 
 her." 
 
 "Thin Owen and the sisther go out, I suppose?" 
 
 "Av coorse, they do. An' av she could turn out 
 the ould couple wid them, she think no more of it 
 than of saying, 'Hurrish!' to the pig." 
 
 "An' that's Dan Lynch's game, is it?" cried the 
 others, in a chorus of indignation. "Wisha, thin, bad 
 luck to him, the naygur, to think we were goin' to bind 
 ourselv' to help Nano. 'Twill be manny a long day 
 afore we'll come to a meetin' of the Lynches again." 
 
 And the boys dispersed, one by one, each taking a 
 different pathway across the snow-enveloped fields. 
 
A MIDNIGHT SYNOD 151 
 
 The great giant, Thade Ryall, and one young lad, 
 who always accompanied him, lingered behind. 
 
 "Have you a steel and flint about you?" asked 
 Thade. 
 
 "I have," said the boy, searching his breeches 
 pocket. ' 
 
 "An' a piece of spunk?" 
 
 " Here you are ! 'Tis dyin' for a dhraw I am myself 
 this cowld night." 
 
 Thade Ryall ht his pipe by striking fire from the 
 flint and steel, and catching the spark on the spunk; 
 and smoked for a long time leisurely. Then, he 
 handed the pipe to his companion, and, wiping his 
 piOuth with the back of his hand, he remarked: 
 
 "I'm thinkin' to-night's meetin' won't ind here!" 
 
 "I'm thinkin' the same," said the other, reluctantly 
 joining in the dialogue. 
 
 "What are you thinkin', Jim?" said the giant. 
 
 "I'm thinkin' I'd hke to hear you talkin', Thade," 
 said Jim, innocently. 
 
 "'Tis the pity the weed is not grown in Ireland," 
 said Thade. "What a manifacturer and conshumer 
 and gineral daler you would be!" 
 
 "Go on, Thade!. Go on!" said Jim, economizing 
 every valuable moment. 
 
 "The top of a rick of turf, a sunny day, and the wind 
 from the south to timper it, and a well-blackened 
 dhudeen, and the tin box full " 
 
 " Shtop, av ye don't want me to shtrike you ! What 
 the divil do ye want grigging a poor fellow like that 
 
152 GLENANAAR 
 
 fur?" said Jim, as the delectable vision rose up before 
 him, and the stern contrast was all around. 
 
 "Well, as I was about saying, whin ye interrupted me 
 wid yere minanderings," replied Thade, "I don't think 
 the Lynches will shtop their hand afther to-night." 
 
 "What can they do?" said Jim. 
 
 "What can anny wan do whin the divil inthers into 
 him? Whin I kim out that moonlight night tin years 
 ago, d'ye think I had any notion of drivin' thim slugs 
 through the Ameral's carriage? An' av I knew his 
 daughter was wid him, don't ye think I'd sooner turn 
 the muzzle upon meself?" 
 
 "Whisht!" said Jim, cautiously. "Do ye hear 
 nothin'?" 
 
 "Nothing at all," said Thade, unconcernedly. "And 
 whin you, Jim Cassidy, as good and riligious a boy as 
 ever broke his mother's heart, lie in wait that night 
 for George " 
 
 "Whisht, for God's sake, whisht!" said Jim, rising 
 up. "The walls have ears. Here's yer pipe, and bad 
 luck to ye wid it." 
 
 "I thought I'd get it out av ye," said Thade, coolly 
 smoking. " Nothin' but wan thing could take the pipe 
 from your mouth, Jim!" 
 
 "But what were ye saying about the Lynches?" 
 asked Jim, crossly, for he felt he had been cheated. 
 
 "Nothin' pertickler, 'cept they won't shtop there." 
 
 "Ned Connors is a dangerous man," said Jim. 
 
 "I know a more dangerous man," said Thade. 
 
 "Who?" 
 
A MIDNIGHT SYNOD 153 
 
 " Donal Connors. He's the wan man I'd be afeared 
 to meet, av his timper was up." 
 
 " I think. I'll put him on his guard," said Jim. "He 
 did many a good turn for me." 
 
 "You can'it," said Thade, sententiously. 
 
 "Why can't I?" said Jim. 
 
 "Haven't you yer oath, you ruffian?" said Thade. 
 "Didn't ye sware on the crossed shticks not to revale 
 iss, aye or no, that 'ud happen here?" 
 
 "Thrue for you, begobs," said Jim. "Shure I for- 
 got meseif. But it will be no harrum av I have it 
 convayed to Donal, that he may expec' a visit, but that 
 they won't shtay long." 
 
 "Well, that's another question," said Thade, bal- 
 ancing the morality of the thing in his mind. "It's 
 wan thing to tell, another thing to convay. Well," he 
 said at length, "I suppose you may, but don't let the 
 Lynches ever hear it, av ye vally yer Ufe, an' don't 
 care to be tied to the settle." 
 
 "Are ye done, Thade?" said Jim. "It's mortial 
 cowld here." 
 
 "Take another shaugh," said Thade. 
 
 "N-no!" said Jim. "But I'll take the lind of a 
 loan of your 'baccy-box till to-morrow. Ah!" he said, 
 lovingly, as Thade handed him the little flat tin box, 
 "Sure, 'tis atin' and drinkin', and sleepin' — all 
 thegither!" 
 
 A few nights later there was a little scene at the 
 forge. A few of the boys met as usual to talk over 
 events; and the conversation turned upon Nodlag. 
 
154 GLENANAAR 
 
 "Whatever they say, the Lynches are right," said 
 one, lighting his pipe at the forge furnace. 
 
 "They might 'be, if they could prove themselves," 
 said another. 
 
 "That's just it!" said a third. 
 
 "No wan manes anny harrum to the girl," said the 
 first speaker, "but it is clear this is no place for the 
 likes of her aiquals, afther all that occurred. Begobs, 
 people have their feeUngs; and 'tisn't Ned Connors 
 should go agin them, whatever tie he has in the girl." 
 
 "The right thiijg would be to frighten him, without 
 hurtin' him; and let him sind her on the road, where 
 he picked her up," said the first. 
 
 Red Casey was swinging his sledge with great strokes 
 on a horseshoe that was held redhot by a boy with a 
 long, forked tongs. He caught the conversation, how- 
 ever; and hfting high the sledge in the air, he said: 
 
 "The man that puts a wet finger on that girl, by 
 
 G , I'll smash his skull .as aisy as I shtrike that 
 
 shoe." 
 
 He brought the heavy sledge down with a fearful 
 thud, and the red sparks flew fast and thick all around. 
 The boy, who held the horseshoe, let it fall in terror; 
 the rest slunk silently from the forge. 
 
 And Nodlag, the cause of all this commotion, slept 
 calmly the sleep of innocence, and areamed out her 
 little span of happy oblivion till the dawn. 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 THE OLD ORDER CHANGETH 
 
 During that eventful year, Owen Connors and his 
 sister left the old home at Glenanaar, — the former, 
 to take up a situation in Limerick, and the latter to 
 become companion to a maiden aunt, who was also 
 her godmother, and from whom gre;at things were 
 expected, as it was supposed she had "lashings of 
 money." The great snow had disappeared, reluct- 
 antly enough, as even far into the month of May 
 white patches still could be seen, nestling in ditches 
 and deep down in ravines, where the sun could not 
 pierce. But the roads and byways were open; and 
 the spring work progressed gaily, the ground being 
 softened and warmed for the plough and harrow by 
 the genial influence of the snow. Except for the de- 
 parture of Owen and his sister there was very little to 
 trouble the peace that always slept over that cottage 
 at Glenanaar; and even this sundering of ties, as close 
 as hfe itself, was accepted with that mute resignation, 
 so closely resembling the aspects of fatalism, which 
 has always been a characteristic of the Irish peasant. 
 
 Donal's marriage took place a few weeks before 
 Advent. It had been deferred for many reasons; for 
 a httle difference about business details in Ireland is 
 often the octasion of the "breaking-off" of a match, 
 
156 GLENANAAR 
 
 or at least of considerable delay. And the Hegartys 
 were always notorious for driving a hard bargain. 
 The families had met at fairs in Kildorrery, Kilfinane, 
 and elsewhere; had spent hours in public-houses, 
 arrangmg, debating, changing, and settling the details 
 of the marriage contract. At length it was decided, 
 according to the singular but universal custom, that 
 the old people should surrender the farm, and all 
 farm assets to their son, Donal; that they should receive 
 in heu thereof from the Hegartys the sum of ;^20o; 
 that they should have the right to a room in the house, 
 and their maintenance; and in lieu thereof, should 
 there be any difficulty about deciding what is meant 
 by "proper maintenance," they should have each £i^ 
 a year; and, finally, the grass of three sheep. This 
 kind of arrangement is the universal custom. Some- 
 times it works well. More frequently it is the occa- 
 sion of much heart-burning. But there seems no 
 other way of settUng so complex a question. At last, 
 after coming to an understanding on these knotty 
 points, the great question about Nodlag's future was 
 discussed. It was at a famous fair, held in Kilmallock 
 on the eve of All Saints' Day, and known as Snap- 
 Apple Fair, from the ancient customs and amusements 
 connected with AU Hallows' Eve from time immemorial 
 in Ireland. There were present old Edmond Connors, 
 now grown feeble enough; Donal; and the father and 
 mother of Nano Hegarty. They met in an upstairs 
 parlor of a pubhc-house, kept by a "friend," who 
 magnanimously kept away all the other customers 
 
THE OLD ORDER CHANGETH 157 
 
 who were unable to find room downstairs. The usual 
 rather squalid fencing and sparring that goes on, on 
 these occasions, gave way before the calm, dignified, 
 attitude of old Edmond Connors, who simply made 
 one quiet, determined statement, and no more. 
 
 "Av she was wan of yere own flesh and blood, we 
 wouldn't mind," said Mrs. Hegarty, referring to Nod- 
 lag, "altho' it is ushal to give up the place clear on 
 these occasions. But a thucka, who came from no 
 wan knows where, and who was got by no wan knows 
 who — begor, 'tis the quare business intirely." 
 
 "There's isn't much use in argyin' the matther," 
 said Edmond Connors. "As I said at the fair at 
 Kildorrery, Nodlag must remain, and be thrated like 
 wan of oursels." 
 
 "Can't you lave her as a servant-girl?" said old 
 Hegarty. "We'll put her on good wages, an' you'll 
 have nothin' to complain about. Come now, Ned, 
 'tis only a thrifie of a misondhertsanding," he said, in 
 a wheedling tone. "'T would be the quare thing, out 
 and out, an' althegither, that such a thescaun should 
 stand atween us. Spake, Donal!" 
 
 "Av she was to remain as a servant-girl, there 'ud 
 be nothin' to prevint those who are comin' in " (this 
 was the delicate way Donal referred to his future wife), 
 "to give a month's notice at anny time, and turn her 
 on the wumild." 
 
 • "Oyeh! shure now, you're jokin', Donal," said Mrs. 
 Hegarty. "The idee of Nano doin' annything that 
 you wouldn't like; and she so fond of you!" 
 
158 GLENANAAR 
 
 "Didn't she siy, Kate," said her husband, "when 
 the Begleys wor comin' around matchmakin', that 
 she'd have Donal Connors, and no wan else in the 
 wide wurruld; and that she'd rather beg the whole 
 wurruld wid him than wear silks and satins wid others ? " 
 
 "Indeed 'n' she did," said Mrs. Hegarty. "An' 
 more'n that. She often said to meself, sez she, that 
 she'd marry Donal, or no wan; and shure now here he 
 is turning his back upon her, as if she wor the blackest * 
 shtranger." 
 
 "I'm not tumin' me back upon Nano," said Donal, 
 uneasy under the accusation, "but nayther me father, 
 nor I, will do a wrong thing to an orfin for anny wan." 
 
 "An' is the poor httle crachure an orfin?" said Mrs. 
 Hegarty, seizing on the word. "Sure, they say her 
 father and mother, bad scran to them, are safe and 
 sound in America." 
 
 And she screwed her eyes into the face of old Edmond 
 Connors as she spoke. 
 
 "How can they say that," he repUed, "whin nobody 
 but the grate God knows who her father and mother 
 might be?" 
 
 "Av coofse, av coorse," said old Hegarty. "But 
 people will say the quarest things: but shure, av 'twas 
 thrue, you'd be the last man in Ireland to keep sich a 
 wan under an honest roof." 
 
 Donal fidgeted a Uttle; and his father grew white 
 beneath the eyes. But in all other outer appearances 
 he remained perfectly composed. 
 
 "I never mind what people do be sayin'," he said. 
 
THE OLD ORDER CHANGETH 15d 
 
 "•They'll let no wan pass. But what do they say, 
 Mrs. Hegarty; for 'tis better to have the thruth out, 
 than keep it in?" 
 
 "Tell him, Kate!" urged Hegarty. "'TwiU kum 
 better from a 'uman!" 
 
 Kate couldn't see this at all. She could not perceive 
 where the feminine element came into the matter. 
 
 "Wisha, betther let it alone," she said, pulhng up 
 the hood of her black cloak. "Let there be an ind 
 to the matther, as we cannot agree." 
 
 Then her husband assumed an attitude of great 
 determination, as of one about to make a tremendous 
 sacrifice. 
 
 "Come, Ned," he said, "I'U teU you what I'U do. 
 I'll give you an' the ould 'uman the grass of anither 
 sheep, an' a new feather-bed that was never slep' on, 
 av you sind away that — " here he was about to use an 
 opprobrious expression, but a glance from the keen 
 blue eye of the old man stopped him, and he added — 
 "gorlach." 
 
 Edmpnd Connors rose up, a signal that negotiations 
 were at an end, when Hegarty seized him, and put 
 him back in the ^chair. ^ 
 
 "Wisha, thin, Ned Cormors, you're the divil intirely 
 at dhrivin' a bargain. We'll give in to you here. 
 But," he said solemnly, raising his finger and empha- 
 sizing his words, "av anny harrum comes av it, the 
 blame be yours, not mine!" 
 
 "No harrum can kum," said Donal, "excep' to those 
 who wish harrum. An' let thim beware!" 
 
i60 GLENANAAR 
 
 So then it is decided by the Fates that Nodlag shall 
 not be cast upon the world to beg her daily bread, or 
 otherwise degenerate; but shall get shelter, and clothes, 
 and food, not as a menial, but as a legitimate member 
 of a family. For herself, poor child, now bursting 
 from childhood into girlhood, with all its dreams, 
 aspirations, and ambitions, she knew nothing of all 
 that men were conjecturing about her mysterious past, 
 or plotting about her uncertain future. But she wept 
 somewhat when Owen and his sister, amid many 
 kisses and tears, and other signs of love, crossed the 
 threshold of the old home, which they should never 
 re-pass but as strangers; and then went about her 
 daily avocations as usual, — took up the sod of turf, 
 and her well-worn books every morning, and hied her 
 to where the old hedge school was hidden near the 
 bridge that crossed the Own-an-aar, and conned over 
 her Voster, and her Carpenter's spelling-book, and 
 won the admiration of the old schoolmaster for her 
 obedience and inteUigence; and got back in the evening 
 to her humble dinner of potatoes and milk, and the 
 warmth of the beloved fireside, where every day she 
 became dearer and dearer. And sometimes the old 
 listening habit would come upon her, and she would 
 stop at the bridge to hear the far-off voice. Or, in the 
 middle of her lesson about the bad boy that used to 
 say, "I don't care," she would suddenly pause, and 
 put her hand to her ear, and listen; and the old man, 
 who had heard something of her history, would look at 
 her compassionately, and her companions would nudge 
 
THE OLD ORDER CHANGETH 161 
 
 one another. "There's the Fairy-Child agin listening 
 for the good people. I wondher whin will they come, 
 and fetch her away ? " 
 
 At home, she was queen and mistress by virtue of 
 her right and faculty of loving. One thing troubled 
 her these latter days. She often foimd Donal watching 
 her intently; and she vaguely conjectured, by that 
 curious instinct or presentiment such sensitive minds 
 possess, that the advent of the new mistress would 
 mean in some way or other a disruption of the blessed 
 peace that always hung around this Christian house- 
 hold. The feeling was shared, in great measure, by 
 old Mrs. Connors, who felt that, the moment the deed 
 assigning the farm to Donal and his future wife was 
 attested, her supremacy was over — her long reign of 
 nearly fifty years was at an. end. 
 
 "There'll be changes, alanna," she used to say, 
 drawing out and combing carefully Nodlag's yellow 
 tresses, " an' they won't be good for you nor me. But 
 all. the same, we'U be together, an' sure that's a great 
 matther." 
 
 "Will she bate me, granny?" the child would ask. 
 
 "No, alanna. She won't, because I won't lave her. 
 But there's many a way of killing, besides chokin' 
 with butther, agragal!" 
 
 "Wisha, don't be makin' the child lonesome wid 
 that kind o' talk," the old man would put in. "We'll 
 be all together, Nodlag, tiU death us do part, as the 
 Catechiz says. What did you lam to-day, alannav?" 
 
 And Nodlag should go over her whole lesson, line 
 
162 GLENANAAR 
 
 by line, the old man nodding his head, and putting in 
 a word here and there. 
 
 Then, in the early winter, the fatal day came. A 
 stranger crossed the threshold of Glenanaar as its mis- 
 tress; and the old people sank down into the condition 
 of dependents. Clearly, Donal's heart was not alto- 
 gether in the matter. He went about his work, but 
 with none of that light-heartedness and enthusiasm one 
 would expect from a newly-married man, who had 
 found the desire of a hfetime. His wife, cautiously, 
 but firmly, took up the management of the little house- 
 hold; and quietly, but unaggressively, assumed absolute 
 control. The old people cowered by the fireside; took 
 their meals in silence; and submitted patiently to their 
 lot. But one could see how the sense of her dethrone- 
 ment and subjection was telling on the old woman. 
 Once or twice, through sheer force of habit, she gave 
 little orders through the house, which were at once 
 silently, but firmly, countermanded by the young mis- 
 tress. Then she appealed to the fihal affection of 
 Donal to support her. - But he, through a sense of jus- 
 tice, and possibly to avoid a chronic condition of 
 hostihty between the old order and the new, said: — 
 
 ' ' Better let Nano manage. Mother ! She understands 
 the matther betther." 
 
 And the old woman bowed her head in a resignation 
 that broke her heart. It was pitiful to see her going 
 around the old familiar places, as if she were not only 
 a stranger, but an intruder; to watch her face when 
 another voice than hers gave orders to Peggy or Larry; 
 
THE OLD ORDER CHANGETH 163 
 
 to hear her pitiful appeal even to the beggars that 
 thronged the door: 
 
 " I have nothin' for you now, honest man. I am as 
 poor as yourself." 
 
 It is true the bonds between her husband and Nodlag 
 and herself grew closer after her abdication and conse- 
 quent humiliation; but every one that knows the im- 
 perious and arbitrary manner with which these grand 
 old "Irish mothers" reigned and ruled over their 
 households will easily understand how the new order 
 cut into the very heart of this good old Christian 
 mother. The old fires gradually died out; the spirit 
 waned; a general listlessness supervened over the for- 
 mer restless activity; and before the autumn came 
 again, or rather in its earliest days, she fulfilled her 
 own prophecy: 
 
 "Ye'll be berryin' me at the fall of the lafe." 
 
 There were fewer friends left therefore to Nodlag; 
 but these were fast and true. She was everything now 
 to old Edmond Connors; and Donal, forever watching 
 her with those keen, sorrowful eyes, was cautiously 
 kind. His wife, bitterly hostile as she was, refrained 
 from any open demonstrations of dislike. But grad- 
 ually, as a clever, vindictive woman might, she reduced 
 Nodlag even below the level of a menial. The girl 
 was taken from school and put to hard work. The 
 servants, imitating their mistress, and cognizant of the 
 secret that was no longer a secret, for the whole parish 
 knew it, treated her with contumely. By degrees, and 
 imder one excuse or another, she was quietly kept 
 
164 GLENANAAR 
 
 away from the family meals, and even the servants 
 would not eat with her. And all was arranged, quietly 
 and without offence. Donal was not blind to this. 
 He saw through his wife's manoeuvres clearly; but 
 he had no opportunity of interfering. He swallowed 
 his wrath in silence, and went about his work, moody 
 and distracted. But he took every opportunity of 
 consohng the lonely girl for her hard fate. Whenever 
 he went to fair or market, he brpught home a jairin' 
 to Nodlag, sometimes a cheap brooch, or a hair-comb 
 to keep back her rich hair; sometimes it was a Book 
 of Fate, found by Napoleon in the Pyramids of Egypt, 
 sometimes the Key of Heaven, or the Garden oj the 
 Soul; but in some mysterious way they rapidly disap- 
 peared, leaving Nodlag disconsolate. Once, in a fit 
 of fury, the new mistress smote the girl across the face, 
 and her cheek and eye were swollen. Donal asked 
 what had happened. Nodlag would not tell. Then 
 he called his wife into his bedroom. He was one of 
 those quiet men, who give way sometimes to parox- 
 ysms of rage. 
 
 "Nano," he said with a white, terrible face, "you 
 shtruck Nodlag. If ever you shtrike her agin, you'll 
 remimber it to the day of your death!" 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 WHAT OF THE FATES? 
 
 This did not smooth matters much for the pooj 
 girl. Her life very soon became a misery and a martjT- 
 dom. As her intelligence developed with her physical 
 strength she began to perceive, at first dimly and 
 reluctantly, then swiftly and certainly, that her lot in 
 hfe was a pecuHar one. She had become faintly con- 
 scious of this at school, where she was isolated from 
 the fanners' daughters around, who would have made 
 her school-life a burden, were it not for the friendship 
 the master evidently entertained for her. But, some- 
 times, an awkward question would be put by some 
 stupid fellow: — 
 
 "Why do they call you Nodlag? That's a quare 
 name. An' what's yere other name?" 
 
 The significance of the fact that she had no name 
 beyond a kind of nickname gave her the first inkling 
 of her isolation from her kind. She made one or two 
 inquiries which were answered evasively; and then, 
 with the ease of youth and perfect health she forgot 
 all about it. Now, it all came back with tenfold force; 
 and as she gradually understood that she had no family 
 name, no family connections, no relations, no friends, 
 in the usual sense of the word, her peculiar position 
 
 i6s 
 
166 GLENANAAR 
 
 gave her many hard, bitter hours of sombre and melan- 
 choly reflection. For now she sprang into womanhood 
 with that swiftness characteristic of highly nervous and 
 sensitive organizations. She grew swiftly tall; and 
 without a trace of weakness or dehcacy she became a 
 jealous contrast to the coarse, heavy, lumbering figures 
 of the farm-yard. She was, in fact, in her sixteenth 
 year, a tall, handsome, mountain girl, who could leap 
 the Ownanaar at full flood, and jump lightly from the 
 ground on to the back of the tallest horse in the yard. 
 And as her tliick hair deepened in hue and became an 
 auburn colour, her long, straight features, sUghtly 
 browned and freckled, took on a dehcacy and refined 
 tone that was specially exasperating to those with 
 whom she was brought into daily contact. But all 
 this superiority, unnoticed by the modest girl, did not 
 tend to relieve her from the ever-painful feeUngs of her 
 lonehness and isolation; and, once or twice at school, 
 and more frequently, in the farm-yard and fields, she 
 heard herself called by a name, the opprobrium of 
 which she took long years to reahze. Once or twice, 
 she approached Donal with a question; but then shrank 
 from the dread of the revelation. She felt that she 
 could not bear to be told of some secret shame, or 
 misfortune, that would bhght all her after-life. In her 
 ignorance, she had at least the consolation of knowing 
 that she did love and was beloved. Why she could 
 not say; but at least it was a salve for the ever-present 
 sore, that whatever secret was kept in the archives 
 which she feared to open, at least it could not estrange 
 
WHAT OF THE FATES? 167 
 
 from her the affection she prized above all things else 
 on earth. The suspicion that a revelation, even to 
 herself, of that secret might force her into a conscien- 
 tious disruption of those sweet ties that made all the 
 happiness of Ufe prevented her from seeking a knowl- 
 edge that might be fraught with evil. So she deter- 
 mined to remain silent, and accept the uncertainty 
 with all its present rewards. For she could not be 
 insensible to her own personal attractions. Instinct 
 told her that she had great advantages, not only over 
 these poor girls who slaved in the farm-yard, but even 
 over their mistress herself; and modest and humble 
 though she might be, she could not be insensible to 
 facts that left an ever-growing impression on her 
 imagination. Then, sometimes, she felt that, with all 
 the coldness and aversion with which she had been 
 treated, and was still treated, even by neighbouring 
 famihes, there was somehow blent a note of admira- 
 tion; aod it was not altogether a maiden's fancies, or 
 mere vanity, that made her feel that the eyes of people 
 rested on her face and figure, going to or coming from 
 Mass; and there was sometimes a httle feehng of 
 exultation, which died away again into despondency, 
 when she had to pass through an avenue of cars and 
 carts, ajid was imgreeted, save by that cold stare of 
 silent admiration. 
 
 She became dimly conscious, however, that besides 
 her friends at Glenanaar, now reduced to Edmond and 
 Donal, there was one other spot where her presence 
 was greeted like a sunbeam. This was at the forge, 
 
168 GLENANAAR 
 
 down near the bridge. There was always a welcome 
 and a warm corner for her near old Mrs. Casey, as she 
 sat by the kitchen fire; and there was no mistaking the 
 cheery salutation: 
 
 "Mils faille, alannav! miU faille ! What a stranger 
 you're becoming! We didn't see you sin' Sunday. 
 Did we, Reddy?" 
 
 "No, Mother! Nodlag is getting so big now, she 
 has too much to do, besides comin' to see us!" 
 
 Here was a note of impatience that meant much. 
 But it was very sweet, nevertheless, to the lonely girl, 
 who made the humble cabin almost her home, not so 
 much in the way of residence, as by a kind of pro- 
 prietary right she assumed in arranging and managing 
 Mrs. Casey's humble belongings. For ever since she 
 was a child it was Nodlag's invariable custom, when- 
 ever she came to the forge, to fling aside the parti-col- 
 oured shawl which served as a snood; and letting her 
 long hair fall down, she would move around the little 
 kitchen and bedroom, setting all things to rights, clean- 
 ing there and tidying there, until everything came to look 
 spick and span under her dainty touch. And the old 
 mother would bless her from her sugan chair, and say: 
 
 "If God 'ud only sind us a daughter like you!" 
 
 And the young smith, with his grimy shirt open, 
 reveahng his strong chest, would lean on his sledge 
 with blackened arms, knotted and gnarled with huge 
 muscles, and sigh and think: 
 
 "If that purty picture could remain, what a blessed 
 life would be mine!" 
 
WHAT OF THE FATES? 169 
 
 But now Nodlag had grown to womanhood; ajid the 
 jest and the laugh had died away from the young 
 smith's lips. A deeper feehng than his cheerful child- 
 afEection had taken hold of him; and he became silent 
 and shy and reserved. A new Hfe had entered his 
 veins. The great transformation had taken place. 
 To the unconscious Nodlag the change was alarming. 
 She could not interpret it. Old Mrs. Casey was as 
 kind, as loving, as sohcitous as ever. Her welcome 
 to the forge was unstinted in its warmth. But the 
 attitude of the young smith was a puzzle. Instead of 
 the broad, deep gaze into her blue eyes, he looked at 
 her in a shy, furtive manner; answered rather shortly, 
 and never now performed the chivalric courtesy, to 
 which she had been accustomed from childhood, of 
 lifting her, or helping her, into the saddle. She con- 
 cluded, after a good deal of reflection, that Redmond's 
 mind was also poisoned against her; that the deep 
 secret of her life had averted his face from her forever. 
 She Uttle knew how deep a hold she had of that strong, 
 manly heart. She little deemed that a hundred times 
 a day a very smutty, but not unhandsome face, crowned 
 by a mass of rusty hair, fairly well dyed with soot, 
 stared through the little square window of the forge 
 up along the winding road that led to Glenanaar; 
 and that his honest heart leaped with pride when he 
 saw her well-known, shapely figure come swaying down 
 the white road, or bending with every movement of 
 the white or bay horse she was bringing to his forge. 
 Why didn't someone tell her the boy's mighty secret? 
 
Wo GLENANAAR 
 
 Or why didn't Redmond himself speak, and solve the 
 riddle of his future happiness forever? 
 
 Well, he did; but not to Nodlag. He took Donal 
 into his confidence in his shy, reluctant way. 
 
 "I think," he said to Donal one day, as they smoked 
 together leisurely after the horses had been shod, 
 "Nodlag is not lookin' as well as we'd wish her." 
 
 "I didn't notice," said Donal, somewhat alarmed. 
 " Do ye think she's looking badly ? " 
 
 " Maybe 'tis the way she's growin'," said Redmond, 
 "she's runnin' up very fast for her age!" 
 
 "I'm afeard she's not as continted as she ought to 
 be," said Donal, sadly. "Thim that ought to be a 
 mother to the lonely girl are more inclined to be a 
 stepmother." 
 
 "'Twould be aisy enough to betther that, begor," 
 said Redmond. 
 
 "What do ye mane? How?" asked Donal, sharply. 
 
