The person charging this material is re- sponsible for Its return to the library from which It was withdrawn on or before the Latest Date stamped below. Theft, mutilation, and underlining of books are reason, for disciplinary action and may result in dismissal from the University. To renew call Telephone Center, 333-8400 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS LIBRARY AT URBANA-CHAMPAIGN uu. 10 1990 L161— O-1096 a I E) RAR.Y OF THL UN IVLRSITY Of ILLINOIS AGNES ARNOLD. AGNES ARNOLD A NOVEL. BY WILLIAM BERNARD MAC CABE. He bath found the meaning, for the which we mean To have his head. He must not live to trumpet forth my infamy. Pericles, act 1, s. 1. IN THREE YOLU]\IES. VOL. I. LONDON : PUBLISHED BY THOMAS CAUTLEY NEWBY WELBECK STREET, CAVENDISH SQUARE. MDCCCLX. -Ik ^ INTRODUCTION, Q ^ Twenty years after the Irish Rebellion of 1798, there was confined, as " a state prisoner," in the jail of Kilmainham, near Dublin, a gentleman declared to have been one of the leaders in the insurrection. Against this gentleman, no process in a court of law had ever been instituted, but the Irish Parliament had thought fit to include in a bill his name, with many others — all differently situated to himself; for all, but he, were in the custody of the Crown, and were either convicted, or had admitted themselves to be " rebels." Yet upon ii INTRODUCTION. him — ^then at large, and unconvicted ! — the same penalty was imposed as upon them — that is the Uabihty to be punished as a traitor, if discovered after the passing of the Act, in any part of His Majesty's dominions. The Irish Parliament passed this Act upon the suppression of the Rebellion of 1798 ; and the gentleman, referred to, was for the first time arrested, in accordance with its provisions in the year 1818 ! — he having then come from France to Ireland, for the arrangement of some matters in which he had a pecuniary interest. For two years he was detained a prisoner — and never — until incarceration, combined with anxiety of mind — had made him a bed-ridden cripple was he permitted to leave Ireland, and return to France. During the years of his imprisonment the INTRODUCTION. HI author of the following pages was frequently brought to see him. It was at a period of life when impressions are most vivid and generally most lasting. The prisoner was a man greatly gifted. He had seen and known the most illustrious men of his time both in France and Ireland^ and he described them with such skill and power as to make one feel they were looking at, and listening to them. The prisoner's name was William Putnam M'Cabe ; and from his conversations have been gleaned many of the materials for the present work. It is only in a state of society, such as existed in Ireland in 1798, that the incidents we have attempted to describe could have occurred, or characters, such as are here introduced, be developed. iv INTRODUCTION. This work had been written before the " Cor- respondence of Charles, First Marquis Cornwallis'' was pubUshed. The appearance of that truly valu- able contribution to modern history — stating many new and important facts with respect to the con- dition of Ireland in 1798 — has been an additional inducement to place these pages before the public. AGNES ARNOLD. Chapter I. WARD AND GUARDIAN. " Bless me ! what a precious nice country this here Ireland is ! Goodness gracious ! when 1 look about me, I can fancy myself back again in dear old England! " The exclamation, thus made, w^as either un- heeded or unheard ; and the speaker turning to her companion, and perceiving a smile upon her face, exclaimed : " Ah ! Miss Agnes, you are laughing at me ! When you asked me to come with you from York to Wexford, I remember that I, at first, objected to the journey on the ground that Ireland ^vas, (for so my father told me) as ' wild and desolate as Africa ; ' that ' the people were savages ; ' that ' I never should be able to get anything to eat but VOL. I. B 55 AGNES ARNOLD. potatoes,' and ' nothing to drink but whiskey :' and, now that I am in Ireland, I find the men and women are just like my own native-born Northumbrians ; that the fields are as green, the sheep as numerous, the cattle as well fed, and the scenery around me, as beautiful — as beautiful as in England — nay, I must say something more than that ; for truth compels me to do so — more beautiful than most of the places T have seen at home. Why, Miss Agnes, did you not tell me that Ireland was so very lovely a country ? " "Because if I did, Lucy,'' replied Agnes, " you would not have believed me. 1 never yet knew a true-born home-bred EngHsh person, but was so full of prejudices against Ireland, and the Irish, that he could be induced to credit a single word spoken in praise of either. Had I described Ireland to you, as it appears to me, you might have fancied I indulged in exaggeration for the purpose of inducing you to accept of the ofier I made you, when I asked you to continue in my service in Ireland, as you had been for some years in England. I take it as a proof of your fidelity and personal attachment, my good girl, that believing all the horrors that were from the AGNES ARNOLD. earliest moments of your life instilled into your ears about my ill-treated and much-maligned country, you still encountered them all rather than separate yourself from me." " My dear, good young mistress, that is the truth, the simple truth, and nothing else," ex- claimed Lucy, as with tears in her eyes she raised one of the young lady's hands, and pressed it to her lips. " I did believe that in coming to Ireland, I was exposing myself probably to death, and certainly to a species of food which would be only one degree less an evil than abso- lute starvation. I encountered these evils for your sake. I could not bear the idea of parting from you ; and least of all could I entertain for a minute the notion of separating from you, when I observed how dreadfully agitated you were, for the last few months in York, by the abominable anonymous letters that had from time to time reached your hands." " Ah ! those frightful anonymous letters ! " cried Agnes, shghtly shuddering, " I had forgot- ten them for an instant, and therefore smiled — not as you fancied, Lucy, at your remark about the beauty of my native land — but in re- b2 4 AGNES ARNOLD. calling to mind some of the scenes we are now passing through, and which were last looked upon by me, when I was a very young girl. Why must the contemplation of these great and glori- ous works of a Beneficent Creator be marred by the remembrance of man's untiring iniquity ? for, be assured, Lucy, the writer of those letters must be a most malignant villain." " Yes, and a downright coward too," added Lucy. " I have often heard my father say, that none but a coward would write an anonymous letter — that no Englishman ever would, or could, or did write an anonymous letter — that anony- mous letters were always written by Frenchmen, Scotchmen, Welchmen, and I beg your pardon, Miss — I was going to say something I ought not to." " I understand, Lucy. Your father boasted that these infamous productions were never the composition of Englishmen, and frequently emanated from Lishmen. The boast was as unjust, as the general censure is unmerited. My belief is, that many of the vices that prevail in Ireland have been imported from England, and this base practice amongst the rest, although AGNES ARNOLD. nothing can be more abhorrent to the natural conduct of the Englishroan, and the inherent chivahy of the Irishman. There are bad men in all lands, and none worse than those who make a nation responsible for the crimes of an individual. It is the duty of all honest men — no matter to what clime they may belong, to struggle against unjust prejudices — to expose them when they can, and to refute them when it is possible. Even you, Lucy — you have landed in Ireland saturated with prejudices — you believed the country to be a wilderness and its inhabi- tants savages ; you are convinced by the evidence of your own senses, that you have made a mis- take about the appearance of the country, and the fertility of its soil ; and now, take care, (for you are so few years my senior, I do not think it unnecessary to warn you), keep a strict guard upon your heart, or you may find that one of the Irish 'savages' may prove to be ' a thief,' and rob you of your affections." " An Irishman ! Fall in love with a wild Irishman ! " cried Lucy Watford, the dapper, pretty English waiting-maid, " Oh ! that is an 6 AGNES ARNOLD. absolute impossibility. What to live in a bog, and eat potatoes like a pig ! '' " There are no bogs here, you may perceive : all Irishmen do not live in bogs. A neat cot- tage, and a snug farm in such a sweet country as we are now passing through, with a brave Wexford man as a husband, are something dif- ferent from your notions Lucy, of an Irish house- hold." " Ton my life ! and so they are," said Lucy Watford, as her blue eyes sparkled wdth pleasure, while she looked from the window of the post- chaise she was travelling in. " I shall make no rash vows against the Irish, Miss Agnes — but all I can say is, that I am now four-and- twenty years of age, and I have left my own country heart-wdiole, for I never so much as received or sent ' a valentine ; ' but, oh gracious me ! what a fairy land is this ! See, Miss Agnes, how the rich meadows with their neatly clipped hedges go shelving down from this road to the sea- shore ! I declare there is verdure to the very water's edge, as if the blue waves glistening in the distance belonged to an island lake ! and AGNES ARNOLD. 7 then — far, far away on the other side, those grand green mountains covered with herbage to their very summits ; and then there before us, is a lovely park with fine old oak trees ; oh ! what a truly noble scene — and then, what a princely residence is that spacious building which, seen so far away, looks like an old monastery with the ruins of an ancient church by its side. "That spacious building was in former times, a monastery, and those are theruinsof an ancient church by its side. When the church was destroyed, the monastery and lands belonging to it were bestowed upon one of the ancestors of its present possessor; and you, Lucy, will laugh at the tradition connected with the monastery and church — it is to the effect, that until the church be rebuilt and restored to the worship of the religion that was first preached within its walls, the family of those occupying the monastery would always be accursed, and two generations of them would never pass away, without a sudden and violent death occurring to one of its members.'' " Psha ! " snappishly remarked Lucy, " that 8 AGNES ARNOLD. must be what my father used to call — ''Irish Popish superstition.' " " It is not a habit with me," answered Agnes, " to employ harsh terms, when referring to matters I do not understand. I am not, as you well know, Lucy, of that religion which you call * Popish ;' but still I am, heart and soul, ' Irish ;' and whether you consider the legend as super- stitious or not, this I can tell you, as a fact, that from the time of the Reformation — that is, from the time the old monastery became the property of the Kirwans, its present owners, there has been a series of most calamitous events in the family. Its first possessor was executed as a traitor in London. One of his sons was a companion of Sir Francis Drake, made a prisoner in America, and tortured to death by the savages. A third of his descendants was slain in a duel. A fourth died suddenly in the midst of a drunken debauch. A fifth was drowned. A sixth — the father of the present possessor was killed by a fall in hunting, and his son is childless. He — one of the best and kindest-hearted men living — is now waiting to welcome me back to Ireland ; for it is AGNES ARNOLD. 9 to his place we are travelling — and see ! there are the park-gates opening to receive us/' As Agnes spoke the last words, she let fall a window of the post-chaise, in the hope she might recognise amongst the occupants of the gate- keeper's lodge some of the dependents of the Kirwan family that had formerly been known to her. In this expectation she was not destined to be disappointed ; for no sooner had the glass fallen than an old woman advanced and clapping her hands together, exclaimed : — " Welcome ! welcome ! welcome ! Welcome as the flowers of May, my darling Miss Agnes Arnold ! It's your own poor old widow Kinchela, that is bidding you the time of the day, my good young lady. Welcome ! my darling, with your black eyes as full of fire, as the best Kilkenny coal. Welcome ! my colleen, with the mouth as red as a rose, and the smile upon your lips, as bright as a ray of the summer's sun after a thunderstorm. Welcome ! and God speed you on your way. Don't for your life, my darling, lose an instant in talking to an old creature like myself, when the master is up in the big house, raging B 3 10 AGNES ARNOLD. mad to sec you, and thinking every minute's an hour until you are safe and sound within its four walls." " I am delighted to see you, widow Kinchela, looking as well as ever you did. But why will you not allow me to stop here, and shake hands with you ? " asked Agnes. *' It's the master's orders, Miss," replied the old w^oman. "It was only yesterday he rode down to the lodge himself, and he then said to me —you know his way, miss — he said in the kindest manner possible — ' Widow Kinchela,' says he, * you old bezom of the world, on the peril of your life, don't dare to stop Miss Arnold, with any of your long preambles, says he, because, says he, myself and the two boys that are with me, are dying to see her, says he, and we never think she can be half soon enough with us, says he. So drive on, my darUng, drive on at once, for I dare not face the master, if he knew I exchanged two words with you." " Be it so," said Agnes, a little impatiently — " but meanwhile, here is a piece of gold for you; and remember you come to me, if you possibly can, in the afternoon, and wait for me in AGNES ARNOLD. 11 my room until I go to you, as I have brought with me one of the finest pieces of scarlet cloth I could obtain in England. I think enough to make you a good cloak and petticoat for the next winter, so come, if you possibly can this evening, and wait — mind that — wait — remain in my room until I go to you." " The Lord remember you in your hour of death ! my darling, as you have remembered the widow when far away from her. But, oh ! mur- der ! don't say another word, but drive on like lightning 1 Til be with you this evening, surely — if not, early to-morrow." " Only one word more, widow Kinchela, and then I am going on my way ; you said Mr. Kir wan, with two boys, were impatient to see me. Who are the two boys ? " " Who are the two boys ! Why, who in the world, miss, should they be, but his two nephews." " His two nephews ! What nephews ? They were not in Ireland, when I was a little girl." *' Hard for them, miss — for they were both born and bred in Jim-ai-kay ; and the mother of one of them is said to have been — saving your 12 AGNES ARNOLD. presence ! — and the Lord between us and all harm ! — a negro woman." " And are these little boys very anxious to see me ? " asked Agnes, amused at the unfeigned horror depicted on the features of the venerable widow at the notion of a black w^oman having a child. " Little boys ! " exclaimed the widow\ " Little boys indeed ! They are little boys big enough to be married, and barring that one of them is a bit darker than he need be, and his hair uncom- monly like the wool of a black sheep, on his head, they are both as tall and as handsome as any Christian young lady might choose for a husband. But drive on, drive on, for your life ! and never let on you exchanged a word with me, or the master won't leave me fit for a dog to look at. Then go, and the blessing of Heaven be always with you — night, noon and morn.'' The horses started afresh \ and as they hurried on at a rapid pace up the avenue, Agnes pon- dered over the words of the old woman, and her description of Mr. Kirwan's nephews. She then turned round to Lucy, and was about to ask her what she thought of the old woman, Kinchela, AGNES ARNOLD. 13 and her strange phraseology, when, to her great surprise, if not terror, she perceived her attendant had fallen back in the carriage, and was pale, trembling, and seemingly on the point of fainting. " Good Heavens ! Lucy,'' cried Agnes ; " what is the matter with you ? Are you ill ? '' "No — no — Miss Agnes," faintly rephed Lucy, " not at all ill — that is, not sick — but — almost frightened to death. Oh ! this Ireland ! this here Ireland is a dreadful country ! as my dear father used to say, ' Ireland is a country in which every bog-hole hides a burglar, and from every tree there drops a murderer.' Oh dear ! oh dear ! 1 am so frightened." " Nonsense ! Lucy — frightened ! frightened ? Is it at the white cap and the red petticoat of an old Irishwoman you are frightened?" "Oh! no— Miss Agnes, no old woman has frightened me— and as to the poor widow Kin- chela, she is as nice an old woman as ever I saw ; and, with the exception of the horrid Irish brogue, she speaks and looks exactly like my poor, dear mother, who is buried six years and more in Durham Church-yard. Ah ! Miss Ag- nes, Miss Agnes, I thank heaven that you did 14 AGNES ARNOLD. not see what I saw, or it might have terrified the very Kfe out of you. Oh ! this dreadful coun- try!" " Speak intelligibly, Lucy/' repeated Agnes. " How is it possible you can have seen anything to frighten you which I did not see ?" " Oh ! Miss Agnes," said Lucy, still trem- bling, " your attention was entirely engaged in speaking with the old woman ; and, indeed, so was mine for a minute or two, until she used an expression which I did not understand, and then — oh 1 my precious eye-sight ! — I saw what was truly dreadful — I shake with fear but to think of it." ** Lucy, I am sorry to tell you that you vex your mistress by this childish behaviour. I must insist upon it, that you say out, at once, plainly and intelligibly, what is the circumstance that has caused you so much alarm. Speak, I entreat you, my poor girl, for I perceive you are really terrified. What has frightened you? Perhaps I can explain the afi'air to you, and prove to you that your apprehensions are groundless." " Ah ! my dear mistress, I wish it was in your power to do so, but that 1 know well is an AGNES ARNOLD. 15 impossibility. But I shall not trespass further on your patience. Listen to me, Miss Agnes," said Lucy, sinking her voice to a whisper, and looking round her with a terrified aspect. " When I drew my head into the carriage, I happened to look round to the back, and there, at that small circular window, I saw for an instant — not more than a second certainly — but for that brief space of time I did see, as surely as I now see you, a man's face glaring in at you — " " Nonsense ! Nonsense ! Lucy, All the effect of your imagination, combined with the stories you have been listening to about the Irish, and your consequent fear of the poor people — my fellow-countrymen." " It was no fancy, Miss Agnes : it was no fears about the Irish ; for, few as the days are that I am in this country, they have been suffi- cient to show^ me, that I have laboured under many misapprehensions respecting the land and its inhabitants. As sure as I am living — as sure as I am now in possession of my reason, I saw a man looking in for an instant at you — at you, observe — not at me — in the carriage." " Well, Lucy, and supposing that you did so. 16 AGNES ARNOLD. why should a circumstance so simple fill you with alarm ? I am known to all the poor people in this neighbourhood. I believe, when I was a child, I was much liked by them. When, then, I was engaged in speaking to the widow Kin- chela, what was more natural than that some poor fellow, not wishing to intrude upon my at- tention at such a time (for the Irish are remark- able for extreme delicacy of feeling), should have sought the gratification of looking at me after some years' absence. What say you, Lucy ? Do you not find your alarm to be groundless ?" " I am sorry to say. Miss Agnes, I do not. If the face that looked in upon you was that of a poor Irishman — if in its features there was one glance of love or gratitude towards you, I could have discerned it. I saw no such thing. On the contrary, I saw the scowl of a villain, and — I grieve to add — that I recognised features that I had before seen — not in Ireland, but in England — and these too in connection with a matter that has caused you great uneasiness of mind." " What mean you Lucy ?" " The anonymous letters. Miss Agnes, do you remember the last of these letters ? Do you re- AGNES ARNOLD. 17 member my telling you, that as I was looking out of my bed-room window in York, I noticed in the narrow lane that ran at the back of the house, a man giving a letter with a large black seal to a little boy — and the large black seal attracted my attention, as all those odious letters had black seals — that afterwards I watched in front of the house, and that then I could discern a man look- ing round from time to time at the corner of the square to see the boy deliver the letter. 1 saw that man's face well but twice — the first time that he chanced to look up in the direction of the -window where I was sitting ; the second time, when he again, looked up (but without perceiving me) so soon as the letter had been delivered. I never can forget the malignant expression of that man's small, fierce, grey eyes, covered over with red shaggy eye-brows meeting together. That same face — those wicked eyes, and the same red eye-brows were scowling in upon you, in this carriage, at the moment you were engaged in conversation with the widow Kinchela." " Lucy, what you state is an impossibility. No such person as you describe, could be within the gates of Mr. Kirw^an's demesne without the 18 AGNES ARNOLD. knowledge of the widow Kinchela. When I see her this evening, or to-morrow, you will find she can state the name of the countryman, w^hose innocent features your fears have metamorphosed into the lineaments of that wretch whose appear- ance at York made such an impression upon you in connexion with the wicked letters which, as you truly say, have caused me great pain of mind. They have so, not on account of the statements contained in them, but for the proofs they afford, that there are beings in human form, so base as to concoct such vile accusations against the good, the innocent and the unoffisnding. But here we are at the house. Dispel your fears, good Lucy, and prepare for a hearty Irish welcome. There, Lucy, there stands at the hall-door, my honest old guardian, John Kirwan — as fat, and as rosy- cheecked as ever — and there, by his side are 'the two boys,' as the widow Kinchela calls them. Two very agreeable-looking young gentlemen. The smaller, however, and as he seems to me, the younger, is, as the widow very justly remarks, ' a little darker than need be.' However, ' beauty is,' I am told, 'but skin deep.' 1 am quite prepared to love them both as brothers, if I AGNES ARNOLD. 19 find thera like to their uncle in truthfulness and integrity." Whilst Agnes was still speaking, Mr. Kirwan and his two companions were seen descending the steps ; and as the post-chaise stopped, the old gentleman was heard exclaiming : — " Let no one presume to open the carriage- door. That pleasure I reserve for myself. And let no one venture to hand out the young lady. There — there— my dearest Agnes — put one of your pretty little feet down there — and now — jump — ^jump into the arms of the old man who loves you, as if you were his own child." Agnes did as her guardian desired : she did something more, for, as she bounded to the earth, she clasped her arms round the old gentleman's neck, and kissing him ardently on both cheeks, she said, in a voice tremulous with emotion : — " My dear, dear, good, honest guardian, I am delighted to be under your protection once more. Let me begin by asking you for a favour. It is that every care and attention may be bestowed upon my companion. She is an Englishwoman, and this is her first visit to Ireland.'' " She is welcome, my child," replied Mr. 20 AGNES ARNOLD. Kirwan. " Doubly welcome, because you speak of her as a friend ; and trebly welcome for her own sake, because she is a stranger. A bed-room adjoining your own is already prepared for her, and the best that is to be found in my house is at her command. But, Agnes, my dear, she is not the only stranger who is present at this interview. Here, Miss Agnes Arnold, I take the liberty of introducing to you, my two nephews : the elder, and the taller, and (as I think) the better looking of the two is Mr. John Kirwan Wilhams, the very image of my poor brother, Charles, who adopted the name of Williams, on account of a small property bequeated to him in the West Indies — and here is the younger brother, Mr. James Kirwan Williams, not at all like his father, but very like (it is said) to his mother, who was con- sidered to be the handsomest woman, of her colour, in Jamaica.'' Agnes courtseyed to the two young men, as each was, in turn, introduced to her; and as she did so, she was astonished to notice the striking similarity in features, and yet the remark- able difference in the expression of each. Both the young men had high broad fore- AGXES ARNOLD. 