 "I mane that me and me mother would be the 
 happy pair, if Nodlag could make her home here, and 
 lave where she isn't welcome!" 
 
 "That's dacent of you. Red," said Donal. "An' 
 I suppose you know all — I mane all that the people 
 does be sayin'?" he corrected himself hastily. 
 
 "I do, and perhaps more," said Redmond. "An' 
 I don't care a ihraneen for all that the, gossips can say 
 agin her. There's not a girl like her in the County 
 Cork or Limerick." 
 
 Donal looked at him inquiringly; and a great light 
 began to dawn. 
 
WHAT OF THE FATES? 171 
 
 "Me father," he said at length, "could never do 
 widout her. She reads for him, and sews for him, an' 
 works for him; that is," he said, after a pause of 
 shame, "whin she's allowed by her supariors." 
 
 "There's somethin' in that, surely," said Redmond. 
 "But your father, Donal, is binding a good deal, and 
 wakening, since your mother's death; and if anythin' 
 should happen to him, what would become of 
 Nodlag?" 
 
 "Thin I should take care of her," said Donal. 
 
 "Av coorse, av coorse," said Redmond, coughing 
 violently, for the smoke had gone the wrong way, he 
 said. "But you know Nodlag now is no child; an' 
 we know what wimmen are, whin they git jealous^ 
 like." 
 
 "Thrue for ye. Red," said Donal, with a smile of 
 meaning playing around his mouth; "but if Nodlag is 
 no longer a child at Glenanaar, she wouldn't be a 
 child ayther down here." 
 
 Redmond coughed again violently, until his face 
 was as red as his hair. 
 
 "I know what you mane, Donal," he said. "But 
 — " here he stopped suddenly, as if to gather his 
 faculties together. Then he continued, "But I 
 wouldn't ask her to come here, onless I had a right." 
 
 "That manes only wan thing," said Donal, reflect- 
 ively. 
 
 "Only wan thing," said the smith. "If you and 
 your father consint, I'm satisfied to make Nodlag my 
 wife!" 
 
172 GLENANAAR 
 
 "But tare an' 'ouns, man," said Donal, highly de- 
 lighted, "what about Nodlag herself? Have you 
 spoken to her, or is it all arranged betune ye?" 
 
 "Never a word on the matther passed my lips," 
 said Redmond. "'Tis you, Donal, must do the good 
 turn for me!" 
 
 " Begor, I will with a heart and a half," said Donal, 
 "tho' 'twould come much betther from yerself. But 
 have you thought. Red, of what it all manes?" 
 
 "Have I?" said Redmond. "Was there anny other 
 thought in my mind for the past twelve months but 
 what I'm spakin' now? God forgive me! Manny's 
 the time it came uppermost in me prayers, and even at 
 Mass!" 
 
 "And do you think 'twill serve your bisness?" said 
 Donal. 
 
 "'Twill, and it 'twon't," said Redmond. "If they 
 could do widout me, they might. But you know there's 
 not another blacksmith within six miles!" 
 
 Donal thought long and deeply. 
 
 "You know," he said at length, "that Nodlag has 
 nothin' but what's on her!" 
 
 "An' did I ask for anythin'?" Redmond said, half 
 angrily. "Did I mintion money, or annything else, 
 Donal Connors?" he continued. "Come now, as man 
 to man, did I?" 
 
 "No," said Donal. "Red, you are a brave, good 
 man, and if Nodlag likes you, me father and me will 
 be the happy couple." 
 
 "Thin, you'll spake to Nodlag?" said Redmond, 
 
WHAT OF THE FATES ? 173 
 
 anxiously, "and lave me know her answer as soon as 
 you can." 
 
 "I will," said Donal, drawing his horse's reins 
 over his shoulder; "an' 'twon't be my fault if she 
 doesn't say yes to you!" 
 
 "God bless you, Donal," said Redmond, fervently; 
 "and may it come to my turn yet to do as good a 
 turn to you!" 
 
 Here, then, was the solution of a good many diffi- 
 culties, if Time and Fate would allow. A fair vista 
 of an honoured life stretched smilingly before the feet 
 of the lonely girl. It was only the little Yes, to be 
 enlarged and emphasized into the more solemn I will, 
 and all would be right forevermore. But here come 
 the Fates, and Chance, and Evil; and, lo! down rush 
 the clouds and rain, and blot out the sunshine and the 
 glory, apparently forever. 
 
 But Donal's heart was singing with delight, as he 
 trudged lazily up the hill; and he often smiled as he 
 imagined the surprise and the delight of Nodlag when 
 he broke the matter to her. He turned over in his 
 mind the hundred ways in which he would make the 
 solemn communication with most effect. Would he 
 broach the matter in the comic and bantering style so 
 usual in Ireland; or would he speak to her seriously, 
 as a father to a child? Or would he put it enigmati- 
 cally, or by way of parable, pretending that it was a 
 piece of matQb-making going on in another parish, 
 and with no reference to herself, until she gave her 
 opinion? He decided, -at last, that this was the 
 
174 GLENANAAR 
 
 "shuparjor plan"; and he arranged his story as neatly 
 as possible towards a successful issue. 
 
 And the young smith swung to his work with re- 
 doubled efforts, for now that he had cast the die he 
 was anxious for the result. A thousand times he told 
 himself that he would be contumehously rejected; and 
 he often regretted his smutty face and sooty hair. No 
 girl could see beneath such a grimy appearance the 
 pulsations of a strong, brave, loyal heart. And then, 
 again, hope revived. Donal's eloquence, and her own 
 loneliness and dependence, would do all. And, as he 
 rang his small hammer on the anvil in short, quick 
 strokes, he knew that the musical steel echoed the 
 word that was in his heart: Nodlag! Nodlag! and 
 Nodlag! 
 
, CHAPTER XVn 
 
 AN OLD man's dream 
 
 On the evening df that day in which Redmond 
 Casey had given his solemn commission to Donal, old 
 Edmond Connors, returning slowly from his walk 
 through the fields, sat weary and tired on the parapet 
 of the little bridge that curved itself above the Own- 
 anaar. The years, and perhaps much musing and 
 sorrow, were teUing on the great, muscular frame of 
 the old man. And everyone said that since Donal's 
 marriage, and the death of the vanithee, Edmond 
 Connors had aged more than twenty years. He often, 
 too, fell into fits of drowsiness. He slept before the 
 hot fire in the kitchen; he slept outside against the 
 south wall of the bam, where the sun shone fiercely; 
 he slept sitting on a boulder above a mountain torrent; 
 and people said he was breaking up, and that this 
 somnolency was a forerunner of death. And this 
 evening, as he sat tired, there on the mossy wall of 
 the bridge, Edmond Connors fell asleep, and dreamed, 
 in the fitful way of the old or the troubled, that Nodlag 
 had gone from him forever. He did not know why or 
 wherefore. He vaguely conjectured that Nano, Donal's 
 wife, had made her hfe unbeatable; and that himself 
 and Donal could not prevent it. He only remembered 
 
 X7S 
 
176 GLENANAAR 
 
 that the girl had come into the kitchen, flung her arms 
 around his neck, kissed him on forehead and cheek 
 and hps, and passed out the back door of the kitchen 
 without a word. He was moaning sadly in his dreams, 
 when a light finger touched him, and he woke. He 
 saw standing over him a tall woman, with great black 
 eyes, shining out of a pinched and sallow face, and 
 above it a crown of the whitest hair he thought he 
 ever saw. He rubbed his eyes, and stared, not know- 
 ing whether this, too, was not part of his dream. 
 The woman spoke. 
 
 "Edmond Connors, you don't know me?" 
 
 "N-no," said the old man; "are you alive, or am I 
 dhramin' yet?" 
 
 "You are wide awake, now," the woman said, 
 looking down upon him. "Listen! I want somethin' 
 from ye!" 
 
 "I have nothin' to giv' ye, me poor 'uman," said 
 the old man, feelingly. "Whin God giv' it to me, I 
 shared it with His poor. I've nothin' now, but what 
 does not belong to me." 
 
 "You have somethin'," she replied, "that belongs to 
 me. I have come to claim it." 
 
 "You're makin' a mistake, me poor 'uman," said 
 the old man. " Edmond Connors never kep' as much 
 as the black of yer nail from annywan. You mane 
 somebody else!" 
 
 "No!" she cried. "I mane you! I want me 
 child!" 
 
 The dream and the reality rushed together through 
 
AN OLD MAN'S DREAM 177 
 
 the brain of the old man. He did not know "which 
 was which." He looked up at the woman, and said 
 faintly: 
 
 "Nodlag?" 
 
 "Yes!" said the woman, apparently remorseless. 
 "I have come to claim back the child you have called 
 Nodlag. Her right name is Annie Daly, and she is 
 my child!" 
 
 "And are you the 'uman that met me on this 
 bridge fourteen or fifteen years ago, whin the snow 
 was on the ground, and — she was a Uttle child in 
 yer arrums?" 
 
 "I am," said the woman. 
 
 The old man paused. 
 
 "And was it you that lef that Uttle infan' to the 
 mercy of God on that cowld Christmas night in the 
 byre among the cattle?" 
 
 "It was," said the woman, immoved. 
 
 " Thin, as you giv' up yer mother's rights thin, what 
 right have you now to claim her back?" 
 
 "The same mother's rights," she answered, "and 
 the sthrong hand of the law." 
 
 "To the divil wid you and yer law," cried the old 
 man, starting up in a fury. The word "law," so 
 utterly hated by the Irish peasant, as synonymous with 
 every kind of injustice and brutality, set his cold blood 
 afiame. 
 
 "To the divil wid you an' yer law," he repeated. 
 "You an' yer law dam't put a wet finger on my child. 
 I've saved her from worse than ye, an' as long as God 
 
178 GLENANAAR 
 
 laves me the bret' of life, nayther you nor yer law will 
 take her from me." 
 
 The woman now sat down on the mossy wall, and 
 pulled the old man down beside her. 
 
 "Listen to rayson, an' common sinse, Edmond Con- 
 nors," she said. " 'Tis thrue I put me child into your 
 hands that Christmas night. Your byre was warmer 
 than the cowld river. If I remimber right, 'twas you 
 yourself that axed me." 
 
 '"Twas," said the old man; "you thought to murdher 
 that weeshy, innicent crachure that God giv' you, and 
 I said many a Christian family would be glad to take 
 her frum ye." 
 
 " Did ye know at the time to whom ye were shpakin' ? ' 
 asked the woman. 
 
 "No! But I knew well 'twas Annie Daly, daughter 
 of the man that was swearin' away me life, that was 
 brought in frpm the bastes that night." 
 
 "You did?" said the woman. 
 
 "I did," he replied. "An' I clung to her since, and 
 she has growed into me heart, as none of my own 
 childre' ever growed; and, be the high Heavens, nay- 
 ther you, nor your law, nor any Hvin' morchial man 
 will take her from me, ontil she puts me in me coffin 
 and sees the last sod above me grave." , 
 
 The woman was silent for a few minutes. 
 
 "You did a good an' charitable act, Edmond Con- 
 nors," she said at length, "but didn't ye ever get back 
 anny thing in return?" 
 
 He did not catch her meaning for a few minutes. 
 
AN OLD MAN'S DREAM 179 
 
 Then, as the recollection of the trial dawned upon 
 him, he cried, as he felt for the woman's hand, and 
 grasped it firmly: — 
 
 "Yes, mo sMg,.mo chree, an' I have never forgot it. 
 But for you, me bones would be blaching this manny 
 a year, beside poor Lynch's, in Cork gaol." 
 
 "'Tis to save you from somethin' worse," said the 
 woman, disengaging her hand, " that I've come acrass 
 three thousan' miles of stormy ocean, and am here now 
 in the teeth of those who'd murdher me, if they knew 
 me." 
 
 "I'm at a loss to know what you mane, ma'am," 
 replied the old man. "I have only a few years, it may 
 be a few months, to live, an' I'm not sorry to be goin' 
 to the good God " 
 
 "People like to die in their beds, and to have the 
 priesht wid them," she replied, "no matther how tired 
 of hfe they are." 
 
 "An' wid God's blessin', that's how I'll die," he 
 said. "I've been prayin' all my life agin a 'sudden 
 and unprovided death,' and God is sure to hear me 
 in the ind." 
 
 "He'll hear you, but he won't heed you," said the 
 woman, rising up, and pulling the black shawl over her 
 head, as the preliminary of departing. "As you don't 
 take me advice, Edmond Connors, this blessed evening, 
 a worse death than the Cork gallows is before you." 
 
 "What wrong have I ever done to morchial man or 
 'uman," he cried, anxiously, "that an)rwan should 
 murdher me?" 
 
180 GLENANAAR 
 
 " 'Tisn't to the guilty, but to the innicent, the hard 
 death comes," she replied. 
 
 "But I have never made an inimy in me hfe, 'uman," 
 he cried, passionately. "I've always Uved in pace with 
 God an' me nabors." 
 
 "I don't say 'tis on your own account," she replied. 
 "But I hard since I kem back to this misforthunate 
 country that your sacret is out, an' the bloodhoun's 
 are on yer thrack." 
 
 "Why don't you shpake to Nodlag hersel', and let 
 her decide?" he said, after a long fit of musing. 
 
 The wretched woman gave a short, hoarse laugh. 
 
 "An' do ye suppose for a moment she'd listen to me 
 story?" she said. "Do ye suppose she'd lave you for 
 the hkes av me?" 
 
 "Nodlag is a good girl," said he, seeing how much 
 he was gaining. "If you can shew her that you are 
 her mother, she'll go wid you to the inds of the 
 airth." 
 
 " I don't want her to kum wid me," said the wretched 
 mother. "I want her to go where she'll be cared for 
 well, without puttin' any wan's life in danger!" 
 
 "An' where might that be?" he asked. 
 
 "She can go among the gintry," the woman an- 
 swered. "They'll sind her where she'll be safe, and 
 where no wan can find her; and she'll be rared up a 
 lady, instid of bein' slushin' and moilin' for Nano 
 Haygerty!" 
 
 "And be brought up a Prodestan', I suppose?" said 
 the old man, looking at her keenly. 
 
AN OLD MAN'S DREAM 181 
 
 "That's nayther here nor there," said the woman. 
 " Her belongin's have got more from Prodestans than 
 Catholics anny day." 
 
 "Av they have, 'tis the dirty wages they got," the 
 old man said. "And Nodlag never yet did anything 
 mane, to say she'd do it now." 
 
 "There's no use in talkin' to you," the woman 
 cried, lifting the shawl high on shoulders and head. 
 "Keep her, Edmond Connors, keep her. You've a 
 better right to her than me, and may it be a long time 
 till the Death comes between ye to part ye ! But there's 
 blood before me eyes these nights I have been spindin' 
 out there on the heather and the furze; and I misdoubt 
 me if there's not blood to be shed like wather. But I 
 have warned ye, Edmond Connors,,! have warned ye! 
 An' yet, may the Blessed Vargin be 'atween ye an' her 
 inimies, for all ye have done for me child!" 
 
 She took his hand, raised it to her lips, and kissed 
 it passionately, as she had done so many years before ; 
 and then strode away with her swift, swinging step 
 across the road, and down through the moorland. 
 
 "Am I dhramin' stiU?" said Edmond Connors. 
 "I'm so ould and wake now, I don't know whin I'm 
 asleep or awake. But 'tis quare, out and out, that 
 Nodlag should be comin' up so aften." 
 
 Hence, when the old man returned home, he could 
 scarcely keep his eyes off the girl. He stared at her, 
 and watched her, wherever she was, and whatever she 
 was doing; stood up, and followed her figure from the 
 kitchen when she went out; sat down resignedly and 
 
182 GLENANAAR 
 
 kept his eyes fixed upon her as she sat beneath the 
 lamp, darning his stockings, or polishing his brown 
 gaiters. She was getting somewhat alarmed at the 
 persistency of his gaze, when, late at night, looking 
 around cautiously first, to see if Nano was in the 
 kitchen, he beckoned the girl to his side. 
 
 " Whispher, alanna," he said, "and don't spake loud, 
 for fear thim would hear who oughtn't to hear. Did 
 ye see anny wan strange to-day?" 
 
 "No, sir!" said Nodlag, surprised. "There was no 
 sthranger round the house to-day." 
 
 "No 'uman," he asked, "with a yallow face, and 
 big eyes, and gray hair?" 
 
 "No, sir!" answered the girl. "There was no wan 
 of that kind about, at laste as far as I know." 
 
 " Don't mintion to anny wan that I asked the ques- 
 tion," he said. 
 
 He fell into a fit of musing that seemed to last very 
 long to the young girl. Then he woke up suddenly to 
 see her face near his. 
 
 "What was I sayin'?" he cried. "Oh, yes! Don't 
 mintion to anny wan what I was sayin', Nodlag. But, 
 whispher! Come closer, Nodlag!" 
 
 "Yes, sir! What can I do?" 
 
 "Nodlag, sure you won't lave me?" 
 
 "Leave you, sir?' Certainly, I won't." 
 
 " Promise me that you won't lave me till you see the 
 hood of the habit pulled down on me face, and the last 
 sod flattened above my grave." 
 
 "Sure, you know, sir, I'll never lave you," said 
 
AN OLD MAN'S DREAM 183 
 
 Nodlag, crying. "Where 'ud I go from you, who 
 have been father and mother to me?" 
 
 "Thrue for you, child," the old man whispered. 
 "More than father and mother, if ye knew all. But 
 ye didn't see the white-haired 'uman I was spakin' 
 about?" 
 
 "No, sir," she said, now believing that he was 
 grown delirious. "There was no wan of that kind 
 here, at all, at all!" 
 
 "Thin, you'll say nothin' to nobody about what I 
 was sayin'," he whispered. "'Twas all a dhrame! 
 'Twas all a dhrame!" 
 
 She went back to the table and resumed her work; 
 but from time to time he <:alled her over, when there 
 was no one in the kitchen but themselves. 
 
 "Say nothin' about it, Nodlag! Say nothin' about 
 it! 'Twas all a dhrame! 'Twas aU a dhrame!" 
 
CHAPTER XVin 
 
 A LIFE FOR A LIFE 
 
 DoNAi was quite wrong when he said that Nodlag 
 had nothing but the clothes she wore. She was, un- 
 known to herself and the world beside, the heiress of 
 Edmond Coruiors, her more than father. The old 
 man, feeling that time was narrowing for him, and 
 that he should soon sleep with his fathers down there 
 beneath the elms at Templeroan, had gone into Kil- 
 mallock, and apportioning equal shares to Donal, Owen, 
 and their unmarried sister, had left by will, duly drawn 
 and signed, the rest of his money, and such property as 
 he might die possessed of, to Nodlag. And lest this 
 might not be strictly legal, he had called her for the 
 first time in his life by her baptismal name, Annie 
 Daly. , 
 
 How the double circumstance, the legacy and the 
 revelation of the name, became known to Donal's wife, 
 it is difficult to ascertain. But the knowledge was 
 conveyed to her in some way, and by her own minute 
 and vigilant inquiries she placed the matter beyond 
 doubt. Needless to say, it doubly intensified her dis- 
 like for Nodlag, until that hatred became an obsession. 
 The thought that her fortune, the money accumulated 
 with such infinite pains by her father and mother, and 
 
 184 
 
A LIFE FOR A LIFE 185 
 
 even by the labour of her own hands, should go to this 
 girl was maddening. On one excuse or another she 
 left Glenanaar, and went home to her parents for a few 
 days. When she returned she was unusually silent, 
 and her manner towards Nodlag had changed almost 
 into an attitude of kindness. Donal's spirits rose, and, 
 after waiting many days for a favourable opportunity, 
 he opened the subject of the young blacksmith's suit 
 to Nodlag. He was so cheerful that he spoke with a 
 light heart, and with that bantering manner that best 
 bespeaks friendship amongst the Irish peasantry. He 
 met Nodlag on the bridge that crossed the Ownanaar, 
 the bridge where he had discerned Nodlag's tiny 
 footprints the night of the great snow. 
 
 "Did you dhrive the yearhngs up the glen?" he 
 said. 
 
 "I did," answered Nodlag. "They're up in the 
 high field." 
 
 " 'Tis a grand year, glory be to God, for near every- 
 thing," said Donal, not looking at the girl. 
 
 "'Tis, indeed," said Nodlag. "Everythin' is thrivin', 
 thanks be to God!" 
 
 "I suppose you'll be a bit lonesome now, lavin' the 
 ould place?" said Donal, breaking in at once on the 
 subject in a whimsical manner. 
 
 She started, and turned quite pale. Had the voice 
 for which she had been listening all these years spoken 
 at last? 
 
 "What do ye mane, Donal?" she said, almost 
 crying; "am I goin' to be turned away at last?" 
 
186 GLENANAAR 
 
 "Faith, an' you aren't," he said, buoyantly, "But, 
 begor, I'm afther thinkin' you are goin' to be took 
 away from us; and sure 'tis we'll miss you." 
 
 "I thought there was somethin' goin' on," she said, 
 "from the way the Missis was talkin'. I knew she 
 begredged me the flure, but I never thought, Donal, 
 you'd turn agin me." 
 
 And here she broke down utterly, and, putting her 
 apron to her eyes, wept bitterly. 
 
 "Why did you take me out of the snow-drift, Donal 
 Connors," she said, amidst her sobbing, "up there 
 under the ash-tree; an' why didn't you lave me die, and 
 go to God, instid of tumin' me now adrift on the 
 world? You know I have nayther father nor mother; 
 I don't know who I am, or what I am, or where I 
 came from. All that I ever knew was that I thought 
 I had a father an' a frind in your father, Donal; an' 
 if you and him now are goin' to turn agin me — well, 
 sure, I've no right to complain," she said, in a sudden 
 burst of gratitude, "ye both have been more than 
 father an' mother to me, and, whatever happens, I'm 
 not likely to forget it." 
 
 " Like all women," said Donal, smiHng at her sudden 
 emotion, "you're running away wid the question. 
 What I was thryin' to say was, that a likely young 
 colleen like you won't be long widout a husband, an' 
 a good one." 
 
 Nodlag blushed scarlet, and dried her tears. 
 
 "You're jokin', Donal," she said. "You know as 
 well as I do, that there's not a dacent boy in the whole 
 
A LIFE FOR A LIFE 187 
 
 neighbourhood would look at me, whatever it is, is 
 agin me." 
 
 "I know wan dacent boy enough," said Donal, 
 "that has worn his two eyes a'most blind lookin' at 
 you, or for you. At laste, I know the sun never shines 
 for him unless you're to the front afore him." 
 
 "Whoever he is," said Nodlag, her woman's heart 
 leaping up at the thought that she was thus singled 
 out for admiration, "he has never spoke to me; an' 
 whatever be his manin', he never intinds to make me 
 his wife." 
 
 "I'm not so sure of that," said Donal; "in fact, I 
 kem to offer you his hand, as they say; and the divil's 
 own black wan it is." 
 
 "What's the great saycret, Donal?" said Nodlag, 
 anxious to turn away for a moment from the revelatioqi 
 of a happiness that seemed too great. "Who am I, 
 an' where did I come from?" 
 
 "That I can't tell you. But I can tell you this, 
 that, unless you throw away your chance, you will be, 
 in a very short time, Mrs. Redmond Casey." 
 
 The declaration threw both into a reverie. Donal, 
 having spoken', and seeing the success of his interven- 
 tion on his friend's behalf, was plunged in conflicting 
 emotions of deUght and regret. It was a happy thing 
 for Nodlag and for them all. It would mean a new 
 life for her, surrounded with all kinds of affection, and 
 a happy emancipation from the sordid trials to which 
 she had for so many years been subjected. For him- 
 self it would mean peace at least. And yet he thought 
 
188 GLENANAAR 
 
 there would be a big blank in his own and his father's 
 life. There would be a gap at the fireside, where they 
 would miss her bright presence, and her gentle voice, 
 and her silent but affectionate ministrations. He felt 
 it was a change and a sad one. 
 
 Nodlag's memory was running rapidly over the past, 
 trying to recall every little incident indicative of the 
 newly-revealed affection of Redmond; and her imagi- 
 nation fled forward to the future, and she saw herself, 
 no longer the unnamed dependent on the charity of 
 others, but the honoured wife of a decent tradesman; 
 and she was thinking how she would make up for all 
 this blessedness by her loving solicitude to his mother 
 and himself, when the morning reverie was suddenly 
 broken by the shrill, sharp voice of Donal's wife: — 
 
 "Wisha, thin, Donal Connors, aren't I well in my 
 way, huntin' and seekin' for you all over the farm, 
 and you nowhere to be found ? Wouldn't it be betther 
 for you to be above driving out Hickey's pigs from the 
 grass-corn than colloguing an' codrauling with that 
 idle thucka?" 
 
 "Are the pigs in the grass-com?" said Donal, lazily 
 raising himself from the wooden parapet of the bridge. 
 
 "They are! An' 'tis mindin' thim an' your bisness 
 you ought to be; an' let her do somethin' to airn the 
 bread she's atin'." 
 
 "Thin, why didn't you drive out the pigs yersel'?" 
 said Donal. " 'Twouldn't be the power and heap an' 
 all of tjirouble to dhrive out a few little bonniveens, 
 sure ? " 
 
A LIFE FOR A LIFE 189 
 
 "I have enough to do, slushin' an' slavin' for you 
 an' your ould father, momin', noon, an' night," she 
 retorted. "It was the cowld, bitther day for me I 
 came upon yer flure." 
 
 "Think over what I've been tellin' ye, Nodlag," 
 said Donal, following his wife. "You see it can't be 
 a day too soon." 
 
 All that day, Nodlag's heart was singing its own 
 jubilant song of triumph and affection, as she went 
 aroimd, doing Uttle things here and there. The poor 
 girl walked upon air, and saw a new colour and shape 
 in all things. This sudden transformation in her Ufe 
 was so much more than she ever expected, or hoped 
 for, that she found it difficult to still the beatings of 
 her heart. It was hke a beautiful dream come true. 
 For often down there at the forge, as she went around 
 and tidied things for old Mrs. Casey, she couldn't help 
 thinking how much better she would do her work of 
 benevolence if she had a right to the place, and it was 
 a housewife's duty. How often she dreamed of the 
 new curtains she would loop up over the diamond 
 panes; and the flowers she would place in the windows, 
 and the new chairs she would get in place of the old 
 sugan chairs now tattered and frayed and worn. And 
 what broods of chickens she would rear, and what 
 fresh eggs she would have for Redmond's breakfast, 
 and all the other airy fantasies of young and hopeful 
 girlhood. And now 'twas all come true. Yes! Donal 
 would not deceive her. Redmond had asked her to 
 be his wife; and she had — No ! Her heart stood still. 
 
190 (iLENANAAR 
 
 She had never answered Donal. But he understood, 
 and would mate all right. She leaped so suddenly 
 into happiness that it was almost too much for her. 
 The servant-girls, who, following their mistress, dis- 
 liked her, noticed it. They said to one another: — 
 
 "Begobs, you'd think she had come into a fortune, 
 or found a crock of goold. What's the matther, I 
 wondher!" 
 
 Alas! And the cup of hope and love was dashed 
 from the Ups of the poor girl in one instant; and it 
 was only after many years and many bitter trials that 
 it was proffered to her hps again! 
 
 It was the early spring-time, and night fell sharply 
 at six o'clock. There was no moon and the thick banks 
 of gray clouds shut out the feeble light of the stars. 
 Supper was over in the house ; the dishes and cups had 
 been washed and laid aside on the dresser, and the 
 mistress had done an unusual thing. She had allowed, 
 nay ordered, the girls to go up to the dance at the 
 cross-roads that branched to Ballyorgan on the right, 
 and to Ardpatrick on the left. The old man, half 
 asleep, was nodding over the fire. Nodlag was reading 
 by the light of a paraffin-lamp in a comer; reading, to 
 her surprise, undisturbed, for her mistress rarely 
 allowed her that luxury without breaking in with 
 sundry commands to do this or that work about the 
 house. Donal was in the bawn-field looking after the 
 lambs and ewes. Donal's wife was busying herself in 
 the bedroom. 
 
 Just as the clock struck nine the front door, opening 
 
A LIFE FOR A LIFE Idl 
 
 on the by-road, was opened noiselessly, and, one by 
 one, six masked men came into the kitchen. Nodlag, 
 with her back to the fire, was the first to see them. 
 She gave a little shriek, and her heart stood stiU. 
 Instinct told her that it was on her account they had 
 come — that this was her hfe's great crisis. She stood 
 up, with white face and eyes dilated with terror, as 
 she noticed that the two last of the intruders carried 
 firearms. 
 
 "What's the matter, alanna?" said the old man, 
 turning around. 
 
 She couldn't reply. She merely pointed with her 
 finger. 
 
 The old man arose from his chair slowly and with 
 difi&culty, and confronted the intruders. His faculties 
 had become so weakened by age that here again he 
 foimd it difficult to distinguish a dream from a reahty. 
 But the trembUng figure and white face of Nodlag 
 assured him that this was no delusion. Here were 
 six masked men, and their presence boded no good. 
 
 "Run out for Donal, Nodlag!" he said, turning to 
 her. 
 