21 heads — bptli had full dark eye-brows, both large black eyes, aquiline noses, small mouths, snow white teeth, and full rounded chin. In all these particulars they were identically the same, but then the elder had light brown hair, which accord- ing to the fashion of the day, hung down upon his back and shoulders in massy ringlets, whilst the hair of the younger clung to his head in sharp wiry curls of a dull, coarse black. There was, too, a marked difference in their height : the elder, John, being something more then six feet, whilst the other was scarcely more than five feet nine inches. The figures of both were perfect, and denoted the possession of vast strength, combined with that great agility, which is only to be ac- quired by those who are devoted to field sports. That, however, which at once made a marked distinction, (in the estimation of Agnes) between the two was the expression in their eyes, whilst their uncle was speaking of them. The full eyes of John were lighted up with beams of affection for the old man, when mentioning his name ; whilst there was a momentary flash of hatred in the glance of James, when his mother's hue was referred to — a glance of bitter enmity which could 22 AGNES ARNOLD. neither be disguised nor mitigated by the broad smile that accompanied it. "Patience ! patience !" murmm-ed Agnes, " I must not give way to first impressions. I must resist the instantaneous prejudice I have conceived against this young man. If he were not worthy he would not be in the confidence of my guardian, nor introduced to me. And, after all, he is not a particle too brown for a man. Now, I look again at him, I see he is a very handsome fellow, wdth a very ugly smile." The observations and the reflections thus made by Agnes passed with the rapidity of lightning. They were as speedily made and gone by, as the inclinations of her head to the two young men, as they bowed to her. And, therefore, it might be said, that scarcely had she alighted on the ground, when she caught hold of her guardian's arm and said : — " I know very w^ell, my dear Mr. Kirwan, that you have all sorts of luxuries awaiting our arrival ! that, before I have time to change my dress, you would insist on my taking luncheon." "Yes, Agnes, and so I do. Come, child.'* "My dear Mr. Kirwan, I cannot taste a AGNES ARNOLD. 23 morsel. I can do nothing, absolutely nothing, until I have had some conversation in private with you. Permit these young gentleman to see that your housekeeper takes care of my attendant whilst you and I retire to your study." " Of course — of course — Agnes — you are my guest — and it is my duty, as host, to comply with your wishes. Come, Agnes, come, at once. John and James, you can attend to Miss Ar- nold's companion, in the first instance, and then wait for us in the breakfast parlour. We shall be with you in a few minutes." 24 Chapter II. ANONYMOUS LETTERS. "And now, guardian," said Agnes, when she saw Mr. Kirwan closing the door of his study, " are you sure that we are alone — quite alone — that there is no chance of any one overhearing what I have to say to you ?" " We are alone — quite alone — no one can play the eavesdropper, if there was, as I am sure there is not, any one under my roof so vile as to act so base a part. We are alone, my good girl," said Mr. Kirwan ; " and, as we are so, I wish to ask you one question before I hear what it is you are so desirous to speak about. Why, Agnes, have you come so precipitately and un- expectedly to Ireland ? Why have you written to me to say you 2vere coming, without waiting to hear from me, that I wished you to come ? Why have you travelled to Ireland, when it was AGNES ARNOLD. 25 my intention you should not be in this country until you were of full age — an event now but a few months distant ?" " Oh, Mr. Kirwan ! Mr. Kirwan !" said Ag- nes, deeply agitated, "you have arrayed against you some very vindictive, and — I fear — some very powerful enemies/' " Me ! enemies ! vindictive enemies ! power- ful enemies !" cried Mr. Kirwan, for the moment confused and amazed by such a statement from a person for whose good sense he had a high re- spect. " Me 1" he repeated, '• me ! enemies ! John Kirwan, to have arrayed against him powerful and vindictive enemies ! Why, my good child, I do not know any one human being that I dislike. I can lay my hand on my heart and declare that I do not know the mortal that I am conscious I ever wronged or injured in the slightest degree. Pooh ! pooh ! it is impossible ! absolutely impossible ! John Kirwan can have no enemies. And now I think of it, Agnes, you are the only person who has ever done the shghtest thing to make enemies against me, amongst those who do not know me." VOL. I. c 26 AGNES AKNOLD, " I ! Mr. Kirwan ? Ts it possible you can suppose I would do anything calculated to be injurious to you?" "No — no — dearest iVgnes, I am sure inten- tionally you would never do so. l^ut then, not knowing the terrible state of feeling in this country at this moment — unconscious as 3'ou must be, living so many years in England, of what has been passing amongst us, you have liad the indiscretion to send of late letters to me, all marked with political emblems." " What do you mean, Mr. Kirwan ? What do you call a seal with a political emblem ? " " Why, a seal with a ' cap of liberty ' upon it — a seal with a representation of the Irish harp, without the crown, and the words ' it will sound agahi,' — a seal with ' a shamrock ' and the AAords 'Erin go bragh ' beneath — a seal with two hands clasped together, and the motto 'the Irish United.' " " And you have been receiving from me letters with such seals upon them, " said Agnes with a look of astonishment. " Yes, for the last few months, and I can tell yoli, Agnes, that such foolish things have excited AGNES ARNOLD. 27 the comments of those through whose hands they passed. In dehvering the very last of them, the postman remarked, ' whoever the person is that writes these letters he must be a great patriot entirely, for he is not afraid to shew his colours in the tcetli of the Postmaster- GeneraL' It was indiscreet, Agnes, to do this ; but sure 1 am, my good girl, you had no thought that such a miserable triHe would ever cause mc the smallest annoyance." '' Mr. Kirwan, you will, I know, believe me when I assure you, on my honour, I never before heard of seals of the description you mention. I never saw them. I never sent letters sealed in any other way, than with my father's crest." " You did not ! " exclaimed Mr. Kirwan, starting Up/ from the chair on which, he had just seated himself." " On my honour, never, never," replied Agnes. " Oh ! then this is somewhat more serious than I thought. And now, I remember I have been receiving other letters with political seals npon them. There must be some rascal in the Post-office tampering with my letters — perhaps, c2 28 AGNES ARNOLT). some wretched idiot wiio is occupying his idle time with a piece of mischief calculated to hurt the feelings, if not to injure the interests, of others. " Ah ! Mr. Kirwan, it is, as I have told you — you have incurred — Heaven knows how or where- fore! — the enmity of some mahgnant and powerful foe. Believing this, I wished to speak with you in private : to place before you documents which will demonstrate the truth of what I assert. It is for this purpose I have hurried over from England. I have come, because I got no reply to that communication which enclosed an anony- mous letter." "A conimunication from you, enclosing an anonymous letter ! " slowly repeated Mr. Kirwan. " Is it possible ? I never received any such thing. What is the meaning of all this ? I am utterly confounded ! I know not what to say — nor what to think. Your words fall upon me, like a thun- derbolt ! I am absolutely unable to unravel this mystery." " Alas ! my good, kind old friend, here are matters that it will wring your honest heart to be acquainted with," said Agnes, as she placed three AGNES ARNOLD. 29 letters on the table before her guardian. " It is unnecessary for me to state the substance of the anonymous letter I forwarded to you. It ^vas the first I received, and its wicked accusations against you will be found repeated in the abo- minable compositions I now submit to your perusal." Mr. Kirwan's hand slightly trembled, and his utterance two or three times failed him, as he read what follows : — "Dear Miss Arnold, you stand upon the brink of a precipice. Forgive one who is unknown to you but by his former letter, if he seeks to save you from inevitable ruin. " I cannot see the daughter of the valiant hero, William Arnold, on the point of perishing, without at least warning her of her danger. God grant that this warning may be sufficient to save her from her worst enemy. ** You are, Miss Arnold, the only child of one of the most loyal men that ever existed. Your father died in consequence of the wounds received by him in fighting against the rebels in America. '' Had all who were enrolled as soldiers, under the banners of England fought as ])ravcly 30 AGNES ARNOLD. in (Icfciicc of 11 is ]\Iost Gracious ]\Iajesty, Geovge tlio Third — God bless him ! — and for llio main- tenance of his sovereign crown and dignity, then the British Colonies of North America would have been retained in their allegiance to their king, and those traitors, Washington, IVanklin, Jefferson and their associates, would have expiated their crimes upon the scaffold. " To his latest breath the brave William Arnold branded all who rose in arms against their rightful sovereign by their proper designa- tion — ' audacious and atrocious rebels.' " Such were the political principles of William Arnold. Sooner, aye, ten thousand times sooner would ho place his own hand in the burning fire than grasp the hand of the wretch, who, under any circumstances, could be induced to raise a weapon against his sovereign. '' Agnes — daughter of "William Arnold — is your conduct like to that of your father ? Are you a recreant to his principles? Are you forgetful of the lessons of loyalty — which your good father — a martyr to his principles, and the victim to his own valour — was ever anxious to instil into the minds of all who listened to him. AGNES ARNOLD. 31 '' Who is i/otw friend ? — your clioseii friend — the mail beyond all others in this world in whom you place entire confidence — a blind con- hdcnce, ^liss Arnold — an unhappy confidence — and, as the daughter of William Arnold — I do not hesitate to say — a wicked confidence. *' Ask your own heart the question. Do I not speak the truth, when I say, that he whom you regard as your best friend, is the very man, tliat your father, if living, Avould regard as your worst enemy ; for lie — your friend ! Shame upon you, that I should say the word — your friend^ John Kirwan is, in his heart, a rebel to his king, and a traitor to his country. *' Will the daughter of a loyalist-mai-tyr shake hands with a rebel ? Shall it be said that the daughter of William Arnold places confidence in the hoary traitor, John Kirwan ? " True it is that your father constituted, by his last will and testament, John Kirwan as your sole guardian, and confided to him alone the manaQ:ement of vour estates until vou reached the age of twenty-one years ; but when WiUiani Arnold reposed such an unlimited trust in John Kirwan, it was at a time when Arnold the son of 32 AGNES ARNOLD. loyal parents believed that Kirwan, also the son of loyal parents was, like himself a loyalist, and like himself too would be ready and willing to lay down his life in defence of His Most Gracious Majesty George the Third, " Lay your hand on your heart — if there is in that heart one spark of the fervour and zeal in defence of the king that gave animation to the living spirit of William Arnold — and say — with the same truth, which you shall have one day to speak in the presence of your Creator — do you believe that William Arnold would consent to let his child — the child of a loyal subject — be so much as a single hour under the guardianship of a man who is a conspirator against his sove- reign, by being a member of that detestable, accursed, and rebellious association — the Society of United Irishmen ? *' Agnes Arnold — your guardian — John Kirwan is an United Irishman — in other words, and in plainer language — he is a traitor to his country, and a rebel to his king. " Will yon — thus told distinctly what John Kirwan is — a rank, but as yet, unconvicted rebel — continue still to call a rebel your friend? AGNES ARNOLD. BS Will you still permit a traitor to act as your guardian, and to have, in that capacity, full command over your property ? " Methinks ! th.e daughter of William Arnold, the loyal subject, shrinks with horror at the thought of a base rebel being considered as her friend. ^lethinks ! she resolves at once upon repudiating the untried and un-hanged traitor as Iter legal guardian, and asks me—her sincere well-wisher, and unknown friend — what is she to do ? How is she to shake off the trammels of the disloyal Kirwan — to preserve her property, and to expose a reprobate, a miscreant, and a wretch? " Your course is plain. At once return to Ireland, " Place yourself in the hands of a respectable solicitor, Mr. Vincent Mullany of Temple Bar, for instance. Call upon him to draw up a petition to remove John Kirwan from the adminis- tration of your estates, on the ground that you have been informed he is an United Irishman, and that you suspect your property has been mis- managed. Such is the vivid remembrance of your father's loyalty ; and such the horror now entertained by all in high station of that infernal c a 34 ACiiNl-.^ AKNOl.l). and diabolical Association of United Irishmen, that tbc prayer of your petition will l)c at once conceded. You will thus vindicate your father's foijue — thus preserve yourself and your property from ruin ; and so doing, act in accordance ^vith the wishes of— " Your unknown friend, " A Loyalist." Cold drops of perspiration burst from the forehead of Mr. Kirvvan as he read over this frightful compound of falsehood, hypocrisy, and blasphemy, rendered absolutely terrific by its assumption of emanating from a person who believed in the. truCh of Christianity. "Agnes, my dear child,'' said John Kirvvan, as he laid down this letter. It is, as you say, quite true : I have — I know not how — excited against myself the hostihty of some very wicked, and (as his anonymous letter-writing shows) some very base enemy. He calls liimself, 1 per- ceive, ' a Loyalist,' and he denounces mc as a/i United Irishmcui, and says so, most probably, with as little truth, in the one case, as in tlie other : for I am not an United Irishman, and, I may add, I was never even asked by any one to enrol myself AGNES ARNOLD. S5 ill that A^oeuitiou. It is not tlieii because I am an United Irisliuian this nnknown person can disHke me. What can the reason be? Why has he resorted to such a barefaced falsehood ? '' " 1 am unable to answer your questions, my dear guardian ; but perhaps you may detect the motives of tlie writer, by perusing his letters. Here is the next of them that I received," said Agues, as she handed over one of the papers that lay on the table. John Kirwan heaved a heavy sigh as he un- folded the document. " It is the same hand- writing," he remarked, " and it docs not appear to be a disguised hand. Let me see what further my skulking accuser has to say against me. It begins, I observe, Agnes, by calling you a fool. Here it is : — " My dear Miss Arnold. "You are a foul. " I have heard of your folly. ;' You sent my first letter to the atrocious rebel, Kirwan. In that letter I told you he was an United Irishman ; and I shewed you that your property was in danger so long as he had 36 AGNES ARNOLD. the iiiaiiaffcinent of it : and 1 advised vou to '& you come over to Ireland, and what to do when you arrived. " What has since happened ? '* John Kirwan received your letter. He saw in it my charges against himself, and my advice to you. Had he the courage to deny the truth of the first ? Had he the baseness to say as regards the second, my counsel was not that of a true friend ? " No, he has done neither the one thing nor the other ; but he has played off a really rascally rebelly trick upon you ; for he has never answered your letter — acted exactly as if he had never received it ! " Does not this conduct of his shew you what he is — an untrue guardian, and a faithless subject. " Seeing all this — I ask you — will you still remain a passive spectator of your own ruin? — acting like the disloyal and unworthy daughter of a loyal and valiant fath( r. " Go ! I say, ^o ai once to Ireland. Do not remain twenty-four hours longer in England, See the solicitor in Dublin, that I mentioned in AGNES ARNOLD. 37 my last letter. Do this ; and I say 'God speed !' to the cliild of WiUiain Arnold. Neglect it, and then you shall hear again, and in harsher terms from your unknown friend. " A Loyalist." '' Observe, Mr. Kirwan," remarked Agnes, as the old man threw this last letter from him. " Observe the mahgnant cunning with which that is composed. The roguish scribbler must have intercepted what I wrote to you, and yet he addresses me as if the fact was within his know- ledge, that you had received my communication and pretended it had not come to hand." " Alas ! my good and sensible girl," said the old man, as he again sighed deeply, '' I have passed ray life hitherto so peaceably — I have had so little to do with the wickedness of the world, and the vile arts which bad men will unhesita- tingly resort to for the purpose of attaining their ends, that now — when I find myself exposed to their machinations — I fear I shall never be able to contend against them. It is a sad task for me to read these letters ; but it is one's duty, and however painful, must be performed. Here 38 AGNES ARNOLD. is a third letter, and a very long one. You are no longer ' dear Miss Arnold,' ho has another name for you. It is thus he addresses you :— " Mad and foolish Agnes Arnold. *' You have treated all my former letters as figments. You seem to act as if a letter signed with a fictitious signature was unworthy of notice. '' A letter is not of value on account of the name attached to it, but by reason of the senti- ments it expresses, and the facts it details. " Are you a loyalist ? In other words, arc you the child of Wilham Arnold ? Then, if you are, act in a manner worthy of your father — prove by your conduct that you repudiate all connection with rebels — that you will not regard them as friends, nor will you allow them to have any act or part in the nianagement of your pro- perty. "If I seek to culcate your father's princi- ples — if I advise you to act upon them, is it necessary to do so with a real name when your own heart ought to be your prompter, without advice warning, or suggestion from a third party? AGNES ARNOLD. 39 " So much then for principles advocated in my former letters. And now facts. " Do you still doubt that John Kirwan is a traitor to his country, and a rebel to his king ? " Perhaps you will say ; for you are acting as if you thought so, that he is a loyal subject to our Sovereign Lord, the King, George the Third. " If John Kirwan is a loyalist, what are the proofs of his loyalty? He is a man possessing large landed estates in the counties of Wexford, Waterford, and Wicklow. It is his duty, as a man possessing such properties, to give an ex- ample to others of his devotion to his sovereign. Has he done so ? " In each of the counties of Wexford, Waterford, and Wicklow, as in all the other counties of Ireland, there has been established for the purpose of counteracting that hellish con- spiracy — the secret confederation of United Irishmen — armed corps of yeomanry. " To what corps of yeomanry in Ii elaud does John Kirman belong? Is he, as hi.^ pro- perty woidd entitle him to be, the colonel of a corps of yeomanry ? Is he a captain ? Is he a lieutenant? Xo, no. 40 AGNES AKNOLI). " Not only is John Kirman not a member of the Yeomanry corps, bnt, so far as he conld, he has discountenanced his tenantry from enrolhng themselves in a body whose rallying cry is ' Ihe Throne and the Bible : ' ' the Crown and the Church/ and their watchword, ' destruction to all who are not loyal to their Sovereign ! ' " John Kirman, then, is not a loyalist. There, Agnes, daughter of the loyalist William Arnold, are facts in abundance to shew you that your friend and guardian is not a loyalist. "Inquire for yourself, and see whether or not I have stated the truth. " I have said that John Kirwan is an United Irishman. Do you doubt the fact, because you have not the real name of the person w^ho states it ? "Listen to' me patiently. What will you say to these fasts ? " There are certain men in Ireland who are notoriously United Irishman. There is for in- stance. Lord Edward Pitzgerald, there is Oliver Bond, there is John Philpot Curran, there is Henry Grattan, there is Bagenal Harvey, there is Thomas Addis Emmet, there is Theobald Wolf AGNES ARNOLD. 41 Tone, there is Samuel Xeilson, and many others I could name ; and with each and all of these, it is notorious that your guardian friend, John Kir- wan, is on terms of the closest intimacy — dining at their houses when he goes to Dublin, and receiving them as his guests, when they travel to Wexford on business or pleasure. " There is, I admit, no proof that John' Kir- wan is a sworn member of that secret and diaboli- cal confederation — the United Irishmen — because the members are known only to each other by secret signs and pass-words. Still there are facts shewing he is an United Irishman : first by re- fusing to become a member of the loyal yeomanry corps : secondly, by discountenancing their en- rollment among his own tenantry : and thirdly, not only has he been contributing large sums of money (perhaps some of it your own money, loyal IMiss Arnold) in the purchase of arms for the use of the United Irishmen, when the signal is given to them by their leaders in Dublin, to rise like the rebels in America, and fight for what they call ' the independence of the nation.' "Yes, Miss Loyal Arnold, I beheve that cunningly as John Kirwan has been carrying on 42 AGNES A 11 iN OLD. his rebellious plot, this is very well Isiiowu of him, viz : that v/ith his coiiuivaiice, pikes, ready lor the use of the rebels, have Ijeeu hidden in ujore than one plaee in his demesne — and some, if I am rightly informed, even in his own garden — and when the day of his trial comes — for he W'ill yet be tried and hanged as a traitor — evidence sufficient to satisfy the conscience of a Court of Justice, and a highly respectable jury, will be brought against him. " What say you now^, Miss Arnold ? Will you thro\v this letter away as unw^orthy of your attention ? will you still persist in thinking that because you see not a name you know appended to it, that therefore you will pay it no attention — that you will still leave John Kirwan the adminis- trator of your property ? '' Bew^are ! bew^are ! mad and foolish girl of pursuing such a desperate course, and so sacrificing yourself for the sixko of one, who for ought you know^ or can tell, has already wasted your wealth in his mad and desperate schemes of I'cbcllion. " Beware ! beware ! I say of doing this, for the day may come when evidence in a court of law may be called upon to prove that you AGNES ARNOLD. 43 received this very letter : that you read it, and that you refused to listen to its warnings, or to act upon the sound and loyal advice it gave you. " If you are not mad — stark mad — you will then al once rciuni to Ireland — at once put your- self in communication with the solicitor I have before suggested — at once prepare a petition to the Lord Chancellor— and at once so free your- self from the gripe of that already doomed rebel, the (as yet, but not for a long time) unhanged traitorous old scoundrel, John Kirwan. " To Ireland then at once Agnes Arnold. It is the wisli and the command of your unknown friend. '' A Loyalist." Directly above the table at which John Kirwan and his ward were sitting whilst this letter was reading, there was perceptible a weak, dull, grating, continuous noise, as if some one over head was seeking by means of a gimlet or auger, to bore a small hole into the ceiling. This small, low, grating, grinding, untiring movement was unheeded both by Agnes Arnold, 44 AGNES ARNOLD. and John Kirwaii : the attention of the former was engrossed watching the manner in which Mr. Kirwan would receive tlie malignant accusa- tions made against him ; and the whole faculties of the other were absorbed with the statements contained in the documents he was perusing. 