 "Stop where ye are," said the leader of the gang in 
 a voice that he sought to disguise, "av ye don't want 
 yere brains blown out!" 
 
 "Who are ye, and what in God's name do ye want 
 in a dacent house, an' at this hour of night?" asked 
 the old man. 
 
 "'Twas wanst a dacent house enough," said the 
 man, " but it is no longer so. It is cursed, and blighted. 
 
192 GLENANAAR 
 
 and banned, in the eye of every dacent man, 'uman, an' 
 child in the three parishes." 
 
 "That's quare enough intirely," said the old man. 
 " I never hard that priest nor minister had ever anythin' 
 to say agin' us." 
 
 '"Tisn't priesht, nor ministher," replied the other, 
 "but informer and approver, who sint manny a dacent 
 man to the gallows; and whose spawn," he cried pas- 
 sionately, pointing to Nodlag, "you have been rarin' 
 to turn on you an' yours in the ind." 
 
 "Oh, wirra, wirra! Oh, ochone, ochone!" cried 
 Donal's wife, coming out from her bedroom, and in a 
 paroxysm of fright. "Oh, who are ye, at all, at aU, 
 and what do ye want? Oh, sure take annythin' ye 
 like, and go away like dacent boys! Oh, where is 
 Donal, at all, at all; and the girls? Oh, spake aisy to 
 them, sir, or they'll murdher us all." 
 
 "We don't want you here, hones' 'uman," said the 
 ringleader. "Go back to where you kem frum, an' 
 hould yer tongue." 
 
 "I will, indeed. But sure you won't kill him, nor 
 do him anny harm. Sure, av 'tis atin' or dhrinkin' ye 
 want, ye can have the besht " 
 
 "Hould yer tongue, 'uman," he cried, rudely pushing 
 her aside till she fell on the settle, "an' let us do the 
 bisness we're sint to do. That is," he said, turning to 
 the old man, "to warn you to-night, Edmond Connors, 
 to sind out from you that girl, an' let her beg her bread 
 as she ought to do, from house and house " 
 
 "That I'll never do," said the old man, firmly. 
 
A LIFE FOR A LIFE 193 
 
 "Who tould^you, you raffian, that this is Cloumper 
 Daly's child? Not that 'twould make much differ- 
 ence " 
 
 "Who tould me?" said the fellow, fumbling in the 
 breast pocket of his coat. " Doesn't every man in the 
 parish know it? Do you deny it? Nobody knows 
 better than you!" 
 
 "Lave me go, sir," said Nodlag, coming forward 
 bravely, now that the truth flashed certainly on her 
 mind. "Lave me go! I have been here long enough!" 
 
 "No," said the old man, pulling her softly towards 
 him, "you and I go or stop together." 
 
 He did not know how prophetic were his words. 
 
 "But wance more, you ruffian," he cried, fiercely, 
 for all the old hon-spirit was now aroused, "what do 
 you know of this girl? An' how do you say she's 
 Cloumper Daly's daughter?" 
 
 "You d — d ould hypocrite, here are yer own words 
 fur it," said the fellow, showing a sealed paper. "Who 
 wrote, or got wrote, 'Annie Daly' there?" 
 
 The old man looked, and his face fell. It was his 
 own will, that had been stolen. 
 
 "I see it all now," he said, looking over to where 
 his daughter-in-law was crouching on the settle, "I 
 see it all now. I'm in the way, and she's in the way 
 of those who are well behoulden to both of us. I think 
 I know who ye are now; but whoever ye are, let me 
 tell ye, that nayther Nodlag nor I will lave me house, 
 where me fathers and their fathers Uved before me, 
 ontil we are put out by the shtrong hand of the law." 
 
194 GLENANAAR 
 
 "Ind the argyin','' cried the rough voice of one of 
 the ruffians behind; "we can't be stayin' here all 
 night." 
 
 "Wance more, I put it to you for pace sake, and to 
 prevint bloodshed," said the leader, "let her go, and 
 do you remane in pace." 
 
 "Oh! For the luv of God, Mr. Connors," cried his 
 daughter-in-law, who now saw the unexpected deter- 
 mination of the old man, and feared that matters 
 would end in a way she had not anticipated, "give in 
 to them. Sure the girl is big and shtrong enough to 
 aim her own bread now." 
 
 The old man looked at her with such anger and 
 contempt that she shrank from him and rushed into 
 the fields to summon her husband. 
 
 "I gev you my decision," said the old man, turning 
 once more to the intruders. "I say whatever is mine 
 and Donal's is hers, so long as we live." 
 
 "Thin, be all that's holy," said the ruffian, leveUing 
 his musket at Nodlag, "we won't shtand it. I'll give 
 you while I do be countin' twinty " 
 
 He held the musket still levelled towards ^odlag, 
 his eye running along the barrel, whilst he com- 
 menced: "Wan! Two! Three! " 
 
 He had scarcely said these words, when a dark 
 figure leaped from the door, and flew through the 
 kitchen; and a strong hand caught the would-be mur- 
 derer by the neck, and swinging him round and round, 
 at last pushed him towards the wall to wrest the deadly 
 weapon from his hand. The other ruffians, thinking 
 
A LIFE FOR A LIFE 195 
 
 there was help at hand, fled through the door, and up 
 along the road. The old man had pushed Nodlag 
 into the recess of the fireplace and had stood before 
 her to protect her. The two strong men struggled 
 wildly, but Donal, having his two hands free, had 
 driven the fellow up against the whitewashed wall 
 and pinned him there. 
 
 "Don't shoke me, Donal Connors," said the ruffian, 
 gasping for breath, as Donal squeezed and twisted 
 his neckerchief. "Unhand me, or be this and be 
 that " 
 
 To relieve the suffocation, he had to part with the 
 weapon, which he flung on the floor. The moment it 
 Struck the ground, the flint touched the steel, there 
 was a frightful explosion, and the whole kitchen was 
 filled with smoke, as some heavy body fell with a thud 
 upon the hearthstone. 
 
 But, unheeding this, the two men, now equally 
 matched, struggled desperately for the mastery. Donal 
 Connors had the reputation of being the fiercest fighter 
 and most powerful wrestler in the country, and wa? 
 reputed a dangerous antagonist when his passions were 
 excited. His opponent now, an equally powerful man, 
 felt he was fighting for his hfe, and he threw into the 
 combat all the energy of desperation. And, when he 
 had got his right hand free, he caught Donal by the 
 collar and the blue necktie; and the two men swung 
 around the kitchen, now flung against the settle, now 
 against the door, now dragging each other along the 
 mud floor, which their rough boots had powdered into 
 
196 GLENANAAR 
 
 dust, and again, erect, with white faces and panting 
 breasts, and breathing hotly into each other's mouth 
 the silent hatred and determination that this was to 
 be a death-struggle and nothing less. They were 
 strangely silent, and struck but few blows. At last, 
 swinging round in their death-embrace, they stumbled 
 up towards the fireplace ; and here the would-be mur- 
 derer tripped over some heavy body, and fell towards 
 the fire, dragging Donal with him. In an instant, the 
 latter was up, and planting his knee so firmly on the 
 ruffian's chest that the ribs seemed to crack beneath 
 the pressure, he tore the black mask from the fellow'r 
 eyes, and revealed the face of — his wife's brother. 
 
 "I thought so, you ruffian," he cried; "you'll pa> 
 dear for this. Nodlag, come here!" 
 
 No Nodlag answered; but turning around he saw 
 his father, lying senseless across the hearthstone, his 
 legs shattered and sphntered by the heavy slugs dis- 
 charged from the blunderbuss, and the hot blood 
 pumping from the severed arteries, and making a 
 ghastly dark pool in the lamphght. 
 
 He rose up at the awful sight, and lifting his hands 
 to Heaven, he shrieked: 
 
 "Great God in heaven to-night! Nodlag! Nodlag!" 
 
 But Nodlag, Uke one insane, had fled shrieking into 
 the darkness. 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 A FLIGHT AND A RETURN 
 
 Three years had rolled by, and, although the tragedy 
 in the homestead at Glenanaar was still fresh in the 
 memories of the people, and was often a topic of dis- 
 cussion around the winter's hearths, it was cast into a 
 background of utter insignificance when the great 
 national tragedy commenced; and after many a hope 
 and fear, it was seen that, without doubt. Famine and 
 all its ghastly train of evils was far and wide upon 
 the land. Looking back on that appalling period in 
 our history, the great wonder is, not that so many 
 perished in the famine, but that so many lived, and 
 lived in comfort, in the years previous to that dread 
 visitation. When old men point out to-day places 
 where whole villages then existed, each with its little 
 army of tradesmen, — fullers, spinners, masons, stone- 
 cutters, carpenters, etc., we, whose economic condi- 
 tions are not yet up to the normal standard of hving, 
 ask ourselves in amazement how did the people then 
 live. The land is as rich to-day as ever; the population 
 has dwindled down to one-half of what it was then. 
 If to-day the struggle for existence is still keen, what 
 must it not have been then? And yet, the remnants 
 of the ancient peasantry assure us, and they them- 
 selves are the best proof of the assertion, that the men 
 
 197 
 
198 GLENANAAR 
 
 of those bygone days, nurtured exclusively on potatoes 
 and rhilk, were a far more powerful race than their 
 descendants; could endure greater hardship, and ac- 
 comphsh greater work. But when the potato was the 
 sole sustenance of the people, we can imagine what a 
 horror, slowly creeping on their minds, finally seized 
 them with utter panic, when, in the autumn of '47, and 
 again in the autumn of '48, that strange odour filled 
 the atmosphere, and told of the deadly blight. Even 
 to-day that word has an ominous significance. Men 
 seem to grow pale at the thought of it. The farmer or 
 labourer sniffs the air on one of those sweet autumnal 
 evenings, and goes into his cottage a depressed man. 
 A newspaper report from the far west of the country, 
 that the "blight" has appeared, makes men still 
 shudder. What must it have been in these far days, 
 when no other food was to be had; when the granaries 
 of the great prairies were yet unlocked, and a whole 
 people might perish before the hands of the charitable 
 could reach them. 
 
 And they did perish; perished by hundreds, by 
 thousands, by tens of thousands, by hundreds of thou- 
 sands; perished in the houses, in the fields, by the 
 roadside, in the ditches; perished from hunger, froni 
 cold, but most of all from the famine-fever. It is an 
 appalling picture, that which springs up to memory. 
 Gaunt spectres move here and there, looking at one 
 another out of hollow eyes of despair and gloom. 
 Ghosts walk the land. Great giant figures, reduced to 
 skeletons by hunger, shake in their clothes, which hang 
 
A FLIGHT AND A RETURN 199 
 
 loose around their attenuated frames. Mothers try 
 to still their children's cries of hunger by bringing 
 their cold, blue lips to milkless breasts. Here and 
 there by the wayside a corpse stares at the passers-by, 
 as it lies against the hedge where it had soUght shelter. 
 The pallor of its face is darkened by Unes of green 
 around the mouth, the dry juice of grass and nettles. 
 All day long the carts are moving to the graveyards 
 with their ghastly, staring, uncofiQned loads. In the 
 towns it is even worse. The shops are shuttered. 
 Great fires blaze at the comers of streets to purify the 
 air. From time to time the doctors send up into the 
 polluted air paper kites with a piece of meat attached. 
 The meat comes down putrid. At the government 
 depots, here and there, starving creatures dip their 
 hands into the boihng maize, or Indian meal (hence 
 and forevermore in Ireland the , s)Tionym of starvation 
 and poverty), and swallow with avidity the burning 
 food. A priest is called from his bed at every watch 
 of the night. As he opens his hall-door, two or three 
 corpses fall into his arms. Poor creatures! here was 
 their last refuge! Here and there along the streets, 
 while the soft rain comes down to wash more corrup- 
 tion into the festering streets, a priest kneels in the 
 mud over a prostrate figure. He is administering the 
 last rites, whilst a courageous bystander holds an 
 umbrella above his head to guard the Sacred Species. 
 No graves, but pits, as after the carnage of a great 
 battle, are dug in the cemeteries; and the burial service 
 Is read over twenty corpses at a time. Those who 
 
200 GLENANAAR 
 
 have managed to escape the dread visitation are flying 
 panic-stricken to the seaports. They heed not the 
 coffin-ship, nor the sea-perils before them. Anywhere, 
 anywhere, out of this pestiferous, famine-stricken 
 Gehenna! The ships are full. Those who are com- 
 pelled to remain behind on the quays send up -a wail 
 of lamentation. The dread spirits of Fever and Famine 
 haimt them. There is no exorcism so powerful as to 
 dispel them. There is nothing but flight, flight! The 
 panic has lasted even to to-day. 
 
 One dark, iron-gray, bitter evening in the month of 
 March, 1848, Redmond Casey was looking through 
 the smoke-begrimed pane of glass which lighted the 
 smithy. Work was dull; and he had time to dream. 
 And his dream was the dream of the last three years, 
 the figure that had so often darkened that mountain 
 road before him in sunlight and moonlight, and the 
 face that had made the sunshine and the moonlight 
 brighter. He had been a very lonely man these three 
 years. His fancy which had painted all kinds of lovely 
 things, with Nodlag the central radiance, had been 
 rudely dashed to pieces by the hand of Fate; and the 
 tragedy at Glenanaar, which had almost ceased to 
 interest the people around, was as vivid as ever to him 
 on account of his great personal loss. Work, of course, 
 that blessed panacea, more or less had dissipated the 
 memory of his sorrow; but now and again this would 
 come up with startling clearness to remind him of the 
 swift and sudden calamity that had made barren so 
 many years of his life. 
 
A FLIGHT AND A RETURN 201 
 
 As he looked out over the cold, bleak landscape, he 
 saw the closely-shawled figure of a woman coming up 
 the road with slow, painful steps; and then, after a 
 moment's pause, turning into the httle boreen that led 
 from the smithy to the road. Here, evidently, her 
 strength failed, for, putting out one hand, as if she 
 were blind, she groped for the ditch, and then fell 
 against it heavily. Redmond rushed into the cottage, 
 and cried to his mother: — 
 
 "Rxm out, mother! There's another of thim poor 
 crachures in the ditch!" ' 
 
 "The Lord betune us and all harrum," cried the 
 mother. "Will it ever ind?" > 
 
 She took up a porringer of milk (into which she 
 poured a little hot water), and a piece of home-made 
 loaf, and went out. Making her way with some dread 
 and caution, she came within a few feet of where the 
 fainting woman was lying; and afraid of the fever to 
 approach nearer, she placed the food on a large stone, 
 such as is always^ound near a smithy, and shouted: — 
 
 "Here, poor 'uman, here is milk and bread for you! 
 Thry and rouse up, alanna, and God 'ill give you the 
 strinth." 
 
 She turned and passed into the house, afraid to 
 remain longer in such a dangerous vicinity; and the 
 unfortunate woman, making one last effort for dear 
 life, raised herself by a great effort, tried to walk 
 forward a few steps, and fell. Then, after a few 
 moments, she raised herself on hands and feet, and 
 thus crept and crawled along the ground towards the 
 
202 GLENANAAR 
 
 now thrice-tempting food. She had to pause a few 
 times, and Redmond, watching through the smithy- 
 pane, tried to catch a sight of her face. But she held 
 her head so low that he could not see it. At last, 
 after many painful efforts, she came within reach of 
 the stone, and was just putting out her hand tp seize 
 the porringer of milk, when a huge, gaunt sheep-dog 
 leaped over the neighbouring ditch, upset the milk, 
 caught up the bread in his lank, gaunt jaws, and sped 
 up the boreen towards the road. The woman raised 
 herself from her stooping posture, and, flinging up her 
 arms with a gesture of despair, fell senseless to the 
 earth. 
 
 Just at the moment, however, that she lifted face 
 and hands to heaven in the agony of a final suppUca- 
 tion, the young smith caught a glimpse of eyes that 
 were unchanged amidst the general and terrible trans- 
 formation of famine, and of one stray lock of auburn 
 hair that had freed itself from the hooded shawl; and 
 with one wild leap he tore through the smithy door, 
 along the boreen, and in a moment had the fainting 
 girl in his arms. He raised her weakened and ema- 
 ciated form as if it were a child's, and bringing it into 
 the house, he laid it on his mother's bed, and shouted 
 in a suppressed whisper: — 
 
 "Mother, quick, quick! A little milk at wanst. 
 An' a dhrop of sperrits in it!" 
 
 The mother, amazed at his temerity, was too 
 panic-stricken to remonstrate. She only moaned and 
 lamented over the fire: — 
 
A PLIGHT AND A RETURN 203 
 
 "Oh, Lord, Lord! he has lost his" five sinses, an' 
 brought the faver and aguey into the house! Oh, 
 Red, Red, what's come over you at all, at all?" 
 
 "Mother," he cried in a hoarse whisper, bending 
 down his face to hers, "if Nodlag dies, I'll never forgive 
 you, Uving or dead!" 
 
 "Nodlag! yerra, glory be to God! your sinses are 
 wandering, boy. Nodlag! what Nodlag?" 
 
 But Redmond saw no time was to be lost in asking 
 or answering questions. He put a small tin vessel of 
 milk hastily on the fire, and went over to the cupboard 
 to get the bottle of whiskey. As he did, he took a 
 swift, secret look at the poor girl. To all appearance 
 she was dead. Her shawl had been flung aside, and 
 her features were now quite visible. But, oh! what a 
 dread change ! Beneath the cheek-bones, her. face had 
 sunk in in dreadful hollows, and her neck was thin and 
 withered. There was a blue line across her hps. Her 
 forehead (though' her temples were sunken), and the 
 thick masses of auburn hair that crowned it, alone 
 retained their graciousness. The young smith poured 
 some spirits into the black, hollow palm of his hand, 
 and rubbed the blue lips Ughtly with his fingers. This 
 he repeated several times, only interrupting the process 
 to go over and dip his grimy finger into the vessel 
 containing the milk, to test its warmth. After some 
 time he had the satisfaction of seeing a sUght colour 
 come back to the marble face. He then took up the 
 vessel of milk, and said to the weeping and distressed 
 mother: — 
 
204 GLENANAAR 
 
 "Mother, for the love of God, keep quiet! Thisns 
 no time for keening. Here, Uft Nodlag's head, and 
 lemme see if I can get a drop of milk into her mouth!" 
 
 The mother, with some fear, yet with many an en- 
 dearing Irish expression, raised the head of the poor 
 girl, whilst Redmond tried to force a Httle milk between 
 her Ups. For some time the attempt was ineffectual, 
 and Hfe seemed to be flickering under the broad wings 
 of death, as a candle-flame flickers blue and thin in a 
 strong wind. But at last she swallowed a teaspoon 
 of the milk, then another, and another, until at length 
 her eyes opened, and fell first upon the face of the young 
 smith. She continued to gaze at him earnestly for a 
 few seconds, then she whispered, "Red!" and lay 
 back wearily, yet refreshed, on the pillow. Though it 
 was Kke the opening of the gates of Paradise to Red 
 Casey, he went out and wept like a child. 
 
 All that night mother and son watched the poor 
 famine-stricken girl, until, coming near the dawn, she 
 fell into a deep sleep, so calm and with such regular 
 breathing that Mrs. Casey, now completely over her 
 fright, ordered Redmond to bed. 
 
 "Lave her to me now!" the good mother said. 
 "Lave her to me! Sure, whin God sint me back her 
 I wanted to be my daughter three years ago, sure she 
 ought to find her mother still." 
 
 And Redmond kissed his mother, and said: — 
 
 "Mother, you were always good, and I have never 
 been as good as I ought to you." 
 
 A few days rolled by, and the magnificent tonstitu- 
 
A FLIGHT AND A RETURN 205 
 
 tion of this mountain girl, reared in hardship that 
 strengthened and purified, asserted itself, and she was 
 able to go about again, and do httle bits of household 
 work. As her strength came back, there came with it 
 a new and more spiritual beauty, as if sorrow and 
 hunger had worn away all grosser tissues, and left her 
 a kind of transparent and almost unearthly loveliness 
 that made Redmond afraid to look at her. There 
 grew up between them, too, a kind of shyness, that 
 made Redmond afraid to be alone with her for a 
 moment; and Nodlag, on her part, seemed to court the 
 society of the mother rather than the companionship 
 of the son. And one day, a few weeks after her prov- 
 idential rescue, Nodlag took down her black shawl, 
 whilst Redmond was from home on business, and after 
 kissing the old woman, who never noticed how express- 
 ive it was, she passed out of the humble cottage and 
 faced the world again. 
 
 Red Casey was thunderstruck when he returned 
 home. This was the second time his hopes were 
 blasted. In his anger, he attributed Nodlag's flight 
 to everything but the real cause. He blamed his 
 mother; he blamed Nodlag; he blamed himself for 
 having allowed so close and splendid an opportunity 
 to pass. Then he became suddenly practical. He 
 asked his mother which way Nodlag went. He was 
 determined to follow the girl, and bring her back, or 
 lose her forever. The old woman could not say 
 whither Nodlag went. She thought she only went 
 down to the well. Red, at once, tore off his leather 
 
206 GLENANAAR 
 
 apron, burnt here and there by the smithy fire, and 
 putting on a rough cap over his sooty, red hair, he 
 saUied forth. He went up the hill quickly, and leaping 
 a gully, he ascended an abrupt height, whence he 
 could trace the roads for miles. He could see no 
 trace of the girlish form of Nodlag. Sad at heart, he 
 retraced his steps, and moved down along the western 
 road, his head sunk on his breast, and no hope in his 
 mind. He had passed halfways across the bridge 
 where old Edmond Connors had challenged Nodlag's 
 mother, on that snowy evening when Nodlag was but 
 an infant, and the mother in her wretchedness was 
 debating with herself whether her child would not be 
 happier there in the death of the torrent than in the 
 dreadful life that stretched sullenly before her. Some- 
 thing dark caught his eye, and in a moment he saw 
 the girl sitting on the bridge-wall. She looked pale 
 and frightened, as if she had been guilty of some 
 crime, and this disarmed the anger of the young smith. 
 He came over, and sat down on the parapet near her. 
 She was trembhng all over. 
 
 "I couldn't stay, Reddy," she said. "Indeed I 
 couldn't. 'Twouldn't be right." 
 
 "Did me or me mother trate you badly?" he said, 
 stiffly. 
 
 "N-no," she sard, weeping, "God knows I am ever 
 so thankful. I'd be in my cowld grave to-day but for 
 you, Redmond Casey, and your good mother; and how 
 could I, forget that?" 
 
 "Thin somebody has been putting some quare things 
 
A FLIGHT AND A RETURN 207 
 
 into yer head," he said. "As if the bit you ate, and 
 small enough it is, God knows, could make a differ to 
 me mother or me." 
 
 "It isn't that ayther," she sobbed. "Sure I knew 
 ye never begredged me. But I couldn't stop, an' I'd 
 be far away now, only the wakeness kim on me again." 
 
 "Thin, in God's name, can't you come back to 
 where you're a hundred tinies welkum?" said Red, 
 utterly failing to comprehend the girl's delicacy of 
 feeling. "An' av you think you're a burden, sure 
 we'll make you work for the bit you ate." 
 
 "Oh, no, no, no!" she wept. "I can't go back at 
 all, at all, Redmond Casey. I'll go along, and maybe 
 some wan of the farmers round about will employ me. 
 There are few handy for work now, God help us!" 
 
 "Well, whatever you plase," said Redmond, rising 
 up, and looking down on the white face of the girl. , 
 " But, before we part, Nodlag, I'd like to clare up wan 
 thing." 
 _^ Nodlag looked up. 
 
 "Did Donal Connors give you me message the day 
 his father was murdered?" 
 
 "He did," said Nodlag, the colour moimting to her 
 face. 
 
 "An' what did you say?" said the young smith, 
 watching the play of her features as if life and death 
 hung upon her Word. She was silent. 
 
 "Did you say yes?" he demanded. 
 
 "You know I did, Redmond Casey; but why do you 
 torment, me now?" 
 
208 GLENANAAR 
 
 "'Tis you're tormenting me," he replied. "If the 
 same question were put to you now, would it be the 
 same answer?" 
 
 "How could it be, when things are so different now?" 
 she replied. 
 
 "How are they different?" he demanded 
 
 "I didn't know all thin," she replied, "till that 
 dreadful night. I know all now. How can I be the 
 wife of any honest man?" 
 
 "That depends on the man himself," said Redmond, 
 gaily, as he felt he was gaining ground. 
 
 "It manes sorrow and shame to him to have me his 
 wife; it manes every finger pointed agin him; it manes 
 that 'twill be thrun in his face at fair, at Mass, and at 
 market; it manes that nobody will come nixt or nigh 
 him; it manes — " here she stopped suddenly short in 
 her self-accusation. 
 
 "An' if wid all the manes and the manings," said 
 Redmond, "he wants you still to be his wife, an' if he 
 will put his smutty fist in the face of the wurrld" 
 (here Redmond put a literally smutty fist in the face 
 of an imaginary world), "atf if he takes you, as the 
 priest says, 'for betther for worse,' will you still say 
 no?" 
 
 She looked up into his sooty, honest face, and 
 there was something in that look, for now he took 
 upon him the right of conamand, and said simply, 
 Come! 
 
 A few minutes later she entered the house as its 
 mistress. 
 
A FLIGHT AND A RETukN 209 
 
 "I found Nodlag, mother," said Redmond, "and 
 the divil is in it, if I lave her go agin." 
 
 Before the week Nodlag changed her old name for- 
 ever (though we have taken the liberty to retain it), 
 and became Mrs. Redmond Gasey. 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 HAGAR AND ISHMAEL 
 
 This, then, was the history of Nodlag, told me, 
 from time to time, there in the twihght of his sick- 
 room, by her son, who still retained, after all his travels, 
 and the many and varied experiences that tend to 
 harden the human heart, the tenderest and most 
 chivalrous love for his mother. Her strange history 
 — that of a pariah amongst her own tribe — seemed 
 to separate her in his imagination from all other beings 
 with whom he had been brought in contact; and the 
 singular birth-taint which he had derived from her, 
 and which, as he imagined, would cUng around him 
 to the end of Ufe, identified him in so mysterious a 
 manner with her, that he had come to regard himself 
 and her as beings apart, with the destiny of a common 
 misfortune, not of their own making, but inherited. 
 But here, as his own personal experiences commence, 
 I shall give the narrative in the first person, and as 
 far as may be, in his own words. He had read a 
 good deal, picked up a knowledge of some languages, 
 and had cultivated the art of speaking, as most of his 
 countrymen in America strive to do. But the narrative 
 was a sad one. It was Ishmael telUng the story of 
 Hagar and himself in the wilderness. 
 
 "My earliest recollection of my mother was of a 
 
HAGAR AND ISHMAEL 211 
 
 tall, thin, woman, very gentle and affectionate, but very 
 reserved in manner. I particularly remember her 
 7ery bright blue eyes, and her hair, which she always 
 wore in tiny waves of auburn low down on her temples, 
 and caught up by a fillet behind her ears. She never 
 went from home, but to Mass on Svmday. She seemed 
 to find all the pleasure of life in her domestic duties, 
 in the love of her husband, and the care of her children. 
 When reason began to dawn for me, I was the only 
 child remaining. My two sisters had gone out to 
 service, for owing to emigration and the famine, ser- 
 vants were not to be had except at enormous wagesil 
 My only brother, too, was apprenticed to a carpenter 
 in the County Limerick. I was the only one left at 
 home, and I got a good deal of petting, which I repaid 
 a himdredfold by such love as son never had before 
 for mother." 
 
 Here he stopped, not for the last time, for his emo- 
 tion subdued him. The shame and sorrow that had 
 hung around his mother's memory had made her dear, 
 very dear to him. 
 
 "I only remember," he resumed, "her face and 
 figure, and one small habit she had, of listening at 
 strange times, as if rapt in a dream, listening as if to 
 the sound of far-off bells, or to a voice calling, calling 
 out of the night. You know. Father, that we who 
 have travelled and seen the world get rid of a good 
 many of these old superstitions; but, somehow, since 
 I came back to Ireland, the glamour of the old times 
 seizes me, and I am really afraid I'd turn back if I 
 
212 GLENANAAR 
 
 saw one magpie on the road. But my mother had 
 that strange habit. She would lean down and listen 
 with her hand to her ear; and sometimes my father 
 would make great fun of it, and say: 'Nodlag! Nodlag! 
 who's caUing now?' 
 
 " But I had little time to notice things, for as soon as 
 ever I got through Voster and Carpenter's SpeUing- 
 Book, I was taken from school, and put at the anvil. 
 I had a taste for it, for I remember, when very small, 
 how I made a valiant effort to pick up a hammer from 
 the floor, and when, after many days' trial, I suc- 
 ceeded, I remember my father shouting 'Hurrah!' and 
 my mother kissed me. Then, when I became able to 
 lift and swing the sledge, my father said I had book- 
 learning enough, and now I should do something for 
 my bread. 
 