45 ClIAPTEPx III. A SECRET ENEMY. " Mercu'UL Powers '/' cried Mr. Kirwan — ''what is — what can be the meanmg of all this ? Here is, indeed, the working of a most diabolical spirit ! Here, here, Agnes, are the proofs that some one is thirsting for my blood ! Who can it be ? What person have I offended ? What man or woman can I have injured ? The most innocent actions of my life are misinterpreted, and those very things that I have done with the purest, with the most benevolent, the most phiian- thropical intentions, are perverted into accusations against me ! Accusations that, if believed, w^ould inevitably consign me to a shameful death on the scaffold." "Then it is not true," said Agnes, "that you are an United Irishman — or that you have dis- countenanced the formation of yeomanry corps on 46 AGNES ARNOLD. your estates, or that you have been purchasiug arms secretly, or that you are aware any deadly weapons arc hidden in any part of your park or o-rounds? If all these accusations are untrue, I do not see why you should be alarmed at the misstatements contained in documents to which the writer is either afraid or ashamed to put his name. I could not be assured on these points but by a personal interview with yourself. A word now from you, my dear guardian, will remove all apprehensions from my mind with respect to you/' " Agnes," replied Mr. Kirwan, " You are no longer a girl in your teens. In a few weeks, I might say, almost in a few days, you will be of full age ; and you have long since afforded the proof that with the quickness of apprehension that is the peculiar gift of woman, you combine the wisdom, the sagacity, and the sound judg- ment of a man. Therefore, I shall speak to you upon subjects that are seldom topics of conver- sation amongst young ladies in Ireland. I am not, my dear child, an United Irishman, and as I have before said to you, I never was even asked to become a member of that Association. I may AGNES ARNOLD= 47 add, that I am quite sure some of the gentlemen whose names are introduced into that letter, — Mr. Henry Grattan, and Mr. Curran, for instance — are not United Irishmen, and for the self-same reason that I wouhl refuse to be one — namely that the United Irish Society is a secret society ; and being a secret society may have objects in view, that I would not approve of. So far, how- ever, as the objects of that society are known and publicly declared, I tell you, as I have said on all occasions, abroad and at home, that I approve of them — that is, I am anxious, as our great and illus- trious patriot, Henry Grattan is anxious, to see my Roman Catholic fellow-subjects placed on terms of perfect equality with their Protestant country- men. I am of opinion that a man's religion should neither be a bar to his promotion, nor a motive to his advancement. I think, and I have always maintained that the state has nothing to do with a man's conscientious convictions ; and that the inevitable results of a temporal govern- ment having the power to reward or punish men on account of the faith they profess is to make men either hypocrites or martyrs. A second thing demanded by the United Irishmen I fully 48 AGNES ARNOLD. approve of, and that is the abohtion of the tythe- system. I conceive it is monstrous for me, a Protestant, to insist upon my CathoUc neighbour paying for the support of the minister of my rehgion, as it would be for the CathoKc to insist upon my paying his priest to say mass for him — or, as it would be for a Mahommedan to call upon me to pay for the performance of his peculiar rites. Then, again, the United Irishmen call for, and so do I — a Reform of Parliament. The House of Commons should be the representative of the tax-payers in Ireland ; whereas, at present, the tax-payers are, for the most part, excluded from the power of returning representatives, and that power is wielded by a few individuals — some noblemen, some gentlemen, and some dozen cor- porations in obscure localities, who sell that privi- lege, which should belong alone to the great body of the people, to the highest bidder. This bad and corrupt system the United Irishmen say should be put an end to — so says every honest man who respects truth, and who wishes to abolish falsehood, favouritism, jobbing, and cor- ruption in the administration of our affairs. So far then, Agnes, you will perceive that though I AGNES ARNOLD. 49 am not an United Irishman, still I find that Society asking for things which I approve of,- and I believe ought to be conceded." " Assuredly, Mr. Kirwan/' observed Agnes, " T can see nothing in the demands of the United Irishmen which could justify their opponents in branding them as rebels." " Oh ! Agnes," replied Mr. Kirwan, " there is something more to be said on the same subject. The demands of the United Irishmen, to which I now refer, were some years since published by the leaders of the Society as the Principles upon which it was founded — and so plainly and unde- niably just are they that upon an objection being lately made in one of the Law-Courts to the Oath of an United Irishman, a member of the bar one of the most eminent counsel in the kingdom, Mr. Thomas Addis Emmet — read over the words of the oath in presence of the judges ; — declared that he adopted that oath, that he subscribed to it fully and completely — and having taken it defied any lawyer to prosecute him for so doing. So far then all that regards the United Irish Society is plain, simple, intelligible, and unob- jectionable. But there is something more : nay, VOL. I. D 50 AGNES ARNOIiD. a great deal more to be stated. It is rumoured (and it is believed) tliat the constitution of the United Irish Society has recently undergone a very material change — that the leaders of the Society, despairing of effecting the reforms I have mentioned to you by peaceable means, have resolved upon making them triumph by force of arms — as we, in Ireland, won our legislative inde- pendence by the embodyment of the volunteers ; and, as the Americans have established for them- selves a Republic, separate and independent of of the Crown of Great Britain. It is rumoured also, (and it is believed) that the United Irishmen have sought the aid of an army from France, which is now at war with England ; and, that at the same time they are drilling their associates for war, and procuring arms, and in fact, preparing to take the field in open defiance of the King's authority, and with the ultimate intention of changing the old form of government from a Monarchy into a Republic. Such are the rumours circulated with respect to the United Irishmen. Whether they are true or not, I am not in a position to affirm ; for the Society is now a con- federation boimd together by an oath of secrecy. AGNES ARNOLD. 51 This, however, I say to you, as I have always said the same amongst my friends and acquaint- ances, that if these statements or accusations are founded in fact then there cannot be the shghtest doubt, that all the members of the United Irish Society are rebels — they are the allies of the King's enemies, and, as such, legally liable to be punished as traitors. As such, Agnes, I would have nothing to do with them ; for, however desirous I, as a liberal Protestant, may be for Catholic Emancipation and the abolition of the tithe system ; or that however desirous I, as a Wliig by principle and descent^ may be for the full and fair representation of the people in the Commons House of Parliament, still I must own, that I am not prepared, for the choice of obtaining political changes which I consider desirable, to abjure that loyalty which every subject owes to his Sovereign, and in so doing to lose my life as a traitor, with the consciousness that the estate I intend John to inherit, must be confiscated to the crown. That which is a constitutional demand, I w^ill never seek for by unconstitu- tional means." '^ And these opinions, you have publicly D 2 uSin OF ILLINOIS 52 AGNES ARNOLD. declared,*' said Agnes. " How then could this base anonymoiis-letter-writer charge you so repeatedly with being a rebel ? " "You forget, Agnes," replied Mr. Kirwan "the reason that he gives for making the accusation. The only truth in all these letters is the statement that I have refused to be a yeoman and that I have declined taking an active part in the establishment of a yeomanry corps amongst my tenantry. As I have repeatedly and openly declared that I repudi- ated all connection with the Society which was said to have revolutionary purposes in view, so have I refused to have anything to do with an Institution which may be converted into an instrument of tyranny and cruelty against the poor Catholic peasantry. It is plain to me, from the manner in which these bodies of yeomanry are being formed, that they will eventually all be (as most of them already are), composed exclusively of members of the state-religion ; and, knowing by sad experience how much of bigotry and fanaticism there exists in this country — seeing how Catholics and Pro- testants in the North of Ireland have been com- mitting all kinds of cruelty upon each other ; and seeing especially what deeds of horror have been AGNES ARNOLD. 53 perpetrated by that new Society, called " the Orangemen/' — my fear is that these yeomanry corps will be converted into so many bands of Orangemen ; and, therefore, I have refused to have anything to do with them, or to countenance my tenantry in enrolling themselves as yeomen." "And by so doing," said Agnes, ''I think you have been acting very wisely and humanely." "Yes, my child, but by so doing," continued Mr. Kirwan, "I am, as you perceive by the accusation now lying before you, charged with being a rebel and a traitor. This then is my posi- tion ; I am placed between two violent parties. I refuse to identify myself with those who, pro- fessing * liberty,' are seeking to deprive their sovereign of his kingdom of Ireland — and I de- cline to co-operate with those who, calling them- selves 'loyahsts,' are seeking to imbrue their hands in the blood of their Cathohc countrymen. I hold myself aloof from both parties; and I expose myself to the hatred of the one, and the animosity of the other. The part that I take is that which ought to be adopted by our rulers, so that men of moderate opinions, like myself, would, in a well-constituted state, be secure under the 54 AGNES ARNOLD. protection of the govcniDient. I can look for no such security. Our rulers — the Lord Lieutenant Camden, and his chief Secretary, Lord Castlereagh maintain no such impartial and independent posi- tion. Whether it is that they find England is not strong enough to baffle the designs of the United Irishmen, without appealing to the worst passions of bigotry and fanaticism, or that they have some ulterior objects to attain (that is not yet avowed), I know not — but the course they are pursuing is that of men who wish to provoke an insurrection in the country, by delivering over the professors of one creed to be tortured and misused by the worst men amongst the angry champions of the other. Such, my dear child, is the state of this country at the moment you return to it. Despairing that I could do any good by remaining, I have been, for some time back, making preparations to depart from Ire- land. So soon as those preparations were com- pleted it was my intention to have taken up my abode with you in York ; and then only to have returned here, for a few days, when I should have to go through the form of delivering up to you your estates, upon your coming of age. As AGNES ARNOLD. 55 to the other accusations against me in these letters — my pm'chasing arms for rebels, or my conniving at the concealment of them in my grounds — they are simply falsehoods without even the semblance of a fact to justify them." " And yet/' said Agnes, '' the accusations are made so positively : and the boast is uttered so confidently, that the proofs can be afforded such weapons are concealed — and with your know^ledge too ! — that I am sure you will not blame me, my dear old friend, that I lost not a day in bringing to your knowledge these foul charges preferred by a secret enemy." "Blame you! my dearest Agnes. On the contrary, I admire you for your courage in coming to Ireland when your friend was in danger, and so exposing yourself to some risk for the purpose of assisting me. I really do not know what to make of all this. I cannot even guess at the object the writer of these letters must have had in view when he penned them. If he was ac- cjuainted with your character he must have been well aware that you w^ould not, without inquiry, and upon the mere allegations of an unknown writer, withdraw^ your confidence from me, who 56 AGNES ARNOLD. who was your I'atlici's friend in his youth, and had l)C(3ii known to yourself from childhood. He must have been sure that before you acted, you would havcinvestigated — that you would have seen me — that you would have called upon the solicitor in Dublin to whom he refers — And now I think of it — did you see the Mr. — Mr. — I forget his name — at Temple Bar ? I liope you did. You ought not to have passed through Dublin without doing so." " The moment I landed at the Pigeon House/' replied Agnes, " I drove direct to the office of Mr. Vincent Mullany at Temple Bar. I saw^ Mr. Mullany. I showed him this letter, in which his name was introduced, and he not only repudiated all knowledge of the writer, but declared that if the writer's principles were in accordance with his signature, he would never have recommended him — Mullany — to so respectable a client. Mr. Mullany, I may add, spoke in the highest terms of yourself, said you were universally known and respected as ' a liberal Protestant,' and that you were a man of whom every Catholic in Ireland was bound to speak in terms of the deepest affec- tion and gratitude. I afterwards saw om' friends, AGNES ARNOLD. 57 the Rallies of Stephen's Green, and the Porter's in Merrion Street, and they both told me that Mr. MuUany was a highly respectable solicitor ; but, at the same time, strongly suspected of being deeply in the confidence of the United Irishmen. With this information I came down to you, never expecting, I must own, that these letters would have caused you any more annoyance than that which every good man must feel when he discovers there is in human nature more baseness and wickedness than he had previously surmised, or could possibly have suspected." " Vu'tue is no safeguard ; honesty is no shield in this world," observed Mr. Kirwan. "The bravest soldier and the best king that ever lived was stabbed to the heart, because he incurred the malignant hatred of a vile assassin ; and so the fame of a man, and the reputation of a woman are alike at the mercy of every wretch who chooses to ventilate a falsehood, or stain his soul with perjury. Whilst we breathe we never can consider ourselves secure against the assaults of obscure scoundrelism. It is plain, from these letters that you or I, or perhaps both, incurred the hatred of some wicked person ; and these letters have D 3 58 AGNES ARNOLD. been written for the purpose of gratifying his dis- like. But how, or in what way ? That is the consideratian that puzzles me. The writer must have been aware that an explanation, such as that now taking place between us, must put an end to idl uneasiness in your mind. Then, why write these letters? Could it be merely to vex me — to annoy me P No — no, there must have been some other and worse purpose to be effected. What could it have been ?" " Whoever is the writer of these letters," re- marked Agnes, "it is manifest, even in the midst of the falsehoods he tells, that he knows a great (leal of your affairs. Do you remember ever hav- ing stated it was your intention to go to England — of remaining there with me— and only returning for a few days at the period of my majority." " I have said it a thousand times for the last four montns," replied Mr. Kirwan. " For the last four months !" repeated xlgnes. " Yes," said Mr. Kirwan. '' It is exactly four months since I made my will, constituting my eldest nephew, John, heir to all my landed estates, bequeathing ten thousand pounds in the funds to my youngest nephew, James ; and a much smaller AGNES ARNOLD. 59 sum ill bank to a pretty lady that shall be name- less. Week after week since that time I have been engaged in signing leases, and making other arrangements for a long sojourn out of Ire- land." *' It is a strange — a very strange coincidence, though perhaps purely accidental, that the first of the anonymous letters was received by me four months ago ;" remarked Agnes. " And that letter," hurriedly said Mr. Kirwan, " urged you to come without a moment's delay to Ireland?" " Yes — in that respect — it was like to all the others that followed," answered Agnes. " Then — it is plain as the sun at noon day, that one of the purposes the writer had in view was to entice you to leave England, and to come to this country," observed Mr. Kirwan. '* And so, Mr. Kirv/an,"said Agnes, somewhat surprised at this interpretation, " You conceive that some unknown individual has taken the trouble of making all these mahgnant charges against you, for the mere purpose of playing off a miserable hoax upon myself ! — putting me to the inconvenience of an unnecessary voyage! 60 AGNES AENOLD. Excuse nic. 1 think there must have been some deeper plot m view." " And so, I fear, there is,'' replied John Kir- wan. '' Here, I, my two nephews, and my servants, are your only protectors ; but in Eng- land the law is your guardian, and every man who can wield a weapon a supporter of the law. England is quiet. Ireland is falling deeper into anarchy every hour, and no man can tell when there may be an outburst, and life, liberty, and property no longer secure amongst us. Ireland is no place for non-combatants ; for old men like myself, or young ladies — who are heiresses — like you, my dear Agnes, and therefore you should never have come to it. But now that you are here, all we have to do is to try and get away as quickly as we possibly can. Would, that we could leave it this very day ; but that now is im- possible. It is known in the neighbourhood that you were to be with me this morning, and your tenants at Turview — it is not many miles from this — have got up a little festival in honour of your return. It would be im gracious not to visit them ; and I am sure you will not disappoint the poor people.'' AGNES ARNOLD. 6l " Oh ! certainly not," replied Agnes, " on one condition — that you accompany me. I should wish to let it be known to the anonymous letter-writer, who must be, I suspect, some ill- conditioned neighbour of yours, that I place the most unbounded confidence in you." " My dear Agnes, 1 will be with you/' said Mr. Kirwan ; " and, if you will permit me, I shall bring my two nephews with me." " You seem attached to your nephews," ob- served Agnes. " And so I am. They are both excellent young men — but John, the elder, because he is so like my poor, dear brother Charles, is the favourite, of course." " Why did you not mention they were living with you?" asked Agnes. " I did not think it proper for a guardian to be writing to his w^ard about handsome young men. Next, I washed you to judge of them for yourself, without a word being said by me in favour of either. Then, I could not with truth say they were both living with me. John is a barrister, and only came to me last week, as the term was over, after being absent for some time, ()2 AGNKS AKNOLD. aijcl he will leave me next week when the Assizes bcghi. James, who is a Lieutenant in the Dur- ham Fencibles — a commission obtained for him through tlie interest of Lord Fitzwilliam — is here, like John, occasionally, seldom stopphig more than a week at a time. But, foi'give me Agnes, here I liave been talking to you about myself, and my kinsmen, when I ought to remember tliat I have not as yet rephed to the most serious charge made against me by the anonymous writer/' As reference w^as thus made to the letters by Mr. Kirwan, the eyes of Agnes involuntarily turned towards them as they lay on the table before her, and she was greatly surprised at per- ceiving that the large black seal of one was almost covered beneath a thin coating of whitish-looking powder. "That is strange!'' murmured Agnes, in a low voice. "It is indeed strange,'' repeated Mr. Kir- wan, unconscious of the cause for the observation of Agnes. " It is most strange that John Kir- wan should hear a charge of malversation pre- ferred against him, and not at once repel it, by AGNES ARNOLD. 63 the best proof in the world, the production of the Avjiole of the funds of which he was said to have inisappHed a part. So anxious, my dear Agnes, have I been to keep 3^our property secure, that, whilst I was content myself to bank with the Beresford's, 1 had an account opened for you in the Bank of Ireland ; and before you stii' from that chair I shall place in your hands the receipts for all the sums lodged there to your credit. I shall also show you the title deeds of your estates, for, with my own money, both are hidden in a place I defy any thief to " Whilst Mr. Kirwan was still speaking a minute piece of plaister fell from the ceiHng, and broke into fragments of dust upon the table. Agnes instantly looked up, and her quick glance at once detected a small hole in the ceiHng. " Stop 1 stop ! for Heaven's sake ! stop talk- ing, Mr. Kirwan," exclaimed Agnes, starting up, and pointing to the ceihng. " Look there ! look there, Su' ! We are watched by some wicked spy ; and all we have been saying, has, no doubt, been heard. The enemy that persecutes you with his falsehoods is of your own household. Whose is the room overhead?'' 64 AGNES ARNOLD. ''Whose is the room overhead?" repeated tlic astonished Mr. Kir wan. *' Let me think. Oh ! — to the best of my behef it is mioccupied. At all events, it is one of the servants' rooms ; but whoever the eavesdropper may be, he shall pay dearly for playing his tricks on me. Wait there, Agnes ! wait ! I shall return to you in a few moments." So saying John Kirwan grasped a sword-cane in his hand, and rushed out of the room. 65 Chapter IV. THE WIDOAV MORAN'S GUEST. About the same hour, on the same day that John Kh'wan and his ward were engaged in conversation with each other upon matters so deeply interest- ing to both, there rode up two horsemen to the door of the inn at Turview, and asked if they could be accommodated with beds for the night. The demand, which was made in a somewhat imperative tone of voice, attracted the attention of the landlady, and she stepped from the bar to the door, in order that she might have the satis- faction of giving a reply in the same saucy man- ner (as she conceived), in which the question had been put. The widow Moran — the landlady — was long practised in all the arts of the calling to which she had devoted her life. She w^as now a few months beyond her sixtieth year — but she had a 60 AGNES ARNOLD. lively recollection of the time when her youthful beauty, tis a (iliambcrmaid, had won for her the generous half-crown donations of juvenile travel- lers ; and when her pert tongue had rebuked the sauciness and contemned the sixpences of old and middle-aged way-farers. She had, too, a pleasing remembrance of the days, when as the blooming wife of the deceased Mr. Edward Moran, her white teeth and coaxing smiles had subdued into silence the passionate remonstrances and angry objurgations of persons who conceived they had been cheated by '' the landlord." The widow Moran was now an old woman — a very ugly, withered, skinny old woman, and — she knew it. She was " alone " in the world, and had, she felt, nothing to rely upon but " the character of the house," her wit in bill -making, and — her tongue ; the last, an instrument per- fectly imder her command, and as ready to fawn upon and flatter the wealthy traveller, as to abuse and vilify the poor man whose purse was not equal to her demands. There were two things in this world that the widow Moran loved beyond all others. The first was a rich customer who only looked at the sum AGNES ARNOLD. 67 total of her account without examining the items; and the second was the opportunity of being saucy with impunity, and the firm conviction that her insolence would not deprive her of a penny profit. The widow Moran's feelings, as a landlady, were hurt, when she found '' her house" addressed in a somewhat imperative tone by two persons on horseback, that from their rough overcoats she, at first, mistook for humble graziers, or poor farmers. The widow Moran stepped angrily from her own bar, where she was at the moment engaged in brewing a bowl of punch, and plant- ing herself firmly down on her ovv n threshold, she looked towards the two travellers, without conde- scending to give them an answer. There was a frown — a very angry, stormy frown, settled down upon the knitted browns of the widow Moran, as she took her stand upon her own threshold ; but the longer she looked towards the travellers the more that frown relaxed, and before half a minute elapsed it had entirely passed away, — and the toothless mouth twisted into a grim smile — so that when the same question was repeated by the 68 AGNES ARNOLt). smaller sized of the two young horsemen, it was at once responded to in these terms : — " Oh ! certainly — your honour — and why not? Your honour can have two bed-roorns ; but I am very sorry to say the grand parlour is engaged by one of the (juality in the neighbourhood ; and all I can give you is a little dining room by the side of it. Here, Jim, take the best care of the gentleman's horses." "Thank you, my good woman,'' said the same person who had first addressed the widow Moran. " Thank you ! my servant here will look to the horses, and now shew me to the little room you mention. I can tlien arrange what wc may have for dinner." The widow Moran was, as we have already stated, a very shrewd woman, and long practised in the arts of inn-keeping ; and amongst other valuable acquirements attained in that most pro- fitable pursuit, she had gained a thorough know- ledge of horses — and according to the value of the studs she estimated the purse and respect- ability of the riders — a very useful branch of science at a time when most journeys were accom- plished on horseback. And so it happened in AGNES ARNOLD. 