 "Ah! how well I remember that forge and its sur- 
 roundings, — the great black walls, hung here and there 
 with horseshoes and all kinds of rusty iron- work; the 
 deep night of its recesses that was only hghtened by 
 the ruddy blaze from the great fire; the huge bellows 
 which sent sparks dancing all over the coal-strewn 
 floor; the horses coming in, some terrified, some sub- 
 mitting quietly to the operation of shoeing; my father, 
 lifting up the hoof into his leathern apron; the smell of 
 the burnt cartilage; the tap, tap of the hammer; the 
 shrinking of the poor beasts; but, most of all, the 
 metalUc music that echoed all day long from the anvil, 
 and which beat time in my mind to many an old rune 
 or song about Ireland and her sorrows. 
 
HAGAR AND ISHMAEL 213 
 
 " For that was the first lesson I learned, — long before 
 I knew my ptayers or my Catechism, — that Ireland 
 had suffered, and had been wronged in an appalling 
 manner; and that it was the bounden, solemn duty of 
 every yo\uig Irishman to fight for that sad motherland, 
 until her wrongs were avenged and her rights achieved. 
 Ah me! how it all comes back, in the light of experience 
 and memory, and how now I understand a hundred 
 little things which even then were a puzzle to me. 
 For the very rebel songs that I hummed as I beat out 
 the long iron rods oa the anvil, — 'The Risin' of the 
 Moon,' 'The Wearing of the Green,' even the simpler 
 love melodies, such as 'Come, piper, play the Shaskan 
 Reel,' I noticed were never heard in my father's cot- 
 tage. Neither idid he ever take part in the furious 
 debates that were held in the forge by the boys who 
 used to drop in for a chat or on business. He was a 
 silent man; nevertheless, I couldn't understand why 
 he never railed against England, nor broke out into 
 enthusiasm about Ireland. He listened, worked, and 
 said nothing. 
 
 " I, on the contrary, was a furious rebel. I outdis- 
 tanced the most fanatical Fenian there by my diatribes 
 against England. I astonished every one by my quo- 
 tations from Mitchel, Davis, Emmet. I chaunted the 
 most furious sword-songs I could discover. I electri- 
 fied every one (at least, so I thought) by my declamation 
 of Meagher's Sword-Speech. I lay awake at night, 
 plotting and dreaming how I could fling shells and 
 balls into whole British regiments and annihilate them; 
 
214 GLENANAAR 
 
 I saw myself the hero of a hundred fights. Somehow, 
 my enthusiasm was taken coolly. It fell flat on the 
 souls of these young fellows, whom I knew to be sworn 
 Fenians. They would Hsten to my most furious oratory, 
 look at one another, and smile. I didn't understand 
 it then; I understand it well now. They did not 
 believe in me. How could they with all they knew? 
 "I had grown a great, tall lad of sixteen years, when 
 the famous rising of '67 took place. For weeks before, 
 we young fellows had been out on the hills, not so 
 much engaged in active service ourselves, but as scouts 
 or pickets to give warning to the Fenian detachments, 
 in valley or wood, of the approach of the pohce or the 
 redcoats. Many a moonlit night did we watch, shiv- 
 ering in the icy winds that pierced us through and 
 through, and no thought of danger in our minds, only 
 a fierce jealousy of the sworn soldiers in the great 
 Irish RepubHc, and a far-off ambition, which set our 
 pulses bounding, that we might attract the notice of 
 some one of the Irish-American officers, of whom at 
 that time the country was full. 
 
 "I well remember the night poor Crowley was shot 
 in Kilclooney wood. I remember his funeral, down 
 through mountain, town, and village, amidst a mourn- 
 ing population, to his grave by the sea. It was an 
 awful evening, and we were gone clean mad with hate 
 and anger. It was then I committed one of the worst 
 sins of my life." ' 
 
 "The Yank" turned round, as if to deprecate my 
 wrath. 
 
HAGAR AND ISHMAEL 215 
 
 "I cursed, hot and heavy," he continued, "the priest 
 who refused, for some reason, to have the chapel-bell 
 tolled that evening as we passed, a deep, serried mass 
 of men, through the streets of Fermoy." 
 
 It brought up at once to memory a picture that had 
 been fading and slumbering away; and, as the whole 
 scene flashed back, I could not help starting with 
 surprise and, perhaps, a little enthusiasm. 
 
 "We were mad, mad," he said, regretfully, "and 
 we did curse the Government and that priest." 
 
 "He wasn't altogether to blame, my dear fellow," 
 I said, laying my hand on his arm. 
 
 "What? How?" said the Yank. "Do you think 
 he was justified in refusing such a httle mark of respect 
 to the dead patriot?" 
 
 "Perhaps not. I was as mad as yourself about 
 it " 
 
 "What, you? Surely, you weren't there!" he cried 
 in amazement. 
 
 "I was," I replied. "I remember that black March 
 evening well. We, a lot of raw, young students were 
 massed on the College Terrace; and I remember how 
 we watched with beating hearts that great, silent, 
 moving multitude of men. But when the yellow 
 coffin containing the mangled remains of poor Crowley 
 came in sight, swaying to and fro on the bearers' 
 shoulders, we lost ourselves out and out. We saw the 
 body, or thought we saw it, rent and torn and bleeding 
 from English bullets; and some of us were crying, and 
 some of us were cursing, and more wanted to scale 
 
216 GLENANAAR 
 
 the College walls in spite of priest and Bishop. But 
 I heard afterwards, when we had come to the use of 
 reason, that there were at least extenuating circum- 
 stances in the Administrator's Case." 
 
 "Perhaps so," he said, incredulously. Then, after 
 a pause: — 
 
 " But I was about to say as a set-off that I ever after 
 enshrined in my heart of hearts the memory of that 
 young curate, who, more or less at the risk of his own 
 life, knelt by the fallen Fenian, and had his anointing 
 hands stained, — no, by the living God!" he exclaimed, 
 sitting up suddenly rigid, and flinging out his right 
 arm, whilst sparks seemed to leap from his eyes, "not 
 stained, hut consecrated with the blood shed for Ireland." 
 
 The paroxysm was so sudden, I was struck dumb, 
 and could only watch him, — his livid face, and the 
 bhndness of battle in his eyes. Presently, the tension 
 relaxed, and his soul came back to his body. But it 
 was an eloquent revelation of What-might-have-been. 
 In that mood, and under that speU, these men of '67 
 would have sto^ned the gates of Hell. 
 
 For a few minutes he remained silent. Then, 
 turning around, and clenching his right hand until it 
 was quite bloodless from the pressure, he said 
 sharply: — 
 
 "Father?" 
 
 "Yes?" I rephed. 
 
 "Bind your people to you with chains of iron and 
 links of steel. The day the priests are torn from the 
 people is woe, woe to Ireland!" 
 
HAGAR AND ISHMAEL 217 
 
 He paused again, and his great hand relaxed its 
 tension, and the pupils of his eyes contracted, and I 
 saw he had come back to reality once more. 
 
 "Pardon me," he said, passing his hand across his 
 forehead, "where was I? I was talking about some- 
 thing. Oh, yes! I was about to say that wherever 
 we were on vedette duty, on hill, or mountain, or 
 valley, I was never left alone. Other lads were sent 
 out, one by one, and kept their solitary watch, a mile 
 or so apart. I had always a comrade, who stuck to 
 me Hke a leech. Fortunately, I had such a dislike 
 for peelers and soldiers, that I never spoke to one in 
 those days. If I had been seen alone in conference 
 with them, my Ufe would have been forfeit. And, 
 here is the curious feature of my story. Not a breath 
 of suspicion ever attached to my father. He was 
 implicitly trusted by the chiefs of the organization. 
 He knew all their secrets. I thought this was because 
 he was so silent and cautious. Possibly. But I know 
 now that suspicion attached only to my mother and 
 me, so tremendous is the importance the Irish attach 
 to 'blood.' His marriage made no difference to Red 
 Casey, so far as the pubhc opinion of his honour and 
 integrity was concerned. My parentage made all the 
 difference in the world to me. I had tainted blood, 
 and nothing will ever get the Irish imagination over 
 that." 
 
 "Oh, nonsense!" I said. "We've outgrown all that 
 a long time ago. These things are now forgotten or 
 exploded." 
 
218 GLENANAAR 
 
 "I wish I could believe it, Father," he replied 
 "Do you remember my nervous anxiety, that neither 
 my name or history should be known?" 
 
 "Perfectly; but I thought and still think it absurd. 
 Events now succeed each other so rapidly, and the 
 newspapers supply such daily relays of most interesting 
 inteUigence, that we have ceased to hnger on the past." 
 
 "I don't know," he said, dubiously. "The old 
 saying is there, ready to be quoted against me any 
 moment — 'What's bred in the blood will break out 
 in the bone.' Isn't that it?" 
 
 There was httle use in trying to dissipate such foohsh 
 fears. I let him proceed. 
 
 "The strangest thiiig of all was that my father 
 shared the superstition or suspicion. Although deeply 
 attached to my mother, she shared none of his secrets. 
 He left his housekeeping altogether in her hands; but 
 pohtical or other secrets he rigidly withheld. And 
 though I think, — nay, I am sure, he loved me, for 
 being hke him in appearance, and for my great strength 
 and agiUty, somehow he never trusted me. When I 
 I broke out into my rhodomontades about Ireland's 
 misgovemment and England's perfidy, he was always 
 silent. He never encouraged me. And I knew even 
 then that he had arms concealed in the haggart, — a 
 cofBn-load of rifle-barrels, well greased, with cartridges 
 to match, but I knew no more where they were than 
 you do." 
 
 "I think he was quite right not to trust the discretion 
 of a mere lad," I said. 
 
HAGAR AND ISHMAEL 219 
 
 "It wasn't that," he replied. "He trusted me in 
 all kinds of business matters, but he was silent as the 
 grave there. But the strangest thing of all was, that 
 neither by word or sign was ever the shghtest hint 
 given me that my birth was tainted. You'd imagine 
 that somehow it should transpire. Never. When I 
 heard my father call my mother 'Nodlag!' I thought 
 it a pet name. That was all. And you know we were 
 brought up so rigidly, and in such strict seclusion from 
 the company of our elders, that there was no chance 
 of my ever discovering the secret. But I often wonder 
 that not one of my schoolmates in a temper, or through 
 mischief, ever hinted at it. Probably they were afraid 
 of me, on account of my great strength and courage, 
 or probably it was some dehcacy, such as you often 
 find amongst our people, that kept them from taunting 
 me with such a terrible and ineradicable birth-taint. 
 
 "But it was almost a jokcj though a gruesome one, 
 that I should be always so fierce against the detested 
 tribe of informers. Just then the State-Trials of the 
 prisoners who had taken part in the rising of '67 were 
 proceeding in Cork, and my cordial detestation of the 
 Crown Prosecutors, especially of 'Scorpion SuUivan," 
 was nothing to the hatred I had for the wretched 
 approvers who had turned Queen's evidence against 
 their comrades. How I stormed and raged I remember 
 now with a smile. But my companions only listened 
 and said nothing. I called them white-livered pol- 
 troons for not flaming up, Uke myself. They never 
 resented it. They only smiled. I consoled myself by 
 
220 / GLENANAAR 
 
 the reflection that I was the only genuine patriot in 
 Ireland." 
 
 "A pretty common delusion," I interjected, "and 
 not limited to ardent and impassioned youth, but the 
 attribute of every age and condition. Well, if it is 
 not exactly modest, at least it is not ignoble. Go 
 on!" 
 
 "No," said he, with a meaning smile, "even Sam 
 thinks he is the only one left of the race of Emmet 
 and Wolff! Tone." 
 
 "Sam has at least one attribute of another kind," 
 I replied. I was glad of the little interlude. "I 
 caught him Ustening at the keyhole the last evening 
 I was here." 
 
 "The Yank" was very angry, but what's the use? 
 Sam will be Sam to the end of time. He had made 
 sundry ineffectual attempts to get in to our little con- 
 ferences. He had several times knocked at the door, 
 with the query: — 
 
 "Did you ring. Sir?" 
 
 A few times he suggested: — 
 
 "Do you want any hot water, Sir?" 
 which I resented, as an imputation. 
 
 And a few times he charitably and solicitously re- 
 minded "The Yank" that "this was the toime for his 
 midicine." 
 
 But I nearly stumbled over him the last evening I 
 was going out. He was on his knees on the door-mat, 
 his ear glued to the keyhole, but he jumped up in an 
 instant, and began demonstrating with the medicine 
 
HAGAR AND ISHMAEL 221 
 
 bottle and glass, which he had taken the precaution 
 to bring with him. 
 
 I looked at him severely, but he was unperturbed, 
 and merely wiped the wine-glass with the napkin. I 
 was genuinely angry. 
 
 "Sam?" said I. 
 
 "Yes, yer Reverence," he said. 
 
 "Sam," said I, "you are a good young man, and a 
 pious young man, and fairly sober, except when you 
 take that 'Uminade' which is bad for you." 
 
 "The Docthor said, yer Reverence, — " he replied, 
 but I shut him up. 
 
 "I know, I know all that," I said, "you have a 
 'wake stomach,' etc., etc.; but what I'm coming to is 
 this. The Catechism says, 'we ought always to pray,' 
 and I perceive you are trying to carry out the recom- 
 mendation. But, in future, when the pious fit comes 
 on you, I would recommend you to seek any other 
 place in the hotel, except this door-mat " 
 
 " 'Pon me sowkens, I was only shtoopin' down " 
 
 "That'll do," I said. "But remember, one word 
 from me to the American gentleman " 
 
 "You wouldn't harrum a poor bye like that, yer 
 Reverence," he pleaded. " God knows " 
 
 '"Sh," I said. "I want no more asseverations. 
 But less prayers, Sam, and a quiet tongue, will do you 
 no harm." 
 
 For I heard he had circulated the report around the 
 parish that "The Yank" was making a "gineral con- 
 fession," and that he must have been the "divil's 
 
222 GLENANAAR 
 
 own bhoy," because he had already been at it three 
 weeks, and would probably continue for three weeks 
 longer. 
 
 But I must come back to the narrative, which had 
 now become very fascinating to me. 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 "But there were two friendships, that, without 
 casting any hght on the history of the past for me, 
 brightened considerably my young years. The one 
 was with the hving, the other with the dead. Donal 
 Connors was the intiriiate and particidar friend of our 
 little family. Unlike other strollers, who came into 
 the forge for a chat, or on business, he rarely spent 
 much time in the forge, but he often visited the cottage, 
 where he was always thrice welcome. I could see, 
 even without any information on the subject, that 
 there was some secret tie from the past binding him 
 to our family, for he always assumed an attitude of 
 famiUarity which every one else avoided. He came in 
 and out of the kitchen hke a member of the family, 
 and I noticed that, on all grave occasions, he was the 
 only person ever consulted by my father or mother. 
 I had heard, in a dim way, as of a far-off legend, of 
 the tragedy that had taken place at Glenanaar twenty 
 years before. But my mother's connection with it 
 was carefully concealed from me, and I was too proud 
 or shy to inquire. But neither my father, my mother, 
 nor I, ever visited that lonely cottage up there in the 
 deep saddle of the hills. Of course, I knew Donal's 
 
 223 
 
224 GLENANAAR 
 
 wife by appearance, and it was not attractive. But 
 she never spoke to us, nor we to her. Now, Donal 
 was the only person who showed his deep friendship 
 for me by warning me against my too demonstrative 
 patriotism. Sometimes, in a half laughing way, he 
 would meet all my passionate speeches about Ireland 
 and England, by a joke or a smothered rebuke : — 
 
 '"If you don't keep yourself quiet, young man, 
 believe me, you'll get a hempen cravat some of these 
 days, or make the acquaintance of Botany Bay.' 
 
 "To which I would reply with flashing eyes: 
 
 Far dearer the grave or the prison, 
 
 Illumed by one patriot name, 
 Than the trophies of all who've arisen 
 
 On Liberty's ruins to Fame. 
 
 "'I never trusted a man yet who could quote po- 
 ethry,' Donal would reply. 'You can't dhrive a pike 
 wid yere tongue.' 
 
 "'Then what about the speech of Emmet or the 
 speech of Meagher?' I would answer. 'Isn't it these 
 burning words that have kindled the fire of patriotism 
 in the breasts of young Irishmen?' 
 
 "'Yes! But thin, Emmet and Meagher did some- 
 thing theirselves before they thought they had a right 
 to tache others to folly them.' 
 
 "And as I had done nothing beyond sharpening a 
 pike-end, I had to be silent. 
 
 "He must have spoken to my mother, too, to restrain 
 me. For she, in her own gentle way, gave me sundry 
 warnings to be cautious in my language, and to re- 
 
THE INEVITABLE 225 
 
 member that loud talkers are always more or less 
 suspect. 
 
 "'Suspect?' I cried. 'Who could suspect me? 
 Isn't me life before the world, and who can point to 
 a blot or stain on any one of us ? ' 
 
 "Then the hot blood would moxmt up to her pale 
 face; but, of course, I never understood the reason. 
 So bhnd are the young, so fortunately blind. It is an 
 ill hand that pulls the veil from their eyes. 
 
 "The other friendship was with the dead. Every 
 Sunday, on returning from Mass, we had to pass by 
 the old graveyard at Templeroan, How well I remem- 
 ber it, as, holding my mother's hand, we passed from 
 the road through the iron gate, and got in vuider the 
 shadow of the trees. Many a time I called up the 
 picture from memory, when I was far away — the old 
 ruined Abbey, festooned with ivy, the moss-covered 
 gravestones, leaning hither and thither, the great brown 
 lichens on the walls, — all things so ancient and time- 
 worn and venerable. You might remember a single 
 grave. Father, right in the centre of the aisle of the old 
 Abbey? The stone is now falling aside, and the 
 inscription is hardly legible, but in my childhood and 
 boyhood it was a fresh modem slab, inscribed : 'Sacred 
 to the memory of Edmond Connors,' with date of death 
 and age. Well, this was the shrine where every Sun- 
 day, as long as I remember, my mother and I wor- 
 shipped and prayed. Here I had to repeat the Litany 
 for the Dead, word by word, after my mother, and 
 then I had to kiss the grass that feathered the grave. 
 
226 > GLENANAAR 
 
 and the name on the tolnbstone. Then we went home 
 together. I never asked questions until I grew to 
 manhood. Then I learned that this old man had given 
 his life for my mother, and I sought to know no more 
 until the whole revelation came. 
 
 "Meanwhile, I was rushing on, every day gaining 
 strength and agihty. I never knew the taste of fresh 
 meat, or 'butcher's mate,' as it was called. On 
 Sundays we had a bit of bacon and at Christmas and 
 Easter a fowl. But our daily diet, unless we had a 
 visitor, was milk, home-made bread, and potatoes, and 
 on these I developed the thews of Anak. 
 
 "After a little time the excitement about the Fenian 
 rising had died away, and with it a good deal of our 
 boyish enthusiasm. Then came the Gaelic Athletics 
 and here I easily took the lead, until I became captain 
 of our team in football and hurling and I became 
 known over half the country." 
 
 "So you did," I exclaimed. "When ballads are 
 written about a man, his fame is universal and secure." 
 
 "Yes! if it's worth anything," he rephed. "I'm not 
 sure that it would not have been better for me to have 
 lain low then, as I desire to do now." 
 
 "I don't think that's a manly sentiment," I replied. 
 "Everyone must give the world the best that's in him, 
 without fear or hope of reward." 
 
 "I never could understand that," he replied. "I 
 can never see why a man should not keep to himself, 
 or for himself, whatever of great or good he pos- 
 sesses." 
 
THE INEVITABLE 227 
 
 "Because," I replied, "the reward of genius is labour, 
 and none other has it a right to seek after." 
 
 He was silent, brooding over this strange proposition. 
 At length he said: — 
 
 "I don't understand it. All I know is, that I flujig 
 myself into the thick of the fight and there I met the 
 revelation of the past and the one great disappointment 
 of my hfe." 
 
 He paused, recalling the historic incidents of his 
 life, and summoning up the ghostly details from the 
 past. Then he went on: — 
 
 "Of course, you cannot understand it," he said, 
 "but like all other young fellows I fell head over ears 
 in love. I cannot remember now how or where we 
 met, but I think it was coming home from a great 
 hurUng match, where I was the laurelled conqueror. 
 These things attract the notice of girls, and I suppose 
 it was then I first met her, whose face has been haunting 
 me for a quarter of a century, and whom I have trav- 
 elled three thousand miles by land and three thousand 
 miles by water to see once more and be forevermore 
 blessed or disappointed. But, wherever we met for 
 the first time, we met again and again afterwards, and 
 our trysting-place was a great wide whitethorn tree 
 that grows down there by the road where the plantation 
 of firs cuts off the bare heather from the land that has 
 been reclaimed. I have gone out a few times to see 
 it since I returned home. It seems to have been 
 blasted by lightning or cut away, for it is not half the 
 size of the tree I knew so well. 
 
228 GLENANAAR 
 
 "Our little affair was frowned upon, of course. 
 That is inevitable. I was but a blacksmith, and she 
 was a daughter of a purse-proud, independent father, 
 who expected to see his child married, as he used to 
 say, to 'her own aiquals.' But she, poor girl, was true 
 as steel. When I heard of her father's objection I 
 offered to release her, but she refused to be released. 
 Then I faced him. I met him coming home from 
 Mass one Sunday morning. We had never spoken 
 before. If I had had experience I would not have 
 spoken to him then. 
 
 "'I beg your pardon,' I said. 'I understand you 
 have an objection to my meeting Nora ? ' 
 
 "He looked I me all over. 
 
 " ' Who the divil are you ? ' he said. 
 
 " ' I am Terence Casey,' I said, ' the son of Redmond 
 Casey, the smith at Glenanaar, and as good a man as 
 you any day.' 
 
 "He was speechless with rage. 
 
 "When he recovered himself he said with some show 
 of deliberation : — 
 
 "'I don't know you, boy, but this I know. If any 
 child of mine has had hand, act, or part with any of 
 your breed, she has my curse forever and ever.' 
 
 ""Tis true I'm only a tradesman,' I said, 'but I 
 can give her as good a life as a broken-down farmer 
 any day.' 
 
 "This went home, for though he had the name of 
 being rich, some people said he was stretching himself 
 too much, and had to borrow money. 
 
THE INEVITABLE 229 
 
 "'A dacent tradesman,' he repKed, 'is as good as 
 anny other man. 'Tisn't to your trade I object, but 
 to yourself. I'd as soon my daughter would marry the 
 divil as wan of your breed.' 
 
 "'That's your last word?' I asked, full of wonder at 
 the objection to my family. 
 
 "'The last word,' he rephed, 'but not my last deed, 
 as you'U have raison to renumber if you go anny 
 further in that matther.' 
 
 "I met Nora that evening. 
 
 ""Tis to my family your father objects,' I said, 
 'not to meself. What fault has he to find with me 
 family, I don't know. We held our heads as high as 
 anny of our nabors. At laste, I never hard a word 
 agen us till now, did you?' 
 
 " She himg down her head and said nothing. 
 
 " ' If you share your father's opinions, Nora,' I said, 
 ' let us part. If you think you lower or demane yerself 
 by marrying me, in God's name, let there be an ind 
 to the matther. We'U part good friends.' 
 
 "She held out her hand. Ah! 'tis well I remimber 
 it. There never yet was a truer woman made by 
 God. 
 
 "'Ted,' she said, 'I've promised to be yours. 
 Until you throw me off, no power on earth shall sepa- 
 rate us.' 
 
 "And I registered the same promise in my mind, 
 but with the addition of a great oath. Ah, Father, 
 don't wonder that I've crossed the ocean to see her 
 once more. That night, and another night, I could 
 
230 GLENANAAR 
 
 never forget. Alas! I didn't know then how swift 
 would be the revelation, and how terrible the separation 
 that we deemed impossible. 
 
 "Of course, I never spoke a word of this at home. 
 Yoimg men are shy about these things, and then, I 
 really didn't know how it would be taken. My own 
 idea was to leave my father's home, if I were married, 
 and open a forge down there near Wallstown or the 
 vicinity, where I was sure, as I thought, of plenty of 
 customers, without interfering with my father's busi- 
 ness. I dare say my father and mother heard of it, 
 but they never alluded to it. My father had an Irish 
 temper, and so had I, and I think he deemed it wiser 
 not to open up matters of crossness before their time. 
 And he was quite right. But sometimes my mother 
 would watch me in a strange, curious way, and then 
 turn away with a sigh. 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 
 REVELATIONS 
 
 "Although popular enthusiasm had more or less 
 died out after the '67 rising, my own feeUngs seemed 
 to be rather intensified. And, with all the thought- 
 lessness of youth, I was not slow to express myself 
 freely on those pohtical matters which are best con- 
 sulted for by silence. But no! I had read up Irish 
 history, especially Mitchell's, and my blood ran flame. 
 
 " It was Ireland, and Ireland, and Ireland, ever 
 present to waking thought and sleep's dreams. How 
 I raged against her persecutors, and how I yearned 
 for revenge! But all my fury was reserved for her 
 traitors, from MacMurrough downwards through all 
 her black history, and the words 'traitor,' 'informer,' 
 ' approver,' seemed to hold me by a kind of obsession. 
 But people only smiled. At home, they had long 
 since ceased to remonstrate with me. 
 
 "One Simday evening we had a pitched battle, a 
 great supreme trial of strength at hurKng between the 
 parishes of Glenroe and Ardpatrick in the County 
 Limerick, and Kildorrery in the County Cork. I be- 
 longed to neither parish, but I was asked by the latter 
 to go with them, and no objection was made by the 
 other side. It was a glorious evening; the whole 
 
 231 
 
232 GLENANAAR 
 
 country-side was there, our blood was up, and we fought 
 like demons for victory. So intense was the feeling 
 on both sides that a big faction-fight was expected, and 
 we were near it, and I was the innocent cause. After 
 several unsuccessful tries, I had managed to get the 
 ball within reach of the goal, and swung my hurley 
 round my head for the final stroke. I made it success- 
 fully, and won the match, but the back swing had 
 struck an opponent, a young lad, on the mouth, and 
 had smashed in his front teeth. I was so excited that 
 I never thought of looking around until I saw the 
 black ball sailing out between the poles. Then I 
 turned. The boy had spat out his bloody teeth, and 
 there was a crowd around him. I was instantly 
 accused of having done it deliberately, and you know 
 how the passions of an Irish crowd rise. I denied it, 
 and expressed my sorrow. But between their rage at 
 defeat, and the boy's sufferings, they could not be 
 satisfied. Their anger rose every moment, until at 
 last an ill-disposed fellow came near me, and relying 
 on the help aroxmd him, he struck me, and said: 
 
 "'You did, you Sir! I saw you hit him, you b 
 
 son of an informer!' 
 
 "The hurley fell from my hand, ^s if I were para- 
 lyzed. The Kildorrery men, who had been grouping 
 around me with the conviction that they were bound to 
 support their champion, slunk away, one by one. I 
 put on my coat without a word, and left the field. 
 Father," he continued, "there are certain times in 
 men's lives when all things seem to be rushing together, 
 
REVELATIONS 233 
 
 and night and day, life and death, heaven and hell, 
 seem all alike. That moment was one. It was a 
 sudden flash that Ut up all the past, and darkened aU 
 the future of my life." 
 
 He paused and gulped down his emotion, and my 
 sympathies began to increase towards him at every 
 pause in his narration. 
 
 "I had crossed two fields towards home, when my 
 humiliation gave way to a sudden paroxysm of passion 
 that literally hfted me off my feet. I had taken for 
 granted that there was some foundation for the ruf- 
 fianly taunt. Then the thought swept back upon me : 
 what if the fellow is a liar? I ran back. The crowd 
 had partly dispersed, but groups of young men, seeing 
 me return in such an excited state, began to gather 
 together again, and they had formed a knot around 
 the wounded boy (who was still spitting blood) and 
 his champion. I strode up, and my face must have 
 been a fright, for the crowd gave way. I burst into 
 the midst of them and said to the fellow that had 
 struck me: — 
 
 "'Grogan, you struck me a coward's blow a few 
 minutes ago. I didn't mind that. But you said some- 
 thing at the same time that I do mind. Can you 
 prove it?' 
 
 " ' Go home, Casey, with your friends,' he said, ' and 
 let's hear no more of it now.' 
 
 '"By the Uving God,' I cried, in a fearful fury, 'you'll 
 prove here and now what you said, or I'll ram the 
 lie down your throat.' 
 
234 GLENANAAR 
 
 '"I tell you, go home,' said he, somewhat frightened. 
 'You have done mischief enough already.' 
 
 ""Tis a coward and a blackguard,' I exclaimed, 
 'who won't take back his words, or prove them. Now, 
 confess that what you said was a he!' 
 
 "'I tell you, Casey, let well alone,' he said. 'Don't 
 mind a hasty word said in a passion.' 
 
 "'I wouldn't,' I rephed. 'But that was more than 
 a hasty word. Come, quick, I'll stand no humbugging 
 now! Say you told a lie, when you said I was the 
 breed of an informer.' 
 
 "'I can't say it,' he said, holding down his head. 
 
 '"Then 'twas the truth?' I asked. 
 
 "He was silent. 
 
 "'Come, you rufSan,' I said, now losing all control 
 of myself, and seizing him by the collar. ' Deny what 
 you have said in a Ue, or, by Heavens, I'll make you 
 eat your words.' 
 