09 this case. The angry frown with w^hich she was prepared to receive the two travellers w^as changed into a welcoming smile w^hen she perceived that both rode two of the finest and strongest hunters she had ever before looked upon — hunters that she knew the late Edward Moran would, on the instant have given a hundred pounds a piece for, with the certainty of having a profit of cent, per cent, upon his bargain. The horses had capti- vated the heart of the widow, and so intently was she engaged in admiring these noble animals, that she had not observed that the rider on one was servant to the other. Her thoughts ran upon " heads," " necks." " backs," and " fet- locks," and she sighed to think that Ned Moran was in his grave, " because it w^ould have made him so happy to have a hid for them, even though sure he never could have gained possession of them." " Well, your honour," said the widow Moran, as she shewed the stranger into a room so small that it was with some difficulty there were squeezed into it a little table, and tw^o little chairs. " I am five-and-forty years in this inn, and never were two finer beasts than those two horses of 70 AGNES ARNOLD. yonrs in our stable. As I am an honest woman, and tlic widow of a horsc-joekey and a liorsc- dcaler I cannot tell which is the better of the two — your's or your man's. It is tlie first time T ever saw a servant as well-mounted ns liis master/' " But in this case/' replied the traveller, " the servant is the better-mounted of the two ; for as I am a small, and he a large man, I let him have the stronger hunter. In the field, you know, the horse that with the most ease carries the heaviest weight over a ditch or a gate is the best. And now, landlady to business — what can I have for dinner ? " *' Whatever your honour Ukes." '* Very well, then, I shall take whatever you recommend." •' Ah ! it is easy seeing your honour is a gen- tleman. Such an answer is worthy of the owner of two such fine beasts as are now feeding on the best of oats in my stable." " Then I hope you will feed me, as well as my steeds." " The likes of them horses are like the quality and grand folk in the world," observed Mrs. AGNES ARNOLD. 71 Moran, " and arc entitled to the best tliat the bin contains ; whilst garrons and cart-horses, arc like the drudges of common people, and should be very well satisfied if they can get enough of coarse bran and musty hay/' '' There is more of fact than justice in your observation," said the stranger. " I hope, how- ever, a time is fast approaching when the toilers in this weary world of ours shall be better pro- vided and cared for, than they have been. But to business — the great business of the day — dinner. What do you recommend — you, who know precisely what is in your own larder ? I have a fair appetite of my own ; and as to my servant John, he will, I think, astonish you." While the stranger was still speaking, the widow Moran was examining his outward appearance, in order that she might thereby determine whether or not her guest was likely to demur to any extortion she might choose to practice upon him. The examination was satisfactory. The widow Moran saw before' her a young man about five- and-twenty years of age. A man of middle height — something between five feet eight and nine 72 AGNKS ARNOLD. inches ; but cxhiliitiiig in every limb wonderful muscular strength miited to untiring activity. Upon his broad shoulders was set a nol:)le head covered with close-cut shining black hair. His eyes were large, brown, and brilliant, and their movement incessant, as if he were constantly on the watch, or — it might be — afflicted with an un- certain temper, and unsteady disposition — whilst the muscles of his mouth appeared to be changed at every sentiment he uttered — and in all his features there was a mobility that gave to the whole countenance an ever-shifting character, but still one in perfect accordance with the emo- tions that, for the moment, actuated him. Thus, as he presented himself before the practised and calculating physiognomist, Mrs. Moran, he seemed to be a young man who was abroad for no other purpose than pleasure, and the dress he wore — a velvet hunting-cap, with dark-green hunting frock, leather knee-breeches, and top- boots, were all of such first rate materials — that it was plain to perceive expense was a matter of no consideration with the wearer. "Regarding what your honour tells me of your appetite," said tlie widow, " and that your AGNES ARNOLD. 73 servant is, as you say, a mighty tine eater entirely, I think that the least I can recommend you to have is first and foremost, a boiled leg of mutton and turnips." "Is the mutton young and tender?" asked the stranger. " The mutton is as tender as a chicken, and the tui^nips will melt in your mouth, as if they were so many warm snow balls." " Very well then, let me have the mutton and turnips." "Then," said the widow Moran, "I would recommend your honour to try a ham and pair of roast fowl." " Is the ham mild ? " asked the stranger. " Just taste it," answered the widow, " and you will fancy that the man who cured it, only dreamt he had salted it." " Very good, landlady, then let us have the ham and roast fowl." " And then, beyond all things in the house," added the widow Moran, " I would recommend your honour to have a rib of roast beef." " Fat, or lean, landlady ? " " Both lean and fat — the lean as full of juice VOL T. E 74 AGNES ARNOLD. as a grape, and the fat as fine and delicate, as if it was the essence of white rose leaves/' " Capital ! landlady. Is there anything else you Av^ould recommend as a dinner for two persons ? " "Merely an apple-pie your honour. The apples as sweet as sugar, and the paste of my own making — and all I will say of it is just this, I doubt much if Queen Charlotte herself ever made a pie-crust that would please the King like to mine — that is, if he was to taste it." " I am quite sure of that. By the way, what is your name, landlady ? " "Nancy Moran, a lone widow-woman, at your honour's service." " Thank you, Mrs. Moran. And now foi* your wine, what wine do you think I ought to take ? " "Claret, your honour; I only recommend one bottle. When you have tasted it, the wine will be its own recommendation ; and if your honour has made your head while you are young, I will be, indeed, astonished if you do not take to your own share half a dozen bottles, before you lay your head on a pillow." AGNES ARNOLD. 75 "Not at all improbable, Mrs. Moran — and therefore you may as well put down in the bill, to my account, six bottles of claret ; for what- ever I leave, my man, John (who great in eating is still greater in drinking), is sure to dispose of it." The widow Moran clapped her hands with joy, when she heard this extravagant order given. Her heart warmed to the stranger, and she, on the instant, considered him as " one of the finest, handsomest, and most generous-hearted men " she had ever encountered. " Perhaps, the stranger, in thus dealing with the Avidow, knew something of her character, and wished by a pecuniary sacrifice to win at once a way to her confidence. If such had been his intention, it was plain he had fully suc- ceeded. " So I am to put down six bottles of claret, at once, to your honour's account? " " Certainly, my dear Mrs. Moran ; for when- ever I meet with good wine, I always like to show my respect for it, by ordering as much of it as I can, and drinking as much as I am able." " Oh ! your honour is a real gentleman," chimed in Mrs, Moran ; ''it is easy seeing that e2 76 AGNES ARNOLD. with half an eye. But I am very sorry, very sorry indeed, I cannot put your honour into any better room than this/' " Make no excuse about that, I pray you," rephed the stranger, " for the only thing in the world I am particular about is, eating drinking, and sleeping. Give me good food, good wine, and a good bed, and I am in- different about the size or the furniture of the room I occupy/' " And all that again, shows that your honour is a real born gentleman. Only let me just warn you not to speak out any of your secrets to your servant ; for this room is only divided from the grand parlour by a thin partition, and every word said in the one can be heard in the other." "Thank you heartily for the hint, Mrs. Moran. And T suppose you can see from this room into the other, eh? " " Ah ! then for a young man, your honour is mighty early up to all sorts of tricks. Sure enough you can. This is my own sitting-room, generally ; and when there are strangers in the place that ai'e trying to get away witliout paying ' — there, and there, and there," (said the widow AGNES ARNOLD. 77 Moran, pointing to different parts of the cham- ber) " are little spy-holes, through which I am able to see what they may be doing/' "A very wise, sensible, and proper precau- tion,'' remarked the stranger, " although there is no probability I shall avail myself of it — you have, however, said that room Avas engaged for to-day. Who is to occupy it ? " " Oh ! the greatest people in this part of Wexford, if not the richest in the entire county, that is John Kirwan, of Abbeylawn, Esquire^ and his ward, the great heiress. Miss Agnes Arnold, a young lady that owns miles of land, and has money past counting." " And she has lovers, I presume ? "Not that I know of, sir; for it is only to- day she returned to Ireland ; and the reason she is coming here, is because the people of this place — it is on her estate — wish to have a dance and fire-works, and all sorts of doings, by the way of ' a welcome home.' I wonder, will she lower their rents for them. She ought, I know, to reduce mine ; for I am a good tenant, and always paid Avhatever 1 owed — that is one half-year's rent within another. 78 AGNES ARNOLD. " To be sure/' said the stranger sruiling. " If you were a bad tenant and never paid any rent the utmost she could do, would be to forgive you, which would be equal to bestowing so much money on you, and therefore to deal fairly with a tenant who pays I'egularly a landlord ought always cither to reduce his rent, or ask nothing at all f]-om him." "True, for you, sir. That is the way the gentlemen ought always speak to the poor people. But you were asking if Miss Arnold had any lovers, and I told you none tliat I know of; but, perhaps, I ought not to say that, for at this moment Mr. Kirwan has stopping at the house with him and her, two nephews, either of which would, I am sure, be delighted to jump at her." " Oh ! then, Mr. Kirwan has two nephews. Do you know anything of them ? " " A little, your honour, of both. The elder, John, is a counsellor ; and the younger, James, a lieutenant in the English militia; and, in my opinion, the younger is the best of the two." " You know both then to speak to ? " " Indeed I do your honour — know them right AGNES ARNOLD, 79 well. The one is a gentleman, and the other is a — 'negro/ " " Which is the negro, and which the gentle- " Master John is the ' negro ' though his father and mother were both Irish to the back- bone ; and Master James is a gentleman, although his skin is almost as black as if he was — like his mother before him — a negro. I never had but one dealing with Master John — and would you beheve it, sir, that though he is a counsellor, and his uncle worth thousands a year, he went through every item in my bill, as if he was a shopkeeper ; and, at the end of all, wanted to make out that there was a mistake of a dirty, little six-and-six- pence in the total." " Frightful ! " cried the stranger, apparently horrified. ''I am amazed to hear a gentleman should treat you in so unbecoming a manner." " I'll engage you are, sir. It was the meanest thing I ever knew a born gentleman to do. It was not like his uncle — and it was not like his brother, who, when he comes into this house throws his golden guineas about him, as if they were so many jack-stones. Ah ! Master James is 80 AGNES ARNOLD. the man for mc ; and if Miss Arnold is not already engaged, I hope he is the husband that will win her. Ah ! if he was the owner of this estate, I be bail you — for he has a heart as big as a settle-bed — he would allow me, and all the other tenants on the land to have their houses and farms for nothing, or next to nothing ; whereas, if Master John comes in for the fortune he will force every human being to pay the exact sum to a farthing that is set down in their leases. Oh ! he is a low, mean, mangy, dirty cur — and it will be a hard day for the poor, if he carries away the prize, because he is the better-looking of the two suitors, that is, if there are no more than the two." " Thank you, Mrs. Moran, for all this infor- mation about those who are to be in the next room to me to-day. It will give the good dinner you are providing for me quite a relish to listen to them. I shall be able to tell you whether there is any wooing going forward, and which has the best chance of succeeding." "Thank your honour, heartily; but I must now leave you, to look after the dinner, and see if there is any little tit-bit I can add to it, that I have not yet thought of." AGNES ARNOLD. 