 "He tried to swing himself free, but I held him with 
 a grip of iron. One or two fellows came forward to 
 help him. I kicked them aside. Then he was badly 
 frightened, and blurted out: 
 
 "'Bear witness, boys, that he is forcing me to do 
 what I don't want to do.' 
 
 I only want you to tell the truth, and shame the 
 devil!' I cried. 
 
 "'Then the shame be yours, Terence Casey,' he 
 rephed. 'You know as well as I do, that your mother 
 is the daughter of Cloumper Daly, the informer.' 
 
 ""Tis an infernal lie, you scoundrel,' I said, with 
 
REVELATIONS 235 
 
 clenched teeth. 'Take back the word, or I'll smash 
 your face so that your mother Vfon't know you.' 
 
 '"Unhand him, ^asey,' said an old man. 'Sure 
 the boy has only said what every man in the counthry 
 knows.' 
 
 "'Do you know it?' I said. 
 
 "'I do,' said he, 'an' everybody else.' 
 
 "'Then,' I said, Ufting my face to heaven, 'may 
 God help me, for that's the first time it was ever told 
 me!' 
 
 "As I left the field, the crowd, understanding my 
 feelings, gave way with a certain kind of pity and 
 respect. They found it difficult to understand how 
 the knowledge of the terrible secret could have been 
 so Jong kept from me. But they evidently believed in 
 my sincerity, and pitied me under the awful revelation. 
 
 "As for myself, a whole crowd of horrible thoughts, 
 recollections, forebodings, sensations, swept every ves- 
 tige of reason and common sense away. I was a sheer 
 madman, if madness is the inabiKty to control one's 
 imagination or feehngs. I did not return home that 
 night; I quietly made up my mind never to sleep a 
 night under that roof again. I went up among the 
 hills, seeking out one particularly desert and savage 
 spot, which seemed to have been never trodden except 
 by the feet of goats. There I wandered round and 
 round all that terrible night, a prey to every kind of 
 humiliating and shameful thoughts. If I rested even 
 for a moment on a red boulder, or a clump of heather, 
 I was up in a moment again. There was no sitting or 
 
236 GLENANAAR 
 
 standing still under such a fever of thought as was 
 stinging my brain to madness. The worst and most 
 painful recollection was, that I had been actually 
 courting shame and humiliation all these years, by 
 my fierCe denunciations of the class whose blood ran 
 in my own veins. I now recalled with untold agony 
 the smile that ran around a whole circle of auditors 
 when I was unusually vehement in my patriotism. 
 How these men, who held my secret, must have de- 
 spised me! What a hypocrite they must have deemed 
 me ! But this was not the worst. The worst was that 
 I, who so loved my gentle mother that I almost wor- 
 shipped her, began to loathe and hate her. I struggled 
 against the hellish feeling a long time. I tried to recall 
 every little incijdent of affection and love that had 
 surrounded my childhood and my youth, all the httle 
 marks of maternal sohcitude that had knit my own 
 affections so closely to her that I would gladly have 
 died to show my loyalty and love. But the words, 
 ' Cloumper Daly's daughter,' ' Cloumper Daly's daugh- - 
 ter,' and all they meant, would come up with all their 
 loathsome associations, and do what I would, I could 
 not conquer an indefinable contempt and dishke for 
 one who had sprung from the lowest and most degraded 
 of the species. All this seemed to me then and seems 
 to me now the purest extravagance; but you know how 
 we were brought up, and how fiercely traditions of 
 this kind take hold of Irish imaginations. Tainted 
 blood, inherited shame, is a terrible heritage amongst 
 a people who attach supreme importance to these 
 
REVELATIONS 237 
 
 things. And the words I heard nearly a quarter of a 
 century ago in that field near Kildorrery, 'the breed 
 of an informer,' have haunted me all my life, and will 
 haunt me to my dying day." 
 
 He stopped again, and I didn't interrupt him. I 
 perfectly understood all that this meant. A loss of 
 caste amongst the Orientals would be nothing to the 
 entailed shame of which he was so painfully con- 
 scious. 
 
 "You remember my anxiety about concealing my 
 identity here," he continued. "You thought it un- 
 reasonable: I don't." 
 
 "I think," I said, "that the people now, under more 
 enlightened circumstances, and better education, are 
 freeing themselves from many of these old prejudices. 
 At least, you don't hear any references to them in 
 ordinary life." 
 
 "And I," he replied, "had grown to the age of 
 manhood before I ever heard of my mother's shame. 
 Then it broke on me hke a flash of lightning." 
 
 "That's quite true," I said, "but at least it argues 
 a more rational and a more Christian frame of thought, 
 that the wretched business was never flung in your 
 face for so many years." 
 
 "That's quite true," he replied. "But would you 
 believe, it followed me across the ocean, and embittered 
 my whole life?" 
 
 "Impossible," I said. 
 
 "'Tis true," he answered. "I have never yet met 
 but one, and you. Father, who did not shrink from me 
 
238 GLENANAAR 
 
 at the moment of revelation. And how can anyone 
 wonder that I have sought her across sea and land, 
 and shall find no rest till I find her, if haply she is 
 yet living?" 
 
 "That was the young girl you spoke of, whose 
 father objected to your marriage with her?" 
 
 "Yes! And his words were not the least bitter that 
 came back to me that night beneath the stars, when 
 I remembered them, and recognized their meaning. 
 But I must go on to the end, if I am not tiring you." 
 
 "By no manner of means, my dear fellow," I replied. 
 "I am deeply interested in the narrative. I never 
 thought this quiet little place could have produced 
 such a romance and such a tragedy." 
 
 "Well," he continued, "I came down the following 
 morning from the hills and entered the forge, and, 
 without a word, flung off my coat, and put on my 
 apron. My father and myself worked steadily on, 
 without exchanging a word, until just about dinner 
 time, when Donal Connor came in. He said: 'I heard 
 ye were near having a big row at the match yesterday, 
 Ted. Who won?' 
 
 "'We won,' I said, laconically, and went on with 
 my work. 
 
 "After a few minutes, my father said: — 
 
 "'What was the row about that Donal spakes of?' 
 
 "I said nothing, but went on working. 
 
 "After a few more seconds, he again asked: — 
 
 "'It must be a mighty sacret whin you can't answer 
 a civil question of your father.' 
 
REVELATIONS 239 
 
 " I flung the sledge aside, and confronting him, I said, 
 with very ill-concealed fury: — 
 
 '"Lave me ask you another question. What the 
 divil possessed you to marry the daughter of an in- 
 former?' 
 
CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 PARTED 
 
 " My father did not answer, although I saw his face 
 draw down and whiten, and I expected a burst of fury; 
 but a voice just behind me, which I knew to be that of 
 Donal Connors, said with a hoarse savageness: 
 
 '"Because he was a better and a braver man than 
 you, you contemptible cur!' 
 
 "I turned swiftly and saw, — and, oh, my God! the 
 vision will never leave my brain, — neither Donal 
 Connors, although he was within a yard of me, nor 
 anything else in God's universe, but the pale face and 
 the staring eyes of my mother. She had come out 
 with Donal to call us in to dinner, and had heard my 
 insulting question. She said nothing, only looked at 
 me with speechless sorrow, and I could have gone 
 down into hell with shame. And yet, standing there 
 in all my self-loathing I could not forgive her for the 
 shame she wrought on me; I could not forgive her 
 for the blameless disgrace she had inherited. Mark 
 you! If she had been a fallen woman morally, and 
 had been raised by the consecration of marriage to a 
 new and honourable life, I could easily have forgotten 
 it. But here it was blood that was tainted, and I 
 hated her, as well as myself. 
 
 240 
 
PARTED 241 
 
 '"Come iti to the dinner,' she said, and turned back 
 into the house. 
 
 "I went straight to my bedroom and commenced to 
 pack up every little thing I possessed in this world. 
 Even then, my good angel whispered to me : Go down, 
 and clasp your mother's knees and beg her forgiveness, 
 and get her kiss of peace. But the devil whispered: 
 Cloumper Daly's daughter 1 Cloumper Daly's daughter I 
 and I Hstened to him. I took up my wretched bundle 
 and came to the door. I could see by a glance the 
 two men sitting at dinner, the white table, the big pile 
 of potatoes, the red salt meat, the cabbage, and the 
 porringers. My mother stood at the door. She said 
 quietly: — 
 
 '"Ted, where are you going? Aren't you comin' 
 to your dinner?' 
 
 "I said nothing, but tried to pass her. My father 
 cried out: — 
 
 "'Come in, Nodlag, an' let that fellow go to the 
 divil, where he'll be welcome!' 
 
 "My mother stood aside and I passed out. About 
 a hundred yards down the road I turned to get a last 
 look at the old place. She was standing in the doorway 
 again, and when she saw me, she stretched out her 
 hands towards me. I turned away." 
 
 Here the poor fellow was simply choked with emo- 
 tion and was silent for several minutes. He resumed, 
 as soon as he could steady his voice: — 
 
 "They may say as much as they like about drink, 
 and 'tis bad enough, God knows! And there are 
 
242 GLENANAAR 
 
 other things worse ! But far and away the worst devil 
 that can occupy the heart of man is pride! And yet, 
 see how things work. That last look at my mother, 
 and my own sin, were also my salvation. You know. 
 Father, that when you go abroad you hear lots of 
 queer things you never heard of in Ireland, Well, 
 many and many a time in miners' camps in Nevada, 
 in drinking saloons in California, in rough huts in 
 some canon of the Rockies, I had to listen to many 
 and many a word against God and religion from men 
 who had no beUef in either. And these things make 
 an impression. But the thought of my sin, and my 
 mother's patient face, banished the temptation, and I 
 prayed God to leave me my belief in Him and Hi.= 
 great world beyond the grave, if only that I mighi 
 have the chance of going down on my knees and begging 
 forgiveness for my one great sin. I never saw her 
 face again. I heard far away in the Rockies that she 
 died soon after my departure, and that she was buried 
 side by side with the old man who had been her lifelong 
 friend. There I made my first pilgrimage on my 
 return to Ireland. There I knelt and prayed as I had 
 never prayed before. And so terrible was the flood 
 of anguish that came down upon my soul that I tore 
 up the grass above her grave, and cried alOud in my 
 agony. You'd hardly believe it of a cool, calculating 
 Yankee. But there are hot springs in the human heart 
 that never leap to the surface till they are bored through 
 by sorrow and remorse. 
 "Well, that afternoon, as I turned my back upon my 
 
PARTED 243 
 
 own home forever, I felt without a friend in the world. 
 I knew from what had occurred the day before at the 
 hurling match, and from what had been revealed at 
 homej that my secret was the world's secret, and that 
 there was no question of my facing the acquaintances 
 of my youth and manhood again. I made up my 
 mind to change my name; then I saw that my father's 
 name was unsoiled, and I thought I would cUng to it, 
 and go out to the New World, to make my fortune or 
 fail, Uke so many more of my countrymen. 
 
 " One face only I should see before I went, one hand 
 I should grasp, and then liberate forever, as I couldn't 
 offer her mine. I sent her word, and she came to me 
 at our old trysting place beneath the aged whitethorn. 
 It was one of those lovely spring or early summer 
 evenings, that haunt you forever, especially if associated 
 with some tragic or pathetic event in your life. She 
 saw at once, with a woman's swift insight, that some- 
 thing serious had occurred. My bundle of clothes and 
 heavy stick indicated this. But she said nothing. She 
 allowed me to speak. I said simply: — 
 
 "'I have come, Nora, to say good-bye! and for- 
 ever!' 
 
 "Her eyes filled with tears. She said: — 
 
 "'You have heard something?' 
 
 "I answered yes. Then I said: — 
 
 "'It was not kind of you, Nora, never to tell me this 
 all these years.' 
 
 "She looked up and said: — 
 
 "'Unkind? I though I was doing enough when I 
 
244 GLENANAAR 
 
 was prepared to take you, for good or ill, in the face 
 of the world!' 
 
 "My brave girl! 
 
 "'Then,' I said, 'you always knew the horrible 
 taint in my blood?' 
 
 "'I knew about your parents,' she replied. 'I knew 
 nothing of yourself, except ' 
 
 " ' That with all you knew, and in spite of the oppo- 
 sition of your parents and friends, and in face of the 
 world that would despise you, you were still prepared 
 to take me?' 
 
 " ' Yes,' she repHed, modestly, but firmly. 
 
 "'Then, Nora,' I exclaimed, 'I should be the 
 meanest man on the face of the earth, if I took ad- 
 vantage of your love and loyalty to bring you to 
 shame and sorrow.' 
 
 "'That means you are giving me up, Terence 
 Casey?' she said. 
 
 " ' It does,' I repUed. ' Don't ask me to repeat what 
 you know already, that I think more of you than of 
 any one else on the face of the earth, and if I were a 
 free man, I should marry you, and no one else, though 
 she was Queen of England. But how can I take ad- 
 vantage of you, and bring you to shame before the 
 world ? ' 
 
 '"You are going away?' she said, simply. 
 
 "'Yes,' I answered. 
 
 "'Where are you going?' she asked. 
 
 "'To America,' I replied. 
 
 "'What can they know of you or nje in America?' 
 
PARTED 245 
 
 she asked. 'Let us go abroad, as man and wife, in 
 the face of the world. And who cares, or will care, 
 about our history, in America?' 
 
 "She looked up at me as she spoke. It was the 
 hardest temptation of my life. There was truth in 
 what she said, but there was also the stinging truth 
 that no one, least of all an Irishman, entirely cuts the 
 cords that bind him to his motherland. And if there 
 were no shame for her or me, there would be the re- 
 flected and keener disgrace on those she left behind. 
 I made up my mind at once. 
 
 ""T would never do, Nora,' I said. 'Your people 
 would suppose that I acted shamefully towards them 
 and you. They would never forgive me and they 
 would never forgive you.' 
 
 "'I'm prepared to bear that, if you are prepared 
 to bear the same,' she replied. 
 
 "'I don't mind my own shame,' I rephed, 'but I 
 mustn't ask you or your family to share it.' 
 
 "'There!' she rephed. 'I mustn't be throwing 
 meself at you any longer. Good-bye, Terence Casey!' 
 
 "'Good-bye, Nora! I leave you free,- as there was 
 a hand and word between us. But will you promise 
 me one thing?' 
 
 "'What is it?' 
 
 '"I want you to go and see my mother some time 
 and think of me when I am far away. Perhaps, but 
 — there's no use of thinking of those things! See her 
 sometimes, Nora, and tell her, will you tell her from 
 me, Nora? Will you tell her ?' 
 
246 GLENANAAR 
 
 "'What?' she said. 
 
 '"I want you to tell her,' I said, sobbing, 'to tell her 
 from me ' 
 
 "There I stopped. I couldn't go further if I had 
 an offer of half the world. 
 
 "'There, good-bye, and God bless you!' 
 
 "I turned away my head, took her hand in mine, 
 and dropped it instantly and strode away. I had 
 gone a few yards, when she cried after me: ^— 
 
 "'Ted!' 
 
 "I turned round and looked. The full sunset was 
 on her face and hair, as she stood in her Sunday dress 
 there beneath the blossoming thorn. She held her 
 hands clasped and fallen down before her. I dared 
 not look further, or I would have gone back and dared 
 the world and the devil with her. I waved my hand 
 in a parting farewell; it was the last I saw of the face 
 that has been haunting me all these years, — the face 
 of Nora Curtin." 
 
 "Thunder and turfl" I exclaimed, and it wasn't 
 that I said either, but something more expressive; 
 "what did you say, man?" 
 
 I had jumped from the chair and was confronting 
 him. 
 
 "Nora Curtin!" he said, almost alarmed at my 
 excitement. , 
 
 "Of where?" I said, forgetting grammar and every- 
 thing else. 
 
 "Of Glenanaar, or if you like, Ballinslea," he 
 
PARTED 247 
 
 replied. "Don't you remember how reluctant I was 
 about your widow-nurse from Glenemaar?" 
 
 "But, my dear fellow, that was Nora Curtin, and 
 she's not twenty yards in a bee line from you this 
 moment." 
 
 "Then," he said, rising up, "I go straight to seek 
 her." ^ 
 
 "Oh, you won't," I cried, pushing him back into 
 the chair. "Do you want to give the little woman a 
 fit?" 
 
 He became quite excited. 
 
 "Father," he said, steadying his voice, "just listen 
 to me for a minute," 
 
 I let bim talk on whilst I was making up my mind 
 what to do. I knew he had a certain vision before 
 him, the vision beneath the whitethorn in the simset, 
 and all the et ceteras of youth and beauty. I knew 
 also that time and sorrow had wrought changes, and 
 that age with its et ceteras might not seem even to so 
 faithful a soul so attractive as he had dreamed. Yet, 
 it was a magnificent chance for that good httle woman, 
 in whom now I felt an increased interest, and for her 
 two dear children whose future looked so diflBcult and 
 uncertain. It was a chance not to be thrown away. 
 There were, I knew, great probabiHties of disappoint- 
 ment, but the fear of them faded as I Ustened to 
 him. 
 
 He moistened his Ups, and went on: — 
 
 "You see. Father, it is this way. I carried vnth me 
 in my exile a vision of two women — one whom I 
 
248 GLENANAAR 
 
 loved and had wronged, the other, whom I loved, but 
 could not sacrifice, even for my own welfare. These 
 two haunted me for the quarter of a century I have 
 spent abroad; and when I say haunted me, I mean that 
 they were ever present to my mind, — always in my 
 waking moments, and sometimes in my sleep. In the 
 beginning, the excitement of looking for work and 
 failing to obtain it sometimes blurred that vision. 
 But then, when I began to reach some certain degree 
 of success, they came back more vivid thkn ever. If 
 I lay awake at night, as often I did, too tired even to 
 sleep, I saw them on my right hand and on my left — 
 my mother always in the old hstening attitudf", as if 
 she were hearkening for some far-away voice, and I 
 knew it was mine she desired to hear; and on my left, 
 Nora, always as I saw her in her blue serge dress there 
 beneath the thorn in the sunset. Then when I began 
 to gather gold and the yellow dross soiled my hands 
 and my dress, I said, I do not value it but for them. 
 For them I shall hoard it, and keep it, and go back 
 some day and — there I left the future and dare not 
 Uft the veil. Then one day it came to my knowledge 
 that my mother was dead, and only one part of the 
 vision remained, but it came more vividly just because 
 it was now isolated and alone. And it saved me from 
 rough men, from a vicious life, from the thousand and 
 one temptations that beset a young man in a place 
 where men's passions are let loose, and no law of man 
 or fear of God can restrain them." 
 "The moment your mother was dead," I interrupted, 
 
PARTED 249 
 
 "you should have sent straight for Nora, and taken 
 her out and married her." 
 
 "I would have done so," he repHed, "but for one 
 thing. You know, you can understand, how the 
 horror of being known and pursued by the phantom 
 of my shame did gradually disappear under the excite- 
 ment of my new life; so much so, that I had almost 
 forgotten it, and had begun to reason that Nora was 
 right, and that I should have listened to her suggestion, 
 when an appalling incident occurred that brought back 
 the whole thing again, and made me fly farther from 
 civilization than ever. It shows how small is the 
 world, and how I must despair of ever getting rid of 
 this horrid thing that will pursue me to my grave." 
 
CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 THE PHANTOM AGAIN 
 
 "It happened in this way. Life is still pretty rough 
 out West, but nothing Uke what it was when I went 
 out there first, a raw, inexperienced fellow, used to 
 hardship, but a stranger to violence. It's very different 
 giving a fellow a shoulder, and sending him sprawling 
 on the soft grass, and putting the cold iron to his fore- 
 head with your finger on the trigger. Yet that's what 
 it all comes to out there where there was no law, no 
 trial, no jury, no jtidge. You simply heard that you 
 were looked for, and the next thing was to find a lasso 
 round your neck, or the revolver at your head. I did 
 not relish that kind of thing much nohow, so I kept 
 away from these rough fellows as much as I could, 
 and worked my own way in silence. But do what I 
 could, I should knock up against them from time to 
 time in a saloon, in the diggings, across the prairies, 
 up amid the snows. They were rough fellows, each 
 of whom had a pretty bad record in his past; but there 
 was a singular code of honour between them. Your 
 claim once opened was respected, until you sold it, or 
 abandoned it. Your Uttle heap was as safe as in the 
 Bank of England. . You had only to say: — 
 
 " ' Bill, or Jake, there's three thousand there in dust 
 and solid. Keep it for me till I return.' 
 
 250 
 
THE PHANTOM AGAIN 251 
 
 "And you might not return for six months or a year, 
 and it would be safe in his hands. He would give his 
 life to defend it. The one that would break that code 
 of honour answered with his life. 
 
 "Well, it happened one night up in Nevada, where 
 the silver mines had been opened up, and rapid fortunes 
 were being made, I foimd myself sitting round a camp 
 fire with a lot of desperadoes. It was a cold night and 
 we clustered close around an immense fire of blazing 
 logs, before we sought the shelter of our huts. The 
 bottle went round, and many of the fellows were noisy 
 enough. But one great, burly fellow, who sat on my 
 right, smoked leisurely, and only at rare intervals 
 drank, and then moderately. Many of the fellows, 
 half drunk, had got back to their rude bunks, and still 
 we two smoked and smoked, and, strangely enough, in 
 absolute silence. I was mute, because I knew my 
 man. He was called Big Din, from which, and from 
 the strange dialect he spoke, half brogue, half miner, 
 I concluded that he was an Irishman, but well accli- 
 matized. I knew him to be a desperado, ever anxious 
 to pick a quarrel, which ever ended but in one way. 
 At last, when nearly all had gone away, and the blazing 
 logs were now smouldering into red embers and white 
 wood ashes, I rose stiffly and said: — 
 
 "'I guess we had better cut this now!' 
 
 "He said, gruffly: — 
 
 "'Sit down, youngster. I wants to hev a chat with 
 you.' 
 
 "'You wasted a deuced lot of time in m a kin g up 
 
252 GLENANAAR 
 
 your mind,' I said, gaily. ' I guessed you wos a Quaker 
 or a statoo.' 
 
 " But I sat down. 
 
 "'You're from the ould^dart, I guess?' he said at 
 length. 'So am I. Now what part might you have 
 kem from.? ' 
 
 "He had turned around, and putting his face close 
 to mine, so that I could smell his breath, he screwed 
 his eyes into mine, as if he would read my soul. 
 
 "In an instant, I realized the importance of the 
 question, and said: — 
 
 " 'From the borders of the County Limerick. Now, 
 where do you hail from?' 
 
 "He flung the ashes from his pipe, and rose up. 
 
 "It don't make no matther, youngster. Tell me, 
 have you ever kem across in these here counthries a 
 fellow called Dailey, a heU's fire of a darned cuss!' 
 
 "Dailey! Dailey!' I repeated. 'No, I can't say I 
 have.' 
 
 "'If iver you meet him,' continued Big Din, 'tell 
 him there's some wan on his thrack, and the sooner he 
 gives hisself up to justice the betther!' 
 
 '"I will,' I said. 'But I guess that's not likely. 
 'Tis a big counthry out here.' 
 
 ""Tis smaller than you think,' he said. 'And the 
 whole wurruld is smaller than you think. That is,' 
 he added, meaningly, ' whin revinge is on your thrack.' 
 
 "'But,' he continued after a short pause, which I 
 thought would never end, 'ye niver hard of the Done- 
 raile conspiracy in your part of the counthry?' 
 
THE PHANTOM AGAIN 253 
 
 "'Never,' I answered, promptly. ,'What was it 
 about? It must have been a long time ago.' 
 
 "'It was, and it wasn't,' he said. 'Not long enough 
 to be disremembered yet, specially whin it comes home 
 to yerself. There's an ould sayin', an' a thrue wan: 
 "what's bred in the blood is got in the bone." Eh?' 
 
 " ' I heard it,' I said, as calmly as I could. 
 
 "'Wal, there it is as plain as a pike staff. Dailey, 
 the cus, gev good men an' thrue into the hang- 
 man's hands over there in the ould dart thirty years 
 agone, and Dailey gev my mate into the Sheriff's 
 hands here in Sacramento. Thiggin thu ? Good-night, 
 youngster, an' be an hones' man ef you can!' 
 
 "The night was cold, but I was frozen and .flushed 
 alternately there in the snows of Nevada. It waS 
 fortunate for me that the fire had burned low, and 
 threw but a few red and black shadows on our faces, 
 for otherwise my agitation would have betrayed me. 
 I got away as fast as I could, but spent that night, 
 and many others, pondering on these strange sayings, 
 and wondering how would they ultimately affect me. 
 What puzzled me mostly was, who this Dailey was of 
 whom Big Din spoke. It surely could not be my 
 grandfather, unless he had lived to a very advanced 
 age. And then, how did his secret history transpire? 
 I saw at once that he had effectually concealed his 
 name under the new pronunciation* more effectually 
 than if he had changed it altogether, because even I, 
 when I heard the name Dailey, never coimected it 
 
 > Dailey is generally pronounced Dawley in Ireland. 
 
254 GLENANAAR 
 
 with the family. But the whole affair made me feel 
 nervous about myself and my future. I determined 
 to leave there at once, and strike north, further away 
 from civihzation, but further away also from a great 
 and possible danger. I went to the,, north of the Great 
 Salt Lake City, passed through Idaho, got through a 
 pass in the mountains right under Fremont Peak, and 
 at last settled down, and bought a ranch near Shoshone 
 Lake, in the extreme north of the State of Wyoming. 
 That is my home now, and there I will take Nora, if 
 she will have me. Say, Father, when may I see her? 
 My time is up here, and I must be going back. I had 
 one hope coming here, and that is now near being 
 realized; and one fear, but that is vanishing." 
 
 "You know, my dear fellow," I said, "I would take 
 you to her this moment, but it means a shock. Give 
 me a day or so to prepare her." 
 
 "Wal, then, Father," he said, "let us say Sunday 
 night." 
 
 "Be it so," I repUed. "But you said you had one 
 fear. What fear?" 
 
 "The fear that this dreadful thing would follow me 
 here. Or rather, that it would crop up here, where 
 it can never have entirely died away." 
 
 "Your alarm is quite unfounded, my dear fellow," 
 I said, and I fully beUeved it. "The Doneraile Con- 
 spiracy is as forgotten here as the famine. We're 
 living now under new conditions of life. What would 
 be the talk of the country firesides for months and 
 years, when you were a boy,' is now forgotten in a week. 
 
THE PHANTOM AGAIN $55 
 
 You should get that dread off your nerves as soon as 
 possible." 
 
 "I've tried," he said, "but I can't say I have suc- 
 ceeded. When you once get a bad shock — but I did 
 not finish my story." 
 
 "No," I said. "I left you comfortably settled at 
 Shoshone Lake, wherever it is, on your ranch, and 
 amidst your fishing and your cattle." 
 
 "Wal," he said, "there's not>.much more. I Uved 
 there some years, working hard, but very happy. I 
 was well off, and many^ an offer of marriage was made 
 me, that would have doubled my means. But nol 
 That was not to be. I had a great deal of time on 
 hands; there the winters are long and terrible, and I 
 had to while away the lonehness by reading. You 
 know I had but Httle education at home. Wal, there 
 I had to read. I bought every book I could find, and 
 read the whole winter through. Then, from time to 
 time, a French Canadian trapper would cross the 
 border, or a Germaa settler would come along pro- 
 specting, and I picked up a smattering of their lan- 
 guages from them. So that I have altogether read a 
 good deal, though I cannot call myself an educated 
 man. Wal, one summer I left my httle diggings and 
 went up to Buttes. It is now a big city, and promises 
 to be a capital yet. Then, it was but a rising town, 
 and had an evil reputation for the classes that congre- 
 gated there. Probably I would have avoided it; but 
 I wanted a few winter necessaries, and especially 
 books. I was very careful to avoid saloons, and the 
 
256 GLENANAAR 
 
 public halls; but fate would have it, that I struck across 
 an old chum, and, as usual, we had a drink together. 
 As we entered the back parlour of the saloon, a young 
 man, not more than twenty-five or twenty-six years of 
 age, rose up, and, after glancing stealthily at us, passed 
 out. He had been smoking and reading a newspaper, 
 which he flung aside the moment he saw us. 
 
 '"On the run, I guess,' said my old mate, and we 
 thought no more of it. Late in the evening, and just 
 as the full moon was coming up the valley and making 
 its way slowly through the gorges, I had my team 
 tackled and ready to start. I was passing the saloon 
 at a trot, when again this old chum of mine, now 
 much the worse for liquor, again accosted me. He 
 was surrounded by a number of men grouped here 
 and there at the door of the saloon. I was very angry 
 for the delay and the danger, but I had no alternative 
 but to dismount, hitch my wagon to the rail outside 
 the saloon, and go in. I was not long detained. One 
 of these awful tragedies that happen swift and sudden 
 as a tornado in these lawless places liberated me. 
 We had gone into the inner parlour of the saloon. 
 Four men were playing poker with a grimy pack of 
 cards. I recognized two — Big Din, now gray and 
 grizzled, but apparently as dangerous as ever. Sitting 
 quite close to him was the young man who had left 
 the saloon as we entered that morning., I could see 
 he was ill at ease. His hands shook as he dealt out 
 the cards. I concluded it was drink. It was deadly 
 fear. Several dangerous-looking fellows lounged about, 
 
THE PHANTOM AGAIN 257 
 
 and occasionally looked at the players. Suddenly, I 
 heard a voice saying in a quiet, passionless tone: — 
 
 "'You're chating, mate!' 
 
 "There was an oath from the young man and a 
 nervous declaration of iimocence. 
 
 "'See here, you Pete, and you Abe, just watch this 
 youngster, and see if I'm right.' 
 
 "It was the closing in of the wolves around the 
 doomed man, and I hastened to go. 
 
 "'Stop!' cried my friend. 'There's goin' to be 
 some fun, I reckon. You may never see this 'ere 
 circus again!' / 
 
 "The play went on silently. Then again Big Din 
 said: — 
 
 "'Now, was I right, mates? You seen the darned 
 cuss yersels.' 
 
 "In an instant there was the crack of a revolver, 
 and Big Din's hand hung helpless at his side. The 
 young man had arisen, the smoking weapon in his 
 hand. He saw that he was doomed, and determined 
 to anticipate. His hand was seized in a moment and 
 one of the roughs said: — 
 
 "'Allow me, youngster; 'tis too dangerous a toy 
 for a child.' 
 
 "He took the revolver from him and drew all the 
 charges, save one. 
 
 "'Five paces,' said Big Din, whilst they were binding 
 his wounded arm, 'a,nd his face to the lamp.' 
 
 "In a second the two men were face to face. I 
 crouched low, fearing the miscarriage of a bullet. 
 
258 GLENANAAR ' 
 
 '"Stand up,' said a voice; 'there is no danger here. 
 Big Din never missed his game yet.' 
 
 "The word was given. The two reports rang out 
 simultaneously. I heard the crash of glass behind 
 Big Din's head and knew he was safe. When the 
 smoke cleared, the young man was at my feet, and I 
 saw the tiny stream trickhng from his forehead. Big 
 Din came over and turned over with his foot his dead 
 antagonist. 
 
 '"I knew we'd meet,' he said. 'Lie there, you 
 sneak-thief; you son of an informer!' 
 
 " I gathered my wits together, and with the dreadful 
 words pursuing me, like demons, I loosed my team, 
 and sped fast into the night. 
 
 "For days and days the dreadful words haimted 
 me. They seemed an echo of what I had heard that 
 evening in the field at Kildorrery, and I could not 
 help asking myself would they pursue me all my life 
 long, and even to my grave. I knew they had an 
 intimate connection with myself; for putting all Big 
 Din's questions together, it was quite clear that these 
 Dadleys were my own people, and that probably my 
 mother's father had married again, and that that young 
 lad was my uncle It seemed too terrible, and yet 
 stranger things have happened. For the world is 
 small and one never knows whom you may knock up 
 against in the vicissitudes of life. 
 
 "However, time and occupation more or less dimmed 
 my recollection of these things, but the old horror 
 came back when I finally determined to visit this Old 
 
THE PHANTOM AGAIN 259 
 
 land again. I argued if such things can be carried 
 across the ocean, and confront you away from civili- 
 zation, surely the same, or worse, may occur on the 
 very spot where these things happened. However, 
 Father, you have reassured me somewhat. It only, 
 now remains to see Nora, learn my fate, and leave 
 Ireland forever." 
 
 I little dreamed that the old phantom would crop 
 up, and in the most unexpected place. But it was 
 soon exorcised and forever. 
 
CHAPTER XXV 
 
 AFTER MANY YEARS 
 
 The next few days I was at my wits' ends to dis- 
 cover some way of breaking the eventful news to Mrs. 
 Leonard, and securing her consent to a proposal that 
 would lift her and her children out of poverty forever. 
 And I had also to suggest some little changes that 
 would make the ravages of time and trouble less visible 
 to the eyes of him who had kept his dream so faith- 
 fully all these years. This was no easy task, for if 
 always extremely clean and neat, Nora Leonard had 
 bidden farewell to all human vanities forevermore. 
 I threw out a few little hints that she might have unex- 
 pected visitors, that her cousin. Father Curtin, might 
 call, and that really she should tidy up things, etc. 
 I saw my words fall on unheeding ears, and I simply 
 determined to let matters take their course, I told 
 the "Yank" this, and that he should be his own 
 cicerone on the important occasion. He told me all 
 afterwards. 
 
 He had dressed himself with unusual care that 
 Sunday evening, and when the night fell he went forth 
 to reconnoitre. He had no difficulty about finding 
 the wretched shop. It was unmistakable. The 
 empty package papers in the windows, the dim, par- 
 260 
 
AFTER MANY YEARS 261 
 
 affin lamp swinging from the low ceiling, the strings 
 of onions and red herrings, the tea-chests, alas! without 
 tea, — all indicated the wretchedness and poverty of 
 the place. As he sauntered up and down in apparent 
 carelessness and listlessness, although his heart was 
 beating wildly, and he had never been so nervous in 
 his hfe, he caught a ghmpse through the window- 
 packages of a great, glowing mass of auburn hair. 
 He couldn't see the face, but his heart stood still. It 
 was the same he had seen twenty years back beneath 
 the hawthorn tree, with the setting sun glinting upon 
 it. That settled matters. He gulped down something, 
 pulled nervously at the cigar between his teeth, and 
 stepped into the dingy shop. A tall, girlish , figure 
 arose and confronted him. Carried away by the ex- 
 traordinary Ukeness to the young girl he had parted 
 from so many years ago, he could not help exclaim- 
 ing:— 
 
 "Nora!" 
 
 Then in an instant reason came to his aid, and he 
 coughed, and said: — 
 
 "Can you let me have some cigarettes?" 
 
 The girl flushed crimson, and then turned pale, as 
 she stared at this unexpected customer. She went 
 over to a Uttle glass door and tapped. The door 
 opened gently as the girl said: — 
 
 "Mother, a gentleman vrants some cigarettes. Have 
 we any?" 
 
 And Nora Leonard, the girl who had bade him 
 good-bye so many years ago beneath the hawthorn, 
 
262 GLENANAAR 
 
 and in the light of the setting sun, now came forward 
 wearily into the dingy, dusky shop, beneath the blurred 
 and smoking lamp. His heart gave a great sob, as 
 he saw at once the terrible change; but he said he 
 would go through it to the end. ' ' And if she is changed 
 so much to me" he thought, "I must 'be -equally 
 changed to her. She can never recognize me." 
 
 " I'm afraid, sir," she said, looking vacantly around 
 the wretched shop, "that we cannot obhge you. What 
 
 we have are worthless. If you would call up at 's, 
 
 or at the hotel, you could get what you require." 
 
 "Wal," he said, "I guess I ain't particular. There 
 just behind you is a package of 'Egyptians.'" 
 
 She turned to look. He saw how the crease in her 
 hair had widened, and how gray was the knot she had 
 looped up and tied behind. She put the package on 
 the counter, and said: — 
 
 " I fear they're mouldy and must be thrown away." 
 
 "Wal, never mind, never mind," he said. "How 
 much shall I pay?" 
 
 Something in his attitude or manner struck the mind 
 of the poor woman, for she got nervous and trembled. 
 But she said: — 
 
 "Would you consider sixpence too much?" 
 
 The wretched price she aSked, denoting extreme 
 poverty, and her attitude of beseeching humiliation, 
 touched the strong man deeply. He placed a half- 
 crown on the counter, and she said : — 
 
 "I fear we haven't got the change, sir. Take it 
 back, and you can pay when you call again." 
 
AFTER MANY YEARS 263 
 
 She pushed back the coin towards him. He took 
 it and at the same time grasped her hand firmly, and 
 said: — 
 
 "Nora!" 
 
 The colour left her cheeks instantly, and her eyes 
 opened in affright, as she said, without disengaging 
 her hand: — 
 
 "Who? What is it?" and then, as the recognition 
 flashed suddenly upon her: — 
 
 "Ted!" 
 
 "Yes!" he said. "I'm glad you know me. I 
 thought I should be too much changed." 
 
 For some seconds these two, so long parted, stared 
 at one another in silence, the strong man's hand resting 
 softly upon hers. The quicjc recognition gratified him 
 exceedingly, as he looked and looked, and tried to 
 reconcile the changed figure and features with what he 
 had known. At last she said: — 
 
 "It is just as if you came back from the grave!" 
 
 "I'm glad you had not entirely forgotten me," he 
 said. 
 
 "How could I?" she replied, almost unconsciously. 
 Then the possible meaning of her words flashed back 
 upon her and she blushed. In the sudden transfor- 
 mation he thought he saw the Nora of his dreams 
 again. But this vanished and it was only a broken, 
 almost aged widow that confronted him. 
 
 "And this is your daughter, I suppose?" he said, 
 disengaging his hand and stretching it out to Tessie. 
 "She is so extremely Uke what you — hke you, I 
 
264 GLENANAAR 
 
 mean," he stammered, "I actually called her 'Nora' 
 when I came in." 
 
 "An' how long have you been home ? " Nora inquired. 
 
 "A couple of months," he replied. 
 
 "An' you never called before?" she said, reproach- 
 fuUy. 
 
 "I was laid up at the hotel," he said. "I received 
 a hurt." 
 
 "Then," she said, as a new Ught dawned upon her, 
 "you're the 'Yank' all the town was talking about?" 
 
 "I suppose so," he said, smiling. "I was never 
 made so much of before, I think." 
 
 "And it was you, I. suppose, the parish priest wanted 
 me to go and nurse?" 
 
 "I believe so," he said. "I'm sorry you didn't 
 accept his Reverence's offer. You'd have spared me 
 some suffering." 
 
 " Then," she repUed, as the light of great solicitude 
 dawned in her eyes, "you were bad?" 
 
 "Wal," he replied, "I wasn't exactly bad. But you 
 can guess how lonely and miserable a fellow would 
 feel in a strange place and not a human being to 
 exchange a word with for weeks." 
 
 She felt a curious kind of remorse as if she were to 
 blame for all that dreary time he had spent, and her 
 face showed it. 
 
 "If you had known it was I," he said, noticing her 
 look, "jtou'd have come? Say you would." 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "No, Ted," she replied. "I would not, though I 
 
AFTER MANY YEARS 265 
 
 am sorry for you, and all you went through. Let 
 bygones be bygones!" 
 
 "You're changed, Nora," he said, sadly. "And I 
 suppose so am I. But I wanted to ask you a few 
 questions about them that are gone." 
 
 "Won't you come into the parlour?" she said, he 
 thought, reluctantly. "There's no one here but Kath- 
 leen. The place is very small and narrow," she added, 
 apologetically. 
 
 It was — very small and narrow and ill-furnished. 
 A few shaky, old chairs, the cretonne covering them 
 faded and soiled, a dark cupboard in one comer, a 
 few prints on the mantelpiece flanked by some paper 
 flowers, and the table at which Kathleen sat — that 
 was all. A wretched hand-lamp, smoky and bleared, 
 such as would hang from a stable wall, gave poor 
 light, and must have strained the sight of the girl, 
 whose long hair swept the pages of the book she w^s 
 reading. He thought of his own comfortable cottage 
 by the lake and beneath the Sierras, of the rich furni- 
 ture brought all the way from New York, of the 
 veranda, hidden under wild, luxuriant creepers, of 
 the easy chairs and lounges, the books and pictures; 
 and once again his heart gave a great sob. Kathleen 
 looked up from her book, Joyce's "Child History of 
 Ireland," and stood up to go as the stranger entered. 
 She gave him a long, deep, searching look, and held 
 out her hand in a cold, curt greeting. Her mother 
 said: — 
 
 "You needn't go, Kathleen. This is an old friend." 
 
266 GLENANAAR 
 
 The girl sat down, and without taking further heed 
 bent her head over her book again. 
 
 He took the proffered chair and said: — 
 
 "Would you mind my smoking, Nora?" 
 
 He didn't care about smoking just then, but his 
 nerves were trembhng and he was making great mental 
 attempts to control himself. 
 
 "No!" she 'said, simply. 
 
 He smoked in silence for a few seconds. There was 
 no sound in the room. Kathleen was bent down over 
 her book, yet somehow he felt her keen, gray eyes 
 searching him again and again. At last, with some 
 hesitation, he said: — 
 
 "I heard that mother died soon after I left for 
 America ? " 
 
 "No^ very soon," said Nora, rising to kindle the 
 wretched fire, which served for cooking, heating, and 
 every other domestic purpose. "I think you were 
 gone about six months when she sickened. Then she 
 lingered on and on for twelve months more. And then 
 she died." 
 
 "What was her ailment?" he asked. 
 
 "Some said one thing, and some said another," 
 replied Nora. "The doctors said it was a decline, but 
 she herself always said it was a broken heart." 
 
 It was the blunt truth, but then Nora always was 
 blunt and he liked her not the less for it. 
 
 "You kept your promise, Nora," he said. "I know 
 you did." 
 
 "What promise?" she asked. 
 
AFTER MANY YEARS 267 
 
 ""That you would go see :her often, and that you 
 would tell her all that I told you." 
 
 He spoke as of events that occurred yesterday. 
 Twenty-five years had rolled back and left no trace to 
 obliterate the anguish and passion of that time. 
 
 "Yes!" she repUed, simply. "There was hardly a 
 day some of us didn't go to see her. Donal Connors 
 was a great friend in the time of trouble." 
 
 "He was a good man. Is he aUve still?" 
 
 "He is, indeed, and as strong as ever. He has a 
 houseful of children about him now." 
 
 "But the other part of your promise! Did you give 
 my mother my message?" 
 
 "I did," she said, simply. "But one deed is worth 
 more than many declarations," she added. 
 
 Again it was the bitter truth she was speaking. He 
 felt it deeply. He knew that the deadly blow he had 
 given his mother was not to be healed by empty pro- 
 testations of sorrow. 
 
 "Looking back upon it all now," he said, in self- 
 defence, "I do not think I could have done anything 
 else. I think I was right in getting away. I could 
 never undo the injury. I could never get back that 
 one word." 
 
 "I'm sorry to hear you say so," said Nora. "It 
 wasn't the word you said that killed your mother, 
 but your backing up that word by abandoning her 
 forever." 
 
 "But how could I go back and face Her and father 
 again?" he argued. "I faced the world, the sea, the 
 
268 GLENANAAR 
 
 mountains, the prairies, wild beasts, wilder men, rather 
 than look upon her sad eyes reproaching me." 
 
 He had flung his cigar into the grate, and rubbed his 
 hands across his eyes. These he kept shaded now. 
 Kathleen had closed her book, and was watching him 
 intently. 
 
 After some moments he stood up to go. Nora 
 said: — 
 
 "Are you going back soon?" 
 
 "Yes!" he replied, blinking at the bleared lamp. 
 "What should I do in this unhappy country?" 
 
 "I hope things have gone well with you over the 
 water?" she said. 
 
 "Yes," he repUed, "everything has prospered with 
 me. So far as worldly goods are concerned, I have no 
 reason to be dissatisfied. 
 
 This imphed some exception to his general happiness 
 which his Usteners were not slow to perceive. 
 
 "Yet one cannot help feehng an exile and a hanker- 
 ing after old ties!" Nora said. 
 
 "True! But it wears away. Especially," he addedj 
 "after you have once come back and seen all your 
 dreams flung to the winds." 
 
 Nora flushed up and stooped down to the fire to 
 conceal her confusion, although the Yank had not a 
 thought of what was in her mind. 
 
 "You dream over there," he continued, "of the blue 
 moimtains, the silver river, the white thorn in the 
 May-time, the dance, the hurling-match, the boys and 
 girls you knew. You feel that you must see it all 
 
AFTER MANY YEARS 269 
 
 again, or die. You come back. All is desolation and 
 loneliness and ruin. The mountains are there, and 
 the rivers, and the blossoms, and the wild flowers, 
 and the leaves; but it is a land of the past — no present, 
 no future! Do you know that I walked four miles to 
 Templeruadhan on last Thursday, and never saw a 
 human being — not a living thing but a couple of 
 donkeys and a goat!" 
 
 "And who's to blame for that?" said Kathleen, 
 with hashing eyes, now for the first time breaking 
 silence. "I'll tell you. 'Tis you, Irish-Americans, 
 who fly from your coimtry, and then try to make 
 everyone else fly also.", 
 
 "Thank God!" he said, smiling sarcastically. "I 
 feared you were dumb!" 
 
 "No, nor deaf, nor blind," she said, angrily. "'Tis 
 ye, the recruiting-sergeants of England, that are 
 sweeping the people away, with your letters: 'Come! 
 Come! For God's sake, leave your cabins, and come 
 out to wealth and comfort.' And ye are patriots!" 
 
 She spoke with intense sarcasm, her gray eyes 
 glowing with passion. 
 
 "I'm almost tempted to say, in your own words," 
 he repUed, smiUng, "Come! Come!" 
 
 "No!" she said, stamping her Uttle foot. "If you 
 were to give me all the gold in California, and all 
 the silver in the Rockies, I wouldn't leave my own 
 country." , 
 
 "There, Ted, don't mind her," said her mother. 
 "She has picked up all this nonsense from Thade 
 
270 GLENANAAR 
 
 Murphy. I suppose you'll come to see us before you 
 go?" 
 
 He lingered behind. The momentous question that 
 had been on his lips for twenty-five years remained 
 unsaid. He could not say how he was defeated. 
 Everything was against him. He said good-night, 
 hngered for a few moments, talking to Tessie in the 
 wretched shop, and went back to his hotel to fight with 
 his conscience and sense of honour. 
 
 "What more can I do?" he reasoned. "I have had 
 the best intentions and see how they are frustrated. 
 Evidently, Nora regards such a thing as out of the 
 question. And yet " 
 
 The truth was, the old figure and face had glimmered 
 away into that dream of the past of which he had 
 spoken. He had seen, and been undeceived. Time, 
 which he thought had stood still, had been marching 
 ever onward and leaving his footprints everywhere. 
 
 "I'll bluntly put the question some day this week," 
 he said. "And then " 
 
 He stood undecided. He was afraid to say what he 
 thought. A new dream had come into his Hfe, and 
 the old dream was fading as a second rainbow melts 
 beneath the brightness of the first. He was ashamed 
 to admit it. Nevertheless, he sat down and wrote the 
 agent of the line he travelled by to give him a month's 
 grace. 
 
CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 AN ANCIENT REBEL 
 
 "Well," I said to him a few days later, "all's 
 well ? And you're ' off to Philadelphy in the momin " ? " 
 
 "JS[o," he said, but not loo sadly, I thought. "All 
 went wrong, and I blame a young spitfire for it. If 
 that's the class of young girls that are being reared in 
 Ireland now, you'll have another Rising before twenty 
 years." 
 
 "Kathleen?" I asked. 
 
 "Yes!" he said. "She hadn't the good maimers to 
 leave the room, and it struck me that Nora didn't 
 wish it either." 
 
 "But you'd have said all you wanted to say," I 
 suggested, "if Kathleen had not been there?" 
 
 "Ye-e-es!" he said, I thought, dubiously. "I'd 
 have ended the matter then and there forever." 
 
 "Then you saw no great change?" I asked. 
 
 "Ah, there is. Father," he replied, candidly. "I 
 could never believe that time could work such havoc." 
 
 "And still you are determined?" 
 
 "Yes!" he said. "But I think 'tis useless, I saw 
 
 that Nora was as nervous as myself, and I think she 
 
 was relieved when I left. But, now, if Tessie had 
 
 been there instead of that young rebel — by the way, 
 
 271 , 
 
272 GLENANAAR 
 
 where did she pick up these revolutionary ideas ? Do 
 they teach these things in the convents now?" 
 
 Then he mentioned all the details of his visit. 
 
 I was not much surprised at these developments of 
 my young friend, Kathleen. With all kinds of ten- 
 dencies to tomboyism, she showed occasionally indi- 
 cation of a character self-willed and stubborn, yet 
 generous and enthusiastic. She was the plague and 
 the darling of her own class. She got more premiums 
 and stripes than any other girl. But she never got a 
 prize for what is called "ladyUke deportment." It 
 was difficult to get an act of contrition from her for 
 her misdemeanours, but it was very genuine when it 
 came. Many a time I had to Hft her, when an infant, 
 in my arms off the stool of repentance, where she had 
 been placed, face to the wall, and shamefully covered 
 vnth her pinafore. Her little frame would be rigid as 
 iron under the stress of strong passion, and then would 
 melt away into limpness when the soft spot in her 
 heart was touched. It was clear that this young, 
 strong character would take its decided bias from 
 circumstances; and the circumstance was near at hand 
 that made her a bigoted little rebel, and in her own 
 imagination, and that of her teacher, an Irish Joan of 
 Arc. 
 
 Just across the street was another huxter's shop, 
 vfith somewhat greater pretensions than Mrs. Leon- 
 ard's, because there pigs' heads were sold, and I know 
 Mrs. Leonard never ventured beyond red herrings. 
 It was owned by a Mrs. Murphy, a good, kindly, 
 
AN ANCIENT REBEL 273 
 
 grauver Irish matron, who was proprietress and factor 
 turn in the establishment. Her husband, Thade 
 Murphy, was bhnd, and never ventured abroad but 
 to Mass on Sundays. In the long summer evenings 
 he would come out and sit and smoke on the stone 
 bench outside the shop window, and roll his poor 
 sightless eyes around, and welcome every one who 
 stopped for a httle seanchus. But during the long 
 winter evenings he never appeared, but smoked by 
 the kitchen fire, and dreamed of the past. It was 
 eventful enough. He, too, had been a '67 man; and, 
 if all the young fellows who went out that bitter night 
 in March, thirty-five years ago, were not pronounced 
 rebels, not one man came back from the short-lived 
 revolution who was not the sworn foe of foreign domi- 
 nation in Ireland. For a few years Thade Murphy 
 pursued his usual avocation of carrier between the 
 village and the railway; then the ophthalmia contracted 
 on the mountain snows became aggravated by constant 
 exposure to the weather, until it terminated finally in 
 total blindness. I often urged him to go to Cork and 
 put himself under surgical treatment. No! It was 
 the will of God, and there was no gainsaying it. He 
 tried all local remedies — hypothetical and infallible, 
 but they failed ^im. Even the "fasting-spit," three 
 times each morning, did not succeed. And then with 
 the resignation, the fataUsm of the race, he gave up 
 remedies and calmly accepted his fate. 
 
 Kathleen Leonard, hke all children, was in and out 
 of the shop at all times. When she was in the sixth 
 
274 GLENANAAR 
 
 standard, and able to read fluently, she would often 
 spend half an hour with the blind man in the kitchen, 
 reciting scraps of poetry, or reading little passages from 
 her school-books to while away the lonely hours for 
 the poor, stricken fellow. By degrees, she ascertained 
 his predilections in reading, and adapted herself to 
 them. And so A. M. Sullivan's "Story of Ireland," 
 " The Penny Readings from the ' Nation,' " etc., became 
 favourite books, until at last the pupil went beyond 
 her master, and caught the sacred tire to create a 
 conflagration. No wonder! A calm Enghshman said 
 once to the present writer, speaking of England's 
 treatment of Ireland: "'Twas appalling!" A very 
 conservative Irishman declared: "It turns my blood 
 into molten fire." It was no great surprise, then, that 
 a young, ardent, impetuous nature, like Kathleen's, 
 should have flamed into rebellious sentiments which, 
 though we smiled them down, were very real and 
 pronounced. It was only by degrees the truth dawned 
 upon us; and, strange enough, it was sufficiently 
 singular to cause some comment. 
 
 "I don't know where she got it, I'm sure," said her 
 mother. "'Twasn't from me, I have had something 
 else to think about; and surely 'twasn't from her 
 father. It must be that old Thade Murphy has turned 
 her head!" 
 
 "The children now don't trouble much about Ireland 
 and her nationhood and her welfare," I remarked. 
 ""Whilst the 'American fever' is on them they care 
 little for the motherland. It is some consolation at 
 
AN ANCIENT REBEL 275 
 
 least that one child has righteous sentiments towards 
 her country." 
 
 "You always stand up for her, through thick and 
 thin," said Mrs. Leonard. "You and Thade are her 
 sponsors. The only thing where he differs from your 
 Reverence is, that you'll make a nun of her, and he 
 says she'll be married to some fellow who has been in 
 jail three or four times, and she'll be the mother of 
 another Robert Emmet." 
 
 "Not a bad thing, either," I said. "She'll be the 
 happy woman, if that's the choice that's left her." 
 
 Soon, however, Kathleen's fervour became a trouble- 
 some element in our little, quiet, village Uves. She 
 became openly insubordinate in school. Part of the 
 programme for inspection was the recitation of certain 
 poetical extracts in the school-books. And these had 
 not only to be carefully committed to memory, but 
 deKvered with right intonation and emphasis. It 
 happened that Macaulay's "Horatius" was one of the 
 pieces selected, and in this the sixth standard was 
 drilled and drilled 'every day. On the very eve almost 
 of the inspectibn, the class was marshalled as usual, 
 and the monitress, full of zeal, was demanding a full 
 and scientific rendering of the noble lines. Each child 
 had a stanza to herself, and when it came to Kathleen's 
 turn, the monitress said: — 
 
 "Go on, Katty Leonard!" 
 
 Kathleen hesitated. 
 
 "Go on, miss! 'Then out spake brave Horatius.'" 
 
 Kathleen's hands hung rigid by her side, her little 
 
276 GLENANAAR 
 
 fists clenched tightly, as, to the utter consternation of 
 the monitress, she said in a firm, passionate tone: — 
 
 After Aughrim's great disaster — ^ 
 
 "No, no, no," cried the monitress. "What ails you, 
 child? ' Then out spake brave Horatius, the Captain 
 of the gate.' " 
 
 Then the storm burst. With blazing eyes, the girl 
 went on, without stopping, whilst the monitress sat 
 paralyzed: — 
 
 After Aughrim's great disaster, 
 
 When our foe, in sooth, was master, 
 
 It was you that first plunged in and swam 
 
 The Shannon's boiling flood; ■ 
 And through Slieve Bloom's dark passes, 
 You led our Gallowglasses, 
 Altho' the hungry Saxon wolves 
 
 Were howling for our blood. 
 And as we crossed Tipperary, 
 We rieved the clan O'Leary, 
 And drove a creacht before us. 
 
 As our horsemen southward came. 
 With our spears and swords we gored them, 
 As through flood and flight we bore them, 
 Still, Shaun O'Dwyer achorra. 
 
 We're worsted in the game. 
 
 There was consternation in the class. Some of the 
 girls tittered, some turned pale at the awful audacity. 
 The monitress bit her lips and said: — 
 
 "Go on. Miss Leonard, go on. Perhaps there is 
 more of this kind." . 
 
 There was dead silence now in the school. Those 
 who were reading stopped suddenly, pencils ceased to 
 
AN ANCIENT REBEL 277 
 
 rattle on slates, and pens were held suspended over 
 the ink-wells. The sudden notoriety and the moni- 
 tress's sarcasm touched the girl's pride, and she con- 
 tinued with ever-growing emphasis: — 
 
 I^ng, long we kept the hillside, 
 Our couch hard by the rill-side; 
 The sturdy knotted oaken boughs 
 
 Our curtains overhead; 
 The summer's blaze we laughed at, 
 The winter's snow we scoffed at, 
 And trusted to our long steel swords 
 
 To win us daily bread; 
 Till the Dutchman's troops came round us. 
 In fire and steel they bound us; 
 They blazed the woods and mountains 
 
 Till the very clouds were flame; 
 Yet our sharpened swords cut through them, 
 In their very heart we hewed them — 
 Oh! Shaun O'Dwyer achorra. 
 
 We're worsted in the game. 
 
 "Perhaps you are not quite finished yet, Miss 
 Leonard," said the monitress. "Go on. You had 
 better end, as you've begun." 
 
 Nothing loth, Kathleen continued: — 
 
 I Here's a health to your and my King, 
 The Sovereign of our liking; 
 And to Sarsfield, underneath whose flag 
 
 We cast once more a chanCe; 
 For the morning's dawn will bring us 
 Across the seas, and wing us 
 To take our stand, and wield a brand 
 
 Among the sons of France. 
 And though we part in sorrow, 
 §till, Shaun O'Dwyer achorra. 
 
278 GLEISTANAAR 
 
 Oiir prayer is: ' God save Ireland! 
 
 And pour blessings on her name)' 
 May her sons be true when needed — • 
 May they never feel as we did. 
 For, Shaun O'Dwyer aglanna, 
 
 We're worsted in the game. 
 
 The monitress was crying with vexation when the 
 mistress of the school came to inquire what it was all 
 about. Kathleen was pale with excitement, but 
 defiant, as the matter was solemnly reported. 
 
 It was a bad breach of disciphne, and could not be 
 overlooked. And my services were requisitioned. 
 Now, although of fairly equable temperament in ordi- 
 nary Ufe, Rhadamanthus on his sooty throne could 
 not hold a candle to me where law and order are con- 
 cerned. The following day I called over the delin- 
 quent to the seat of judgment. She came, alarmed, 
 but defiant. 
 