81 " Do SO, uiy good landlady ; but before you go just answer me one other question, which^ in the present state of Ireland, you will not be sur- prised at my asking you. To which party does Mr. Kirwan belong?" " It would be hard to say that, sir. I think he is like a chip in porridge — that is — of no use. Others declare that he is a nonentihis, (I think, they call it), and which means neither good for king nor country. He certainly is not an Orange- man, for he won't allow any of his tenantry to enlist in the yeomanry ; and he is not an United Irishman, for he has threatened not to renew the lease of any man joining that (which he says) is a secret society. All I know is that in former times every one used to speak well of him ; and now I hear him abused on all sides. The Orange- men say he is a * rebel ;' and the common people that are, (as I suspect) United Irishmen, declare that he is * a government -hack,' and that he has * sold himself to the government.' All I know of him is, that he is a fair, hard landlord, that is, that he insists upon the rent, if a tenant is able to pay it — that he forgives those who show they have failed through no fault of their own ; and E 3 82 AGNES ARNOLD. that he has, at times, gone further and given money out of his own pocket to put them on their feet again. Oh ! there are worse men in the world than John Kirwan, although far be it from me to deny, that there might not, with a little ti'ouble, be easily found persons, who could be a great deal better." " Very good, Mrs. Moran, and now as to the pohtics of the nephews ? " " Why, your honour, I will tell you all about that as truly as if I was sworn to speak the truth in the face of a judge and jury. It is no business of mine, as the owner of an inn, to inquire what are the politics of those who pay for what they eat, and who drink my wine with such toasts as are most pleasing to their fancy. As to Master John, I think he is, hke his uncle, * a chip in porridge ;' or, if he has a leaning more one way than the other, it is in favour of the United- Irish ; for the only time he ever was in this house to pay a bill in it was in this way ; a farmer in the neighbourhood was, without any process of law, bundled out on the road-side with his wife and children, by his landlord, because he had refused — the farmer being a Protestant — to AGNES ARNOLD. 83 become a member of the Orange Lodge, of which the landlord was Grand-master : and Master John, upon hearing of this, had a meeting in the next room to you, where he was for houi's examining witnesses to prove this case against the landlord — and although he acted so meanly about my bill — I must say that he took an active part against the landlord, and cast the gentleman with heavy costs and damages, and restored the tenant to his laud. But mangy Master John had an eye to his own interest in taking all this trouble : first, I am sure (though I can't swear to it as a fact), he put a large amount of the costs in his own pocket ; and then he made himself a great hero amongst the poorer classes, and was cried up for a whole month afterwards as ' a real patriot ;' so that you see, sir, cunning master, mean-spirited John made guineas and glory out of that trans- action. Oh ! how unlike to his brave brother, generous James, who only comes here to drink and spend his money like a Trojan. Master James never comes here to be plotting law-suits for the poor against their betters ; neither does he come here to treat those who are his equals, and could give him a treat in return. No. On the 84 AGNES ARNOLD. contrary, his guests at all times, arc persons far his inferiors in life — farmers, with ragged coats out at the elbows — mechanics with dirty faces, and torn skirts on them — and with such as these the brave Master James will sit drinking for hours together. They are, I believe, in some sort of society ; what it is I do not know, and never could guess by taking a sly peep at them. All I am sure of is that they never stop drinking; and that every night regularly that they are together, every single glass in the room is smashed when they have a toast which they call ' the glorious, pious, and immortal memory.' And Master James pays for all the damage like a prince, and never stops to see whether I have charged for one, two, or three dozen of tumblers that are shivered to flitters when he and his humble associates are boozing together. And that, your honour, is all I know, or all I can tell of the politics of Master John and Master James." " And that my good woman is quite sufficient. There is but one more question I have to ask you, before I go walk until dinner, which you will be so good as to have in three hours from this time. Are the humble associates of the AGNES ARNOLD. 85 brave Master James persons living in this village?" "Not one of them," answered the widow. " They all belong to different localities ; and there are strangers that come, I think, either from Wex- ford, Waterford, or Dublin, because they always sleep in the house the night they arrive, and leave at an early hour the next morning." " Thank you 1" said the stranger as he took and placed a long thick heavy cane under his arm. " In three hours expect to see me back." " Good-bye, sir, until then," said the widow, "you may depend upon my being punctual. Ohl I forgot. Do you like horse-radish with your roast-beef ? And have you any objection to the rind of a lemon in your apple-pie ? " "Roast-beef without horse-radish is like a lady's bonnet without a feather ; and an apple- pie in which there is not the rind of lemon is like a May-morning without a primrose," gravely answered the stranger, as he walked from the door. " Ah ! " cried the enraptured widow Moran, in a fit of enthusiasm. " If all guests that come here were like that handsome young gentleman, keeping an inn would become an absolute heaven on earth. 86 Chapter V. JACK HOPE. As Mrs. Moraii was thus giving expression to her admiration of the stranger she turned from the door to superintend the preparations for his dinner, when she found her passage impeded by a young man of unusual height and great bulk, whose rugged features seemed to be lighted up with a continual smile, and whose habiliments were like to those of the stranger, but composed of coarser materials. ''The top of the morning to you, ma'am,'' said the tall young man. " By the description given to me by the cook, the chambermaid, the ostler, the waiter, the boots, and the errand boy, I presume that you are the widow Moran, and landlady of this fine inn." " You arc quite right, my good young man," replied the widow Moran, disposed to regard AGNES ARNOLD. 87 with favour the attendant of a generous guest. " Quite right — quite right indeed — and you, I presume, are the servant of the gentleman who has just walked out." '' The identical same, ma'am, at your service, ma'am," politely replied the tall man, as he gave a pidl to a short, curly, flaxen wig whicli only half concealed his fiery red hair. " And what is your master's name, if I may take the liberty of asking?" said the widow Morau, with an elaborated courtesy of manner. " No liberty in life, ma'am. He calls himself; (and I'd hke to see the man that steps in shoe- leather that dare to contradict him, whatever he chooses to say of himself or anybody else), — ]Mistcr P. Williams of Elm-mount Lodge, in the town- land of Donnycarney, and in the barony of Coolock, which is in the county of Dublin, ma'am — and the name of his head-groom is John Hope — commonly called Jack Hope of Ballyboughill, in the county Antrim — and that is myself in person, and here to the fore, at your service, ma'am." "Thank you. Mister Hope." *' Oh ! don't if you please, ma'am — * mister ' me — I'm not used to it, and it looks as if you 8'S AONKS AKNOLT). were nuikiiig game of me. Call me Jack Hope, if you like me, ma'am." " Very well — as you please — my good boy. You were looking for me, Jack Hope. What do you want with me ? What can I do for you? " " Only two things. The first is for your own comfort ; and the second for mine." " What are they, Jack ? Say what you like. I am quite ready to do anything in my power to oblige you." " Then, listen to me, ma'am. The first thing I have to ask of you is — what time did my master, Mr. P. Williams, say that you were to have dinner ready for him? " " In three hours from this time." " No — no — mistress — but three hours from that time ; for I'll engage he looked at his gold watch when he said the word to you." " And so he did — but ten minutes one way or another. Jack Hope, you know makes no great matter." '' Phew ! doesn't it indeed ! " said Jack Hope, giving a long whistle to express his astonishment. '' Se(% now, mistress, the predicament you stand in. The master is gone out for a three hour's AGNES ARNOLD. 89 walk. He will walk fifteen Irish miles in them three hours. He will come back as hungry as a hawk to the very minute ; and if when he says * serve up the dinner/ the dinner is not served on the very instant — that I may never tell another truth ! — but if there is a minute's delay, he will tear down the house on you, may be break your blessed neck, murder the cook, shoot his two horses, and kick me until he knocks the toes out of his new boots." " Goodness gracious ! is it possible ! this nice, smiling, soft-spoken young man can be so pas- sionate and violent," exclaimed Mrs. Moran, as she listened with horror to this description of her favourite guest. " He is as gentle as an infant when he is not contradicted," replied John Hope, '' and as quiet as a lamb when everybody does as he bids them. A child might play with him when he has eaten a good dinner, and drank a bottle of wine ; but he cannot bear with patience the slightest annoy- ance, vexation, or disappointment. He spends his money like a king, but like a king he expects that all he pays for shall be punctually per- formed. So mind now what I say. At the very 90 AGNES ARNOLD. minute he enters the house, have his dinner ready for him. And if it is well-dressed, a jolly dinner he will make of it ; and right well too he will pay for it." " Thank you very much, Jack Hope, for the hint ; and you may be sure I shall act upon it. And now, my good boy, what is the next thing you have to ask me?" " Why then, ma am, it is a very small, but, at the same time, a very important matter." " What is it, Jack Hope." " Ah ! then, ma'am, it is nothing more than this : where am I to dine?" " Where are you to dine ? " **Yes, indeed, ma'am. Where am /to dine? I have been in all parts of the inn, from the garret to the coal-cellar, and I cannot find any- where an unoccupied dining-room." *' Why, Jack Hope, you are a very extraor- dinary young man. Where should you dine, but where every other servant-man dines — in the kitchen ? " " In the kitchen ! me in the kitchen ! Is it me — Jack Hope ! — head-groom to Mr. P. Williams of Elm-mount Lodge, Donnycarney, AGNES ARNOLD. 91 barony of Coolock, County Dublin to dine in — a kitchen ! — with all the rifF-rafF of the county, tinkers, graziers, beggars, and beggars' dogs watching every bit I put into my mouth ! me, to do such a thing ! me ! that when I am at home witli the master — always dine with the head butler, the steward, and such like genteel people. Why mistress, you might as well ask me to dine with yourself in the bar, or with the chamber- maid in the bed-room, or with the ostler in the stable. That I may never tell another truth, Mrs. Moran, but I could n't do it, though you were to pay me a shilling a bite, and a guinea a draught, for every morsel or drop I eat or swallowed. See then the dilemma I am in, and as you are an honest woman, try and take me out of it. You will obhge the master as well as me by doing so ; for he knows I am very par- ticular in my feeding." " Oh ! I remember he said so, Jack Hope, and yet — I am fairly puzzled — I really do not know where to put you to dine.'' " You don't," said Jack Hope, with a con- temptuous sneer on his face. ''See, the wit of man is sometimes cuter than the wit of woman. 92 AGNES ARNOLD. I have thought of it ; and do you just do what I bid you/' " And what is that ? '' asked the bewildered widow Moran. " When