 "This is a nice condition of things, young lady," I 
 said. "Let me see! Insubordination, disobedience, 
 contumacy, contempt, rebellion, and revolution, — all 
 in one act!" 
 
 "I couldn't help it," she said, her lower lip trembling. 
 
 "You couldn't help it," I repeated, sarcastically. 
 "Then you didn't know your poetry?" 
 
 "I did, but " as a great big tear gathered and 
 
 fell. 
 
 "But Tvhat?" I excUimed, not a bit softened. 
 
 "But {sob) — I thought {soh) that {soh) we shouldn't 
 {soh) be praising {soh) these old Romans {soh) for what 
 {soh) our own countrymen {soh) did as well {sob)." 
 
AN ANCIENT REBEL 279 
 
 "That's all right," I said, unrelenting. "But do 
 you think it right for a little girl, I beg your pardon, 
 a young lady, like you, to take the law into your own 
 hands?" 
 
 There was no answer to this but a good deal of 
 weeping behind a pinafore. , 
 
 "Now do you know what will become of you, if 
 you go on in this way?" 
 
 "I {sob) don't!" 
 
 "Well, let me first tell you the consequences to others. 
 If that unruly recitation of rebel poetry was reported 
 to Dublin, one or two Commissioners would get sudden 
 and awful deaths. And if it reached the Treasury in 
 London, do you know what would happen?" 
 
 "I do-don't." 
 
 "Well, I'll tell you. They'd send the Channel Fleet 
 to Queenstown, and perhaps they might go so far as 
 to call up the North Cork Militia." 
 
 She looked at me dubiously. 
 
 "That would mean," I continued, relentlessly, "pla- 
 cing two or three milHons more of taxation on the 
 broken backs of Irishmen, and all because a little girl 
 won't have the sense to keep her patriotism within 
 bounds." 
 
 "But, sure you often said yourself " 
 
 "Never mind what I said. But, now coming back 
 to yourself, do you know what will happen to you? 
 Well, you'U be transported to Botany Bay, or Pen- 
 tonville, or Mountjoy; you'U have to sleep on a plank 
 bed — do you know what a plank bed is?" 
 
280 GLENANAAR 
 
 "I heard (sob) of it, but I never saw (sob) it," 
 
 "Well, don't fret! You will, and the experience 
 won't be pleasant. A plank bed is a medium between 
 a feather tick and a flagged floor. And you'll have to 
 eat skilly out of a rusty iron spoon, and dress these 
 luxuriant tresses of yours, if they're not cut off, with a 
 dirty comb, with no teeth in it, and which has beea 
 used by every virago and drunkard for the last twenty 
 years." 
 
 She gave a httle shudder here. 
 
 "And you'll have to wear a thick, bulky dress of 
 frieze, with the Queen's arrow marked all over it, and 
 white worsted socks and boots that never saw the 
 colour of blacking; But it vnll be all right. I'll go to 
 see you sometimes, and I'll recite for you through the 
 keyhole of your dark cell: — 
 
 Ah, Kathaleen achorra. 
 
 Sure, you're worsted in the game." 
 
 This sarcasm made her mad, so she dried her tears 
 defiantly. I had then to speak to the school and 
 explain the nature of her penance. 
 
 "I've told this young lady already the nature of her 
 offence, which is a gross breach of school discipline. 
 She may be right or she may be wrong in preferring 
 'Shaun O'Dwyer a Glanna' to 'Horatius.' That's a 
 matter of taste. But no child has a right to take the 
 law into her own hands. That would mean a sub- 
 version of all discipline. You have a right to consti- 
 tutional agitation for the redress of wrongs or the 
 
AN ANCIENT ;REBEL 281 
 
 assertion of rights. But whilst the regulations are 
 there in black and white, they must be respected. 
 Now there is an amiable custom in the great public 
 schools of England to compel naisdemeanants both to 
 contrition and reformation of character. That is, boys 
 are punished for mistakes in their class-lessons by being 
 compelled to write out fifty or a hundred lines of Virgil 
 or Homer. They are thus taught that it is easier to say 
 one line well than to write fifty. And so, Miss Kathleen 
 Leonard will bring me to-morrow, written out in her 
 own weltknown Civil Service style, and the Civil Ser- 
 vice is that of England, whose caHgraphy she is so 
 proud in copying, the whole and entire of that famous 
 Lay by Lord Macaulay, called 'Horatius.'" 
 
 There was a great sigh, I don't know whether it 
 was relief or consternation, when the dread sentence 
 was passed and the business of the school resumed. 
 
 Next day, just at twelve o'clock, I called up the 
 dehnquent. She came forward, shamefacedly, with 
 bent head, and handed me her copy-book, wrapped in 
 brown paper, and tied with red tape. 
 
 "All right!" I said. "I'll take it home and study 
 it at my leisure. But mind you, if there is one line 
 missing, or one word misspelt, you'll have to write it 
 all over again." 
 
 I took it home and forgot all about it till after tea- 
 time. Then I took it up, having first placed the 
 "Lays pf Ancient Rome" open on my desk. What I 
 saw was this, written in the firm, upright hand I knew 
 so well: — 
 
882 GLENANAAR 
 
 ONE WILD HURRAHl 
 {A Lay 0/ Modem Ireland.) 
 
 1 
 I'm gro-wing old, my hair is white. 
 
 My pulse is dull; 
 I know no more the fierce delight 
 
 Of life, when full. 
 
 II 
 The frail bark of my Ufe sweeps on 
 
 To that dark sea, 
 Whence murmurs the dread monotone — 
 'Eternity. 
 
 Ill 
 And nothing stirs the withered leaf, 
 
 Wrinkled and sere. 
 I smile not; and the keenest grief 
 
 Declines a tear. 
 
 IV 
 I'm dead; but for this fluttering breath 
 
 My marble smiles 
 Down the long hnes of conquering Death 
 ■ In twilight aisles. 
 
 V 
 And yet, dear God! if still the day 
 
 Would dawn for me. 
 When I could catch the first, faint ray 
 
 Of Liberty; 
 
 VI 
 
 If 'thwart mine eyes the hght did flash 
 
 From Freedom's flags, 
 Borne in the wild tempestuous dash 
 
 That downward drags 
 
AN ANCIENT REBEL 283 
 
 VII 
 That banner, black with blood — the thiist 
 
 Of alien hosts; 
 If once mine ear could hear the burst 
 
 That drowns their boasts, 
 
 VIII 
 And I could list the thrilling tramp 
 
 Of marshalled men, 
 Borne from serried camp to camp 
 
 In deU and glen; 
 
 IX 
 And if the emblazoned bannerets 
 
 Of Freedom shone 
 Above the snowy minarets 
 
 Of SUeve-na-mon, — 
 
 X 
 
 I'd gaze into my gaping tomb 
 
 Without a sigh; 
 I'd bless amid the gathering gloant 
 
 My God on high. 
 
 XI 
 Then, catch one gasp of fading breath 
 
 From Time's grim claw; 
 And speed along the gulf of Death 
 
 One wild Hurrah! 
 
 I rubbed my eyes. Then my spectacles. There 
 was no mistake. I turned over every other page of 
 the copy-book. They were blank. It was a spick- 
 span new copy-book. There was no other mark, but 
 a pen-and-ink sketch of a round tower, a wolf-dog, and 
 Erin, represented by a young lady, probably Kathleen 
 herself, with great flashing eyes, helmeted head, hair 
 
284 GLENANAAR 
 
 coiled up in a Grecian knot, a flashing sword in her 
 right hand, and the broken links of a chain at her 
 feet. In a corner were the words: — ' 
 
 Kathleen Leonard, for 
 Thade Murphy, Rebel and Patriot. 
 
 "What did you do?" Well, never mind. You 
 may be sure I did the right thing. I always do. I 
 only introduce the circumstance here to show how 
 Kathleen became chief actor in the dinouement which 
 was now rapidly approaching. And it dawned on my 
 slow imagination at the same time, that this was no 
 longer a child, but a woman. The mighty emotion 
 that had been stirred within her soul had transformed 
 her suddenly, and though I still treated her as a school- 
 girl, I felt that she was altogether a different being 
 from the litds hoyden who used to sing to vex her 
 mother: — 
 
 I won't be a nun, 
 And I shan't be a nun, 
 And my parents often told me 
 
 That I won't be a nun; 
 There's an oflScer on guard, 
 And 'tis with him I will run 
 And my heart is full of pleasure 
 And I won't be a nunl 
 
CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 REJECTED 
 
 A FEW evenings later the Yank got his opportunity, 
 and seized upon it. He had called every night, but 
 something always occurred to put aside his final decla- 
 ration, and its result. Sometimes there was a strange 
 visitor, whom the Yank regarded, of course, as an 
 intruder. Sometimes Nora was at the church and 
 would not return till rather late, and he had to while 
 away the time by talking to Tessie in the shop and 
 telling her of the strange land beyond the seas. She 
 was an attentive listener and was eager for all manner 
 of information about America, its citizens, its nation- 
 alities, races, institutions. Somehow the time used to 
 pass quickly, and when Nora would return at half-past 
 nine or ten o'clock he would tear out his great gold 
 repeater with surprise and declare that he never 
 suspected it could be so late. 
 
 But this evening Nora was at home, the girls were 
 at a small party given in the neighbourhood, and the 
 Yank felt his time had come. 
 
 "I suppose, Ted," she said, as they sat in the mis- 
 erable, stuffy parlour together, "you'll be going back 
 soon?" 
 
 "I suppose so," he said, laconically. 
 28s 
 
286 GLENANAAR 
 
 "And you'll be going alone. You're not taking with 
 you what everyone said you came for?" 
 
 "What was that?" he cried, suddenly interested. 
 "The people know my business better than I know it 
 myself." 
 
 "Perhaps," said Nora, smiling, "you have a wife 
 in America already, and you could not take back a 
 second ? " 
 
 "I might have had," he said, in a tone of sadness, 
 "over and over again, but for one thing." 
 
 "And what was that?" she asked. "Surely, you 
 haven't been such a fool as to let the old fancy and 
 fear pursue you across the water?" 
 
 "It did," he cried, "and I haven't got rid of it yet. 
 I have brought it with me. But it wasn't that!" 
 
 They were both silent, looking at the fire. At last 
 he said: — 
 
 "Nora, do you remember that evening twenty-five 
 years ago, when we parted, under the hawthorn?" 
 
 "I do, well," she said, without the least emotion. 
 
 "You offered yourself to me," he continued, "in 
 spite of my folly. You offered to brave the world 
 with me and to break with parents and kith and kin 
 forever, to follow me, an exile, and under a horrid ban 
 of- ignominy and shame." 
 
 She continued looking steadily at the fire as if calling 
 up the past. 
 
 "Well," he said, "I was fool enough to reject your 
 love and — your protection, for such it would have been 
 — then. If I make the offer now, will you reject me?" 
 
REJECTED 287 
 
 He felt as if the fate of his life were hanging in the 
 balance. Did he wish for a Yes, or a No ? He could 
 not tell. There were two pictures forever ghding 
 before him, one forever obhterating the other, blending, 
 fading, restored again, and ever again to be blotted 
 out. Which should it be? Here, on the one hand, 
 was an old love revived, the sense of honour, the memo- 
 ries of a quarter of a century, in which the picture of 
 that faded woman before him rose sainted and beautiful 
 to his fancy; there was the great pity for her present 
 wretchedness, and the poverty of her children; there 
 was the dream of what might yet be under new skies 
 and changed environments. And on the other hand, 
 there was the other picture of youth, and freshness, and 
 loveHness, and he saw his future wife a young queen 
 away in that lovely and beautiful home amidst the 
 snows. Which was it to be? 
 
 "And tell me, Ted," said the faded woman, in her 
 old, blunt, matter-of-fact way, "was it that brought 
 you back to Ireland after aU these years?" 
 
 "Yes," he said, firmly. "As I told you, I had many 
 and many an offer of marriage from millionaires in 
 Montana and Nevada. I could have married the 
 daughters of men who owned as much land as there 
 is in all Ireland; I could have paved my floors with 
 silver, and roofed my ceiHngs with gold. But no! 
 That evening, there in the sunset, over in Ballinslea, 
 was always before me. It carne up before me many 
 a night as I lay awake beneath the stars; I saw it facing 
 me when I was tempted to evil in the saloons of 'Frisco 
 
288 GLENANAAR 
 
 and Mexico; it kept toy faith alive, because I wanted 
 to be able to meet my mother in the other world and 
 to be able to ask you to be my wife in this; and now 
 my time has come. My heart bleeds for you, Nora, 
 and your little children. I can't bear to think of you, 
 struggling along in such awful poverty, and I, who 
 was never good enough for you, having everything 
 that man's heart can covet in this world. If I go back 
 without you I shall always be ashamed of my wealth. 
 The picture of you and your children struggUng against 
 misery and poverty will be always coming up before 
 me.y Come with me, bring Tessie and Kathleen, and 
 we'll be happier than even we could have been before!" 
 
 The second and more beautiful picture had now 
 faded away. 
 
 Nora Leonard sat with hands folded tight in her lap. 
 She was moved, deeply moved by the poor fellow's 
 fideUty, but she was not a bit shaken in her determi- 
 nation. 
 
 "Do you remember, Ted," she said, firmly, "the 
 reason you gave for not taking me with you twenty-five 
 years ago?" 
 
 "I do," he said, "and though it broke my heart, I 
 don't think I was wrong. I refused to take you with 
 me because I could not ask you to share my shame 
 and sorrow, or to reflect that shame and sorrow upon 
 your family." 
 
 "And for much the same reason," she said, "I 
 can't accept your offer now. I'd only be a burthen to 
 you, and perhaps a shame, in these strange lands, and 
 
REJECTED 289 
 
 amongst strange people. I'm an old woman, worn 
 out and faded from the trials of life, and I'm not fit to 
 take the position you offer me. In a year or two you 
 would tire of me " 
 
 "No! no!" he cried. "You don't know me. If I 
 waited for you so long, how could I tire of you so soon ? " 
 
 "It wasn't me you were waiting for," she said, "but 
 some one whom you thought was me. It wasn't an 
 old, broken-down woman that appeared to you in the 
 camps and saloons of America, but the girl you left 
 standing under the hawthorn the evening you left 
 home forever!" 
 
 It was so humble, so candid, and so true, that he 
 found himself admitting it, almost against his wish. 
 And with the acknowledgment there sprang up such 
 a sudden feeling of admiration for this brave woman, 
 that he mentally resolved to blot out the other and 
 brighter picture forever. 
 
 , "As for our poverty," she said, "we have borne it 
 now for so many years, it has become easy. Thank 
 God! we want for nothing. We have enough to eat 
 and drink, and if our clothes are not in the fashion, 
 they are at least good and serviceable enough. And 
 in a few months Tessie will be of age and we shall be 
 able to claim the few pounds her father left." 
 
 "Tessie will be such an heiress then," said the 
 Yank, "it will be hard to please her in a husband. 
 Nora, she's so like you — Kke what you were long 
 ago, that I went near saying to her, that first night I 
 came into the shop what I have now said to you." 
 
290 GLENANAAR 
 
 "Yes!" said the mother, musingly, "it was Tessie, 
 whom you never saw, and not I, who has been haunting 
 you all these years." 
 
 "She's a noble girl," he said, with a sigh, "Happy 
 is the man who'll get her." 
 
 "She's but a child," said Nora. 
 
 "Well," he said, rising up and speaking with some 
 bitterness, "there's one good done. The breed of the 
 informer will die out, and forever!" 
 
 One evening soon after, as the summer days were 
 closing in, Kathleen sat in a sugan chair in Mrs. 
 Murphy's back parlour. Thade Murphy sat over 
 against her, calmly smoking and occasionally taking 
 the pipe from his mouth to utter some comment on 
 what she was reading. After one such observation, 
 he suddenly said: — 
 
 "Close that book, Katty, and hsten to what I'm 
 goin' to say to you this blessed night!" 
 
 He had always something so important to divulge, 
 and he always spoke in so oracular a manner, that 
 Kathleen was not too much surprised. But she closed 
 her book and hstened. 
 
 "There was wan class of Irishmen that you never 
 hard me spake of," said Thade, "partly because I 
 wouldn't dirty my mouth wid them, and partly because 
 no dacent writer iver mintions them; but I must spake 
 of 'em now. Can you guess what I mane?" 
 
 Kathleen guessed MacMorrogh, and O'Brien of the 
 Burnings, and the clan that met the Munstermen 
 returning from Clontarf, and would have annihilated 
 
REJECTED 291 
 
 them. She also guessed at the shadowy Danaan, and 
 then came down to every barrister who took place and 
 power from Ireland's enemies. 
 
 "No!" said Thade. "You have mintioned a bad 
 lot enough. But you haven't sthruck on the worst 
 a-yet." 
 
 "Apostates!" shouted Kathleen. "They who have 
 abandoned their country and their God!" 
 
 "You're near it," he said, "but you haven't hit it 
 yet." 
 
 There was deep silence, Katty pondering over the 
 fire and trying to conjecture what lower depth of 
 infamy there could be. 
 
 The old man rose up, and he was very tall on his 
 feet, and stooping over to where the voice of the girl 
 directed him, he said, or rather hissed, in a tragic 
 voice: — 
 
 "In-form-ers!" 
 
 Then resuming his seat, he said more calmly, but 
 still oracularly: — 
 
 "There may be a hope for these misfortunate, mis- 
 guided min, who have dirtied their hands with English 
 gold; and I am not the wan to say that even a Souper 
 may not have a chance. Some people are now getting 
 so tindher-hearted that they'll sind Turk, Jew, and 
 Atheist, to heaven. But no wan ever in his right 
 sinses could forgive an informer. We have forgot 
 Keogh, and Scorpion Sulhvan, and the rest of their 
 dirty thribe, but we haven't forgot, though we never 
 mintion their names, a Corydon, a Nagle, or a Carey!" 
 
292 GLENANAAR 
 
 After this burst, the old man, whose white, sightless 
 eyes seemed starting from their sockets, subsided into 
 momentary silence. But it was but the pause between 
 the thunderclaps. Standing up again, and leaning 
 over towards the girl, who was drinking in his fierce 
 spirit, he said : — 
 
 "To quote the words of a man who didn't know 
 what he was talking about at the time: 'Hell isn't hot 
 enough nor eternity long enough' for thim!" 
 
 Kathleen was almost frightened, but she shared these 
 sentiments so fully that her indignation conquered her 
 terror. 
 
 After another long spell the old man said again: — 
 
 "Do you think that you understhand all that I 
 mane by thim words, a girsha ?" 
 
 "1 — I think I do," said, or rather stammered, 
 Kathleen. 
 
 "Thin," said the old man, reaching the grand climax 
 of his revelations, "you must know that you have wan 
 of thim reptiles benathe your own roof." 
 
 If he had told the girl that Satan was in her house, 
 under the disguise of a wildcat, or that there was a 
 famihar ghost haunting the garret under the roof, she 
 could not have been more surprised and shocked. 
 She sat speechless, not knowing what to think, and 
 awaiting further revelations. The old man, rightly 
 interpreting her silence, said at length : — 
 
 "Is there a returned American, called Casey, fray- 
 quentin' yer house these nights?" 
 
 She was obliged to say "Yes!" 
 
REJECTED 293 
 
 "What brings him there, d'ye think?" 
 
 Kathleen couldn't conjecture, but thought from 
 appearances that mother and he appeared to be old 
 friends. 
 
 " They were," he said^ significantly. " But he wants 
 to be closer than frinds now." 
 
 Kathleen couldn't understand. 
 
 "No wandher," he said; "you're young an' innicent, 
 and don't know the shlippery ways of the wurruld. 
 Had you anny conversation wid him yerself ?" 
 
 "Not much," she said. "But I pitched into him 
 and all his old Irish-Americans for dragging away the 
 people from their own motherland, just when she wants 
 them most." 
 
 "Put the hand there," he said, stretching out his 
 hard first. "You'll save yer counthry a-yet. Good 
 God! a hundred girls Uke you would do what we 
 failed to do." 
 
 "I did," said Kathleen, now quite excited with the 
 flattery, " and I told him they were all over there only 
 recruiting sergeants for England!" 
 
 "Good again!" said the old man. "Now listen. 
 About eighty years ago, in the time of the Whiteboys, 
 twinty-wan as dacent min as this parish ever produced 
 were arrested by the yeomen (Hell's fire to them, with 
 their pitch-caps and thriangles) and carried up to 
 Cork Gaol to be tried for their lives. They wor as 
 innicent as you are this moment, but their innimies 
 wanted blood, blood, an' they should have it. There 
 was no case agin them, but the Crown never yet in 
 
S94 GLENANAAR 
 
 Ireland wanted matayriels for a case, so long as they 
 could get rufi&ans to swear black was white fur their 
 dirty gold. And there |Wor plinty of them. O'Connell 
 saved the Uves of the misfortunate min. I never 
 thought much of O'Connell. He got his chance for 
 Ireland and he threw it away. If that day at Clontarf 
 he had only said the wurrd! But he thought, bad-cess 
 to him, that the whole counthry's freedom wasn't 
 worth a drop of blood. He was a thrator, but he 
 didn't know it, and we must give the divil his due. 
 He saved the hves of these min. But no thanks to 
 the Judges, the Juries, the Prosecutors, laste of all the 
 Informers, who swore up to the mark, wurrd by wurrd, 
 what they were taught, and for which they got their 
 divil's airnings, the blood-money of dacent min." 
 
 He paused for breath before the grand revelation. 
 
 "They left their counthry and wandhered like Cain, 
 wagabones, over the face of the airth. But they left 
 their spawn, the spawn of reptiles, behind them. 
 Wan of thim, the chief wan, the ringlayder, the spokes- 
 man, was called Cloumper Daly, and Cloumper Daly's 
 grandson is the Terence Casey who is now frayquenting 
 your house and wants to marry your mother!" 
 
 The thing seemed so horrible that the girl could not 
 speak. She looked curiously at the old man to see 
 were his wits wandering, for he often said he^ was 
 getting into his second childhood. But she had never 
 found him tripping hitherto. He had day and date 
 for everything. Even when he communicated to her, 
 under awful vows of secrecy, the exact place in Old- 
 
REJECTED 295 
 
 court graveyard where they had buried, with many 
 rites and prayers, a coffin full of rifle-barrels and 
 cartridges, well greased and protected against the damp 
 with oiled silk, she found she could trust him, although 
 it nearly cost her her hfe to keep closed lips on the 
 secret. But this revelation was so unutterable and 
 unthinkable that she could not speak. He misunder- 
 stood her silence. 
 
 "I dare say," he said, in that old cutting, ironical 
 way with which he always spoke of his enemies, "ye'll 
 all get a rise in the world now. I'hey say he has 
 phnty of goold dollars, an' as much land as you couldn't 
 walk in a mont'. An' sure, 'tisn't I that should be 
 sorry for yere uprise. Ye have suffered poverty 
 enough, God knows! But thin, ye always kept a 
 dacent name. At laste, I never hard of a Curtin of a 
 Linnard brought to shame a-yet. And shure, afther 
 all, a dacent name with poverty is better than a dirthy 
 name wit' all the goold of CaUfomy. But that's 
 nayther here or there! The ould times are gone, an' 
 the ould dacency wid thim. There's nothin' now but 
 munny, munny; and shure it would be well becomin' 
 of me to begrudge it to ye!" 
 
 Every word cut Hke a knife into the mind of the 
 sensitive and passionate girl. She began to see before 
 her nothing but ignominy and disgrace. At last, in a 
 paroxysm of anger and shame she said: — 
 
 "What shall I do? Tell me, oh, what shall I do? 
 We can never lift our heads again!" 
 
 "You'll get used to it," said the old man, with savage 
 
296 GLENANAAR 
 
 irony, "when ye're over there in yere grand house, or 
 rowlin' about in yer carridge and pair, ye'll forget all 
 the ould honour and repittation of yere race and 
 family. But ye'll have to change yere name. You'll 
 be Miss Casey, inagh, or perhaps they'll call ye afther 
 yere grandfather, Daly, the informer. Miss Kathleen 
 Dalyl Well sure, nobody will know ye at all. But," 
 he added with a sudden thrust, "yere father will 
 turrun in his grave!" 
 
CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 ACCEPTED 
 
 "Look here," I said, a few days after to the Yank, 
 "you won't mind my saying a little word to you?" 
 
 "Not in the least, Father," he said, looking surprised. 
 
 "Well, I'd advise you to bring that matter to an 
 issue, one way or the other. There's a good deal of 
 talk in the town. You have been noticed visiting that 
 house and there are tongues wagging, I can tell youl" 
 
 "People wiU talk," he said, standing on the defen- 
 sive. "And for real, downright gossips, commend me 
 to an Irish village. One would suppose that Nora 
 Curtin would escape if anyone could." 
 
 "It isn't Nora," I exclaimed. "You forget there is 
 a younger and more attractive figure than Nora there, 
 and, to tell you the truth, and to be very candid, I 
 don't like to hear Tessie Leonard's name in the people's 
 mouths. I baptized her, I gave her her first Com- 
 munion, I know she is the best and holiest child in 
 the Universe, and I assure you, my dear friend, that 
 I am awfully grieved to hear her name mentioned with 
 yours, especially as there can be nothing in it." 
 
 "The old objection?" he said, sadly. "I knew it 
 would follow me to my grave!" 
 
 "No," I replied, "I cannot say that it is. At least. 
 
 2Q7 
 
298 GLENANAAR 
 
 I am not aware of anyone that knows, or has spoketi 
 of that matter. As I told you, the thing is dead and 
 buried. But why don't you speak to Nora and settle 
 matters, once and forever?" 
 
 "I have spoken," he said, dejectedly. 
 
 "WeU, 'tis all right, I hope?" 
 
 "No, 'tis all wrong," he rephed. "My journey of 
 six tholusand miles is gone for nothing. She refused 
 me!" 
 
 And he told me all that had occurred. 
 
 "Well, there's no accounting for tastes," I replied. 
 "But I am genuinely sorry for you and more sorry for 
 her. What in the world possessed her to refuse such 
 an offer, and from so old a friend?" 
 
 "The very same pride that made me refuse her," 
 he repUed. "She's afraid she would bring shame on 
 me away in the back-woods of America, and that I 
 would tire of her." 
 
 "But you did see a great change?" I repeated. 
 
 "Yes, a great change! But that didn't make one 
 hand's-breath of a difference. I came to make her 
 my wife, and that I would have done, and never re- 
 pented of it, if she had only consented." 
 
 "God help her now!" I murmured. "But your 
 duty, my dear Terence, is plain. You have acted a 
 brave, manly part. You can do no more. But for 
 the reasons I have alleged, I would go back to Wyoming 
 as soon as possible, if I were you!" 
 
 "I'll take your advice. Father," he said, humbly. 
 "But it is hard to have waited all these years for 
 
ACCEPTED 299 
 
 nothing. I'll call and say good-bye to-night and 
 leave to-morrow for Cork or Queenstown." 
 
 Just as it was dark, Terence Casey issued from the 
 door of his hotel, and turned the corner to Mrs. Leon- 
 ard's. His heart was heavy. The dream of his life 
 was over forever. He would return to America a 
 lonely man, and he would have the mortification of 
 seeing all his wealth lying around him with no one to 
 enjoy it or inherit it after him. The pursuit of wealth 
 is hard, the enjoyment of it bitter, he thought. Would 
 it not be better for him a thousand times to have been 
 a poor day labourer with some place he could call a 
 home, and all the tender associations connected with 
 that word? He was half angry, too, with Nora. She 
 was unreasonable, proud, sensitive. He thought he 
 had only to say the word, fling his gold at her feet, and 
 she was his forever. But no! A cold refusal was all 
 he got. These Irish are as proud as the devil, he 
 thought. Well, thank God, one thing is settled and 
 done with forever. Not a whisper has been breathed 
 of his parentage or descent. He has been disappointed 
 where he was most certain of success. What he most 
 feared is exorcised forever. The people have changed 
 a good deal, he thought. They are getting short 
 memories, and so much the better. Nevertheless, his 
 heart was heavy as he stepped on to the earthen floor 
 of the little shop. 
 
 He was arrested on the very threshold by the sound 
 of voices in angry altercation in the parlour. There 
 
SOO GLENANAAR 
 
 was no one in the wretched shop, and the parlour door 
 was partly opened, but the white mushn screen effect- 
 ually cut off all view both from within and without. 
 He listened for a moment. Then, thinking it was 
 some neighbouring scold who had come in to exercise 
 her vocabulary about a frightened hen, or a whipped 
 child, he was about to retire into the street and wait, 
 when he heard his own name mentioned and in not too 
 compUmentary a manner. The speaker was Kathleen.- 
 
 "I was never disobedient or disrespectful to you, 
 mother," she was saying. "But it was a bitter day 
 for us when this man came to disturb us. I never 
 liked him from the moment I put my eyes upon him. 
 And now here's the whole town talking about us." 
 
 "And what have they to say against us?" said 
 Tessie, with an unusual tone of determination. "If 
 a gentleman " 
 
 "A — what?" said Kathleen, contemptuously. 
 
 "A gentleman, I said," retorted Tessie. 
 
 "Then, as usual, you don't know what you're talking 
 about," said Kathleen. 
 
 "'Sh, girls," said the mother, anxiously. "You're 
 both young and you know nothing of the world. ^ 
 You'd better leave these things alone." 
 
 "I didn't start the conversation, mother," said 
 Tessie. " But Katty thinks the whole world is watching 
 her and is growing interested in her." 
 
 " I think nothing of the kind, Miss," said Kathleen. 
 "I'm not speaking of myself at all, at all. I'm only 
 telling what the whole town is talking about." 
 
ACCEPTED SOI 
 
 "And let them talk," said her mother. "What have 
 they to say?" 
 
 "Enough to bring shame and sorrow upon us for- 
 ever," repUed Kathleen. "I'd .rather beg my bread 
 from door to door than to see that Casey come in 
 here." 
 
 "Come in here?" said Tessie. "What are you 
 talking about, Katty? You're taking leave of your 
 senses." 
 
 "I'm not taking leave of my senses," said Kathleen. 
 "I say the whole town is talking of that man coming 
 around here, and, — if I must say it, I must, but ye 
 have dragged it out of me, — of marrying you, mother!" 
 
 "Shame, Kathleen," said Tessie, reprovingly. "You 
 ought to make that a cause of confession. You have 
 insiilted your mother shamefully." 
 
 "Let her alone, Tessie," said her mother, resignedly. 
 "She means no harm. But it may be a comfort for 
 you to know, Katty, that I have no notion of ever 
 marrying Terence Casey, or anybody else." 
 
 "I knew it!" said Kathleen, exultingly. "But I'd 
 rather see you dead, mother, than marry him." 
 
 "Why?" said her mother, coldly. "What do you 
 know about Terence Casey ? " 
 
 " What do I know, mother ? What everybody knows 
 — that he is the son of an informer!" 
 
 " Who told you that ? " said her mother. " I suppose 
 that old blind lunatic over the way, who is filling your 
 head with all these notions! But he's wrong this time. 
 Terence Casey is not the son of an informer. He's 
 
S02 GLENANAAR 
 
 the son of Redmond Casey, of Ballinslea, as decent a 
 man as ever lived." 
 
 "Then he's a grandson," said Kathleen, feeling 
 herself defeated. 
 
 "That's ancient history," said her mother. "All I 
 know is that he came here, across the whole of America, 
 and across the Atlantic, to hft us out of poverty and 
 misery and to give us a comfortable home forever^" 
 
 "Then I'm glad you didn't take it, mother," said 
 Kathleen. "Better poverty and hunger than shame 
 and disgrace." 
 
 "You're so full of conceit that you don't know what 
 you're talking about," said Tessie, angrily. "For my 
 part, I think it a noble and honourable thing that Mr. 
 Casey should have remembered mother so long and 
 tried to befriend her in the end. That covers up 
 every family failing, which, thank God, no one minds 
 now. We haven't so much to boast of ourselves." 
 
 "That's a reflection on my father," said Kathleen, 
 bridling up. "No one heard of a Leonard disgracing 
 himself." 
 
 "And where has Terence Casey disgraced himself?" 
 Tessie asked. " Is it a disgrace for a man to build up 
 a fortune in America and then come back to ask the 
 friend of his youth to share it?" 
 
 "You're so hot over the matter one would think you 
 were wishing to share it yourself!" said Kathleen. 
 
 "What if I were? I see no shame in that." 
 
 " Do you mean to say that you'd accept as a husband 
 the son, or grandson, of an informer?" 
 
ACCEPTED 303 
 
 "I'd think of the man himself, not of his ancestors," 
 said Tessie. 
 
 "And you'd accept him with all the ignominy and 
 disgrace in the eyes of the people?" 
 
 "There is no ignominy or disgrace except in what 
 we do ourselves," said Tessie. "Almighty God will 
 never ask us what our grandfathers did or didn't. 
 If I knew Terence Casey to be otherwise a decent man, 
 -and a good, practical Catholic, what his grandfather 
 or great-grandfather was wouldn't stand in my way. 
 And there must be something unusual about a man 
 who remembered his early affection for mother after 
 so many years." 
 
 "I'm saying nothing against the man himself. But 
 if his grandfather swore a;way the lives of honest 
 men " 
 
 "Even so," said Tessie, impatiently. "There, let 
 us end the subject. It doesn't concern us." 
 
 "Whatever you like. I didn't start it," said Kath- 
 leen. 
 
 "Not yet!" said Terence Casey, opening wide the 
 little glass door and standing in the room. "I over- 
 heard, very unwilUngly, every, word, or nearly every 
 word, you have said, Nora, and you, Tessie, and you, 
 Kathleen. I knocked several times and could get no 
 answer. I came to say good-bye to you all, but I 
 httle suspected that I should hear in your house, Nora, 
 and from your child, that same dreadful charge that 
 drove me to America a quarter of a century ago, and 
 has been haunting me like a spectre since. I was 
 
304 GLENANAAR 
 
 assured it was dead and forgotten here, but we can 
 never know " 
 
 "I meant nothing against you, Mr. Casey," said 
 Kathleen, "but listenets seldom hear good of them- 
 selves." 
 
 "But they may hear the truth sometimes," he said 
 in a broken way, "even though it' be not pleasant. 
 It is quite true that my grandfather was — well, an 
 informer," he gulped down the word, "but God knows! 
 I and my pooi" mother have more than atoned for his 
 crime, if banishment, and sorrow, and all men's hands 
 against us, can be thought sufficient punishment. 
 Twenty-five years ago I refused your mother's gen- 
 erous offer to share my shame and go with me to the 
 world's end. 'Twas a foolish sentiment that made me 
 part with what would have been the greatest blessing 
 of my life. And many and many a time, when I heard 
 of her trials and struggles here, I bitterly reproached 
 myself for having brought such sorrow on a woman 
 who loved me and whom I loved. May God forgive 
 our pride! It is the worst inheritance we have got. 
 It is the cause of all the heart-breakings and desolation 
 of the world. Well, I leave town to-morrow, and 
 Ireland in about four weeks. I would have remained 
 longer, but I am informed that the gossips here at 
 home have been coupling my name with the family in 
 a way I never could dream of, nor hope for " 
 
 "Don't say that, Ted," said Mrs. Leonard. "It is 
 what you were dreaming of all your life." 
 
 "You don't understand me, Nora," he said. "It 
 
ACCEPTED 305 
 
 was you were the dream of my life, but the people 
 think otherwise." 
 
 "And the people are right," said Nora. "What you 
 were dreaming about is the girl you left on that Monday 
 evening under the hawthorn at Ballinslea." 
 
 "And that was you," said Casey; in bewilderment. 
 
 "It was not," said Mrs. Leonard. "Look at me 
 and look at Tessie there, and say are the people right 
 or wrong?" 
 
 "Mother!" cried Tessie, rising up, her face red with 
 blushes at the sudden revelation. 
 
 Terence Casey stood transfixed. He had to admit 
 that this was the picture that was ever overshadowing 
 the old, faded one, and that now looked so perfect and 
 beautiful a -contrast. He felt that all along he had 
 been a traitor to his old ideal, but he argued that he 
 had done nothing but what was honourable and just. 
 Could it be, that just as he heard what he least ex- 
 pected here in this humble home — the reproach and 
 shame of his long life, he should also hear the words 
 that were to make his happiness forever? Something 
 whispered: This is your life's chance, seize it! And 
 he did. 
 
 "Tessie," he said, with great gentleness and defer-' 
 ence, "your mother has said something I could never 
 bring myself to utter. I will not say whether she is 
 right or wrong. Neither shall 1 1:ake an unfair advan- 
 tage of your words, which I overheard at the door. 
 But this is truth, God's truth! AU my life long I 
 have been anxious to link myself with your family. 
 
306 GLENANAAR 
 
 One disappointment has arisen after another to prevent 
 it. If now my hope, my ambition, the dearest desire 
 of niy heart is to be fulfilled, and if you, who are so 
 far above me, are to be the link, I should think all my 
 sad life crowned by a supreme beatitude. But I shall 
 not deny what your mother says, neither shall I take 
 an unworthy advantage of your generous defence and 
 still more generous determination. But if, on consider- 
 ation, you will not recall your words, then I shall have 
 reaped, after all these years, almost more than I 
 expected or desired. In a word, I ask you to be my 
 wife. WiU you?" 
 
 Tessie was silently weeping. Kathleen was studying 
 her closely and critically. 
 
 " Mother, what shall I say ? " said the weeping girl. 
 
 "Whatever you please, child," said the mother. 
 
 "I'll do what you wish, mother, and nothing else," 
 said Tessie. 
 
 Mrs. Leonard rose up and said, not without emo- 
 tion : — 
 
 "As I said, I leave you perfectly free, Tessie; but 
 there is no man in the world I'd rather see you married 
 to than Terence Casey. But she is very young, Ted, 
 and will not be of age till twelve months more or so. 
 Can you wait?" 
 
 "Yes, and longer, if I have her promise!" 
 
 "Speak, Tessie!" said her mother. 
 
 "Yes, mother, since you wish it," said the girl. 
 
 Quite gay from the sudden revulsion from despair 
 and gloom, Terence Casey turned to Kathleen. 
 
ACCEPTED 307 
 
 "Will you forbid the banns?" he said. 
 
 "No! but I wouldn't marry you," she said, with 
 flashing eyes. 
 
 "It makes no matter now," he said, gaily. "I live 
 near Salt Lake City, but I am not a Mormon! And 
 now good-bye! This day twelve months I return to 
 claim the fulfilment of your promise!" 
 
CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 FROM LAKE SHOSHONE 
 
 There was a good deal of variety of opinion amongst 
 the neighbours about the propriety of this engagement,- 
 and the risks and possibihties that might accrue from 
 it. And the opinions, as indeed all human thought 
 and action, were formed and coloured and biassed by 
 vanity, or jealousy, or hope, or charity. 
 
 "He's ould enough to be her grandfather," said one. 
 
 "People will do anything for money," said another. 
 
 "Wisha, wasn't it quare," said a third, "that a man 
 who was coortin' the mother should marry the 
 .daughter?" 
 
 "She's as good a girl as ever walked in shoe leather," 
 said a fourth. "She deserves the best husband that 
 God could give her." 
 
 "Yes, to be sure," echoed another. "But how do 
 we know but he has three or four wives in America? 
 They do quare things over there, whin they're away 
 from the' eyes of the people." 
 
 "Oh, the priest will see to that," said a neighbour. 
 "The Yank will have to make an Affidavy, or some- 
 thin', besides presintin' letters from every parish-priest 
 he ever lived under." 
 
 "Yerra, whisht, 'uman, sure there are no parish- 
 priests over there. They're all cojutors. And, sure, 
 308 
 
FROM LAKE SHOSHONE 309 
 
 that same would be the big job for wan who was here, 
 there, and everywhere, as the fit took him." 
 
 " They say he has lashins of money. He don't know 
 what to do with it." 
 
 "Well, they deserve their uprise, as hones' and dacent 
 a family as ever was raised in the parish." 
 
 So human opinion ranges, and sometimes it was 
 pleasant to hear and sometimes the reverse. 
 
 Tessie herself, poor child, had to pass through a 
 severe ordeal. Between congratulations, warnings, 
 hopes for the future, doubts, speculations, she didn't 
 know what to think. 
 
 "Sure, we're aU glad of your uprise, Miss Tessie! 
 You always had the kind word for the poor, and — 
 the kind deed, if God gave it to you!" 
 
 "Wisha, sure we hope. Miss, that you're not goin' 
 away altogether. Sure, 'tis a wild place out and out, 
 wid snow on the ground nine months of the year, and 
 wind that would blow you to the back of God-speed. 
 Can't he lave you here wid us, and come to see you 
 sometimes?" 
 
 " We're glad to hear the good news. Miss Tessie, but 
 look before you a bit, agragal. I wanse knew a Yarikee 
 fellow, like Casey, who came over here, and inticed a 
 poor, raw, innicent girl Hke yourself to go wid him. 
 Sure, whin she wint over, he lef her, standin' wid her 
 fingers in her mout', on the sthreets of New York. An' 
 she soon found that he had a wife or two in every 
 State in America." 
 
 "I hope you won't forget us, Miss, whin you go over 
 
310 GLENANAAR ^ 
 
 fliere. There's my little Ellie now. She'd be the fine 
 ' maid for you ! You could train her yourself, for she's 
 apt to lam, and a claner or a betther little girl there 
 isn't in Ireland." 
 
 "Wisha, I wandhet. Miss, would your husband lind 
 us a few pounds? If I could buy the little pig now, 
 she'd be fit to kill about Aysther, and 'tis a pity, out 
 and out, to see all the pratie-skins and cabbage thrown 
 out for nothin'." 
 
 Not a word was ever whispered about Terence 
 Casey's parentage. The old had forgotten it, the 
 young were indifferent to it, in their enthusiasm about 
 the great athlete of the ballad and the song. It was 
 only in the dark recesses ,of Thade Murphy's kitchen 
 that terrible things were said, and dark forebodings 
 about the future were oracularly uttered., 
 
 " I niwer thought that a Linnard would sell herself, 
 body and soul, for goold," Thade would say. "But 
 the wurrald is changing every day. What was it that 
 you said to him, Katty? Repate it for me, wurrd by 
 wurrd!" 
 
 "I told him," Kathleen would say with pride, "that 
 I wouldn't marry him, not if he had all the gold in 
 Cahfomia, nor all the diamonds in the Queen's crown. 
 There's something better than either in the world, and 
 with that we won't part." 
 
 "I never doubted you, m'ainim me shtig," the old 
 man would reply. "And, beUeve you me, and believe 
 you me agin, your poor sisther will have raison to 
 repint her bargain. You can't get blood out of a turnip, 
 
FROM LAKE SHOSHONE 311 
 
 nor dacency from an informer. But what do the 
 people be sayin', achorra?" 
 
 "Some one thing, and some another," Katty would 
 reply. "No one thinks that any good will come of it." 
 
 "And how does she feel herself?" he asked. 
 
 "I think she's sorry enough for her bargain already," 
 Kathleen would answer, anxious to justify herself to 
 her own conscience. "She'd get out of it now if she 
 could." 
 
 This was not strictly true, but it had some little 
 foundation, for the poor girl was so harassed by ques- 
 tions, forebodings, prophecies, omens, and requests, 
 that she grew paler and thinner than she had been. 
 And at last she came to me to write and say all was at 
 an end and to get Terence to break his engagement. 
 
 "I shall do nothing of the kind," I said, "for any 
 old women's gossip that may be floating around. 
 People will talk, must talk, or they'll burst, and that 
 would be a catastrophe. But unless you yourself are 
 sorry, or that you disUke him, or that some other more 
 serious impediment arises, you'U take the good fortune 
 that God sent you and be grateful for it. Is that your 
 mother's opinion?" 
 
 "It is," she said, drying her tears. "She ridicules 
 all this gossip. But " 
 
 "But what?" 
 
 "How are we to know that he is not deceiving us? 
 People change so much when they go abroad!" 
 
 "If you mean that he has, or may have, other ties 
 abroad," I replied, "you may leave all that in my 
 
312 GLENANAAR 
 
 hands. I'm bound to see after all that before I put 
 the ring on your finger. But do you think that a man 
 would come over twice three thousand miles to marry 
 an old, faded woman, whom he loved long ago, if he 
 weren't a good man?" 
 
 "N — no!" she said. "And I know 'tis wrong to 
 harbour such suspicions, but when people are dinning 
 them into your ears morning, noon, and night, they 
 make an impression." 
 
 "They're certainly making an impression on you," 
 I said. "If you go on fretting as you are, and pulUng 
 yourself down, you'll be as gray as myself, when 
 Terence comes back, and maybe he'll he thinking of 
 a good excuse to get rid of a white-haired, lanthom- 
 jawed, oldish-young lady!" 
 
 There's nothing like touching people on the quick, 
 that is, appealing to the weak point, where they are 
 most sensitive, to bring them to their senses. There's 
 a certain luxury in allowing ourselves to be argued 
 into doing what our inclinations suggest. We like to 
 be persuaded, not against, but according to our will. 
 But that little appeal to human vanity put an end to 
 argument. I heard no more of these scruples. 
 
 The wheel of time dipped into the depths of winter 
 and rose up into spring and summer, almost with a 
 rush, so swift is the revolution, so rapid the cycle of 
 seasons and times. The eventful day was at hand. 
 I had settled all scruples, removed all impediments, 
 aud there remained only the academical question, 
 would they be married in Cork or at home, and would 
 
FROM LAKE SHOSHONE 313 
 
 Kathleen act as bridesmaid to her sister? On the 
 first question I put down my foot firmly. They should 
 be married in the church of their baptism, their first 
 confession and Communion and confirmation, and 
 nowhere else. I was not going to give in to these 
 new-fangled notions of city weddings with cold, icy 
 dejeuners at hotels, etc. On the second point there 
 was trouble enough until we arranged that the young 
 Joan of Arc would not be asked to take hand, act, or 
 part in an unpatriotic marriage; and after a while, 
 when the young lady found that the world would go 
 around as usual and that even the marriage would 
 take place with a certain amount of ^clat, even though 
 not graced with her presence, she was glad enough to 
 be asked. And so at last the eventful day came 
 round. 
 
 We'd have beaten Ballypooreen hollow, only that 
 Tessie implored, with tears in her eyes, that, as we 
 insisted on her being married at home, it should be at 
 least as quiet as possible. Terence had given carte 
 blanche to the hotel proprietor to make the material 
 jollification as profuse and perfect as possible. And 
 like a sensible fellow, our host took the ball at the 
 hop. That long table, running the entire length of the 
 coffee-room, was simply dazzling. Such cold meats, 
 garnished with aU kinds of frills and fandangoes, such 
 translucent jellies, such pies and puddings and tarts 
 and confectionery, such gorgeous pyramids of fruit, 
 great pineapples, and. purple and green grapes, and 
 bananas, and yellow oranges; and, loading the side- 
 
314 GLENANAAR 
 
 board, such gold-necked bottles of the "foaming wine 
 of Eastern France," as I took care to mention in my 
 speech, were never seen before. 
 
 Sam was in his element. He brought in every 
 farmer and every fanner's wife whom he saw passing 
 the hotel windows, and who were to be the guests, to 
 exhibit his great triumph. Nay, even the labourers' 
 wives and daughters, who came in to town in their 
 little donkey-carts to make their cheap and humble 
 purchases, were all brought in to admire this magnifi- 
 cent display of culinary and other sciences. And I 
 am afraid many poor mouths, accustomed to plainer 
 fare, watered at the sight of such tremendous and 
 appetizing viands. I gave him all credit for his in- 
 dustry and skill. He modestly disclaimed the honour, 
 and placed it all to the credit of Terence Casey. 
 
 "Look here, yer Reverence," he said, flicking off 
 invisible crumbs from the spotless tablecloth, "I ought 
 to know a gintleman by this time. And Misther Casey 
 is a gintleman. They comes here, all kinds and sorts 
 of people, commercial thravellers, ginthry for the 
 fishin', agents gethering rints, bad — to thim, but I 
 tell you what, yer Reverence," he flung the napkin 
 uo his arm and struck an attitude, "tisri't everywan 
 that wears yallow hoots that's a gintleman." 
 
 "How do you distinguish them, Sam?" I asked. 
 "I ask for information because every time I see the 
 tanned boots, especially if there are yellow gaiters 
 above them, I feel an inclination to take off my hat." 
 
 "Lord bless yer Reverence," said Sam, compassion- 
 
FROM LAKE SHOSHONE 315 
 
 ately, "if you knew all I know. Thim's the fellahs 
 that 'ud split a sixpence to giv' me a thruppenny bit; 
 an' thim's the same fellahs that giv' all the throuble. 
 'Here, you sir! There, yoii sir! Waitah, this chap's 
 underdone ! Waitah, this stake is burned ! Hot wather 
 in me room at six o'clock in the momin' ! Hot wather 
 in me room an' a hot bawth before dinner!' They'd 
 make a saint curse, begobs, an' I'm not much jn that 
 way " 
 
 "No matter, Sam," I said, "you will be yet, if you 
 have patience and eschew lemonade " 
 
 "But as I was sayin', yer Reverence," said Sam, 
 unheeding the interruption, " Misther Casey is different 
 from all that. He's as quiet about the house as a 
 child. He wa^es himself wance a day, which is as 
 much as any Christian wants; and he sez, as soft as a 
 woman, an' softer than a good many av them, as I 
 know to me sorra, 'Sam, wud you be kii^d enough to 
 do this?' 'Sam, wud it be too much throuble to do 
 that?' and he won't be hairsplitting. 'Keep that 
 change, Sam, and buy tobaccy!' or 'Take that home 
 to the ould 'uman, Sam!' Ah, yer Reverence, I knows 
 a gintleman whin I sees him, and Misther Casey is a 
 gintleman!" 
 
 "Well, he's getting his reward," I said, tentatively, 
 "he's getting as good a wife as there is between the 
 four seas of Ireland." 
 
 "She is indeed, yer Reverence," replied Sam, some- 
 what dubiously, I thought. "Av coorse he could do 
 betther for himself, and get as much munny as he 
 
316 GLENANAAR 
 
 cared to ask for. But she's a nice, clane girl, an' sure 
 she's wan of oursel's." 
 
 "Sam!" said L 
 
 "Yes, yer Reverence!" said Sam. 
 
 "This wedding is an important matter; the whole 
 parish, I am told, will be asked here. I hope that you 
 will do yourself credit " 
 
 "Is it me, yer Reverence?" said Sam, as if this 
 innocent remark implied something. 
 
 "I know," I said, unheeding, "that you are an 
 awfully good fellow, but this will be a day of great 
 temptation. And Mr. Casey will be extremely anxious 
 to have everything correct and respectable. And 
 wouldn't it be a pity," I continued, looking around 
 admiringly, "if with such a magnificent and superb 
 display anything should occur to mar the honour and 
 glory of the parish, and even of the country?" 
 
 "Begobs, it would, yer Reverence," said Sam, humbly. 
 "Here! I'll take the pledge for life, in the name o' 
 God!" 
 
 He knelt down and I gave him the pledge till the 
 day after the wedding. 
 
 Terence Casey duly arrived, examined all these 
 details, approved of them, and looked the happy man 
 he felt. Tessie wanted to walk to the church in her 
 own simple, modest way, like every other girl in the 
 parish. He wouldn't hsten to it. He had a gorgeous 
 equipage with two horses over from Mallowi, and two 
 outriders. I think it was these last that made Tessie 
 faint. At least,, she had a little weakness just before 
 
FROM LAKE SHOSHONE 317 
 
 they started for the church, but swiftly recovered, and 
 never looked better. What did she wear? Well, I 
 give that up. I draw the hne there. The French 
 vsrould bother me entirely. But I know she had a ring 
 that looked as if it would Ught the firmament of heaven 
 if all the stars were quenched. And, tell it not in Gath! 
 The fierce, uncompromising Uttle rebel, who did con- 
 descend to act as bridesmaid to her sister, did wear 
 and exhibit without a pang of shame — well, no! I 
 must not tell it. Thade Murphy is ahve yet. Swiftly 
 the ceremony concluded, silently and swifdy the holy 
 Mass, that binds all Cathohc hearts together from the 
 "rising of the sim to the going down: of the same," was 
 celebrated; swiftly the registers were signed, and then, 
 Kathleen — shall I tell it? Yes, I will, to her credit — 
 did kiss her brother-in-law; and in that httle act of con- 
 descension did blot out the painful memory of that 
 unhappy heritage of shame that had haunted the lives 
 of Nodlag and her child. 
 
 Who was at the wedding ? Everybody. And every- 
 body was not only in excellent humour, but felt a share 
 of the exuberant happiness of the bridegroom and the 
 bride. 'Tis a httle way of our own we have in Ireland, 
 to try and kick the ladder from under a fellow-country- 
 man who wants to get to the pinnacle of things, careless 
 whether we kiU him or maim him for hfe. But when 
 he comes out safe overhead we all wave our hats and 
 say Huzza! And so, on this day, there were none but 
 good wishes for the happy pair; the memories of the 
 past were all subdued and hallowed and the forecasts 
 
S18 GLENANAAR 
 
 of the future were sunny and golden. Why will poor 
 human nature be always manifesting its worst and 
 darkest features, when the bright, kindly, loving side 
 can be turned out as easily?" 
 
 To crown it all we had our traditional Irish bard 
 in a glorious ballad-singer, who, just outside the hotel 
 window, not only revived the great epic of the past, 
 but adapted it to the present. At least, I presumed 
 so from the first verse which is all I am privileged to 
 remember: — 
 
 Come, all ye lads and lasses, 
 And ye bould, brave gallowglasses 
 Come, listen to the sthory, 
 That I'm going to tell to ye. 
 
 'Tis all about the rover, 
 The gay and gallant lover, 
 Terence Casey, the great hurler 
 From the hills of Ballinslea. 
 
 I have a dim recollection, broken, however, by the 
 clinking of glasses and the rattle of knive& and forks 
 and the tumultuous jokes and laughter of happy 
 people, that Tessie was compared to Vaynus and 
 Nicodaymus, and was pronounced to be the most 
 gifted young lady, so far as personal attractions were 
 concerned, to be found in the Green Isle — and that 
 is a big word! And so the fun waxed fast and furious, 
 and speeches were made and songs were sung, until 
 the inevitable and inexorable hand pointed to the hour, 
 and the young, happy couple had to drive to meet the 
 Mail at Mallow, en route to Paris, if you please. Yes, 
 
FROM LAKE SHOSHONE 819 
 
 nothing else would satisfy Terence. Tessie suggested 
 Killamey, but he put it aside contemptuously. It 
 should be the gay capital and nothing else. 
 
 There was just one figure wanting from all the 
 gaiety — the little, faded figure that had once shone so 
 bright to Terence's eyes there on that summer evening 
 beneath the hawthorn at Ballinslea. She stayed at 
 home with her beads, praying for her child. And 
 when people chaffed her about all the good things she 
 was losing, she said that she preferred her little brown 
 teapot to all the luxuries they could provide. There 
 was a swift, brief, loving parting, when Tessie came 
 back to change her dress. I am afraid Kathleen for- 
 swore all her principles, won over by the goodness and 
 kindness of her brother-in-law. At least, the hated 
 words, "son of an informer," never again crossed her 
 lips and never again smote on his heart. 
 
 A few weeks more and Terence and his bride were 
 settled down in his beautiful home near Lake Sho- 
 shone. He used every entreaty to induce Nora and 
 Kathleen to come with them. But Nora, cUnging to 
 old customs, preferred the little shop, the little parlour, 
 the quiet spot in the church, and her little brown teapot 
 to all the splendours of brownstone mansions by pic- 
 turesque lakes. Besides, there is a ,probabiKty that 
 Tessie's exile will be a brief one. The glamour and 
 charm of Ireland, the witchery of her scenery, the old 
 links and associations so pleasantly revived, the home 
 feeling, the kindly hearts and willing hands, have made 
 
820 GLENANAAR 
 
 an impression on Terence Casey. The heimweh is 
 upon him, and I have got a notion that he is yearning 
 for a spirited game in the old fields, where he might 
 use the silver-mounted hurley, or caman, presented to 
 him by the local skirmishers on the occasion of his 
 marriage. Some day, if chance arises, he will sell out 
 his ranch and mansion and buy some Httle cosey nest, 
 down near some storied, singing river in the old land. 
 That's what we want. The old order changeth! The 
 land of Ireland is passing into Irish hands once more. 
 And the many deserted mansions here and there 
 throughout Ireland, and the many ruined castles, stare 
 from their gaping windows across the sea, and seem 
 to say to the exiled Gaels: — 
 
 "Come back! Come back! Back to the land of 
 your fathers! Let us hear once more the sound of the 
 soft Gaelic in oilr halls; the laughter of your children 
 beneath our roofs, the skirl of the bagpipe and the 
 tinkle of the harp in our courts, the shout of our young 
 men in the meadows by the river, the old, heart-break- 
 ing songs from the fields, the seanchus here where our 
 broken windows stare upon weed-covered lawns. Come 
 back! Come back! The days are dark and short 
 since ye went; there is no sunshine on Ireland, and the 
 nights are long and dismal! And there in the moonlit 
 Abbey by the river rest the bones of your kindred! 
 Their unquiet spirits haunt every mansion and cottage 
 and the wail of their Banshee is over the fields and up 
 along the hills! They shall never rest in peace till 
 your shadows sweep across their tombs and your 
 
FROM LAKE SHOSHONE 321 
 
 piayers, like the night winds, stir the ivy on the crupa- 
 
 bling walls!" 
 
 Before going to Press, we received the following 
 
 letter, which may serve as an introduction, an apology, 
 
 and an ejcplanation: — 
 
 Glenanaar, La. Shoshone, Wy. 
 Rev. dear Father: 
 
 Yes! You have my full pennission. You may tell my story from 
 every housetop in Ireland. I have the best and dearest Kttle wife 
 from Florida to Vancouver; and I snap my fingers in the face of the 
 world. Hence, I sign myself, 
 
 Yours faithfully and gratefully. 
 
 The Son of Nodlao. 
 

 VAyyAV'^VAW 
 
 11 
 III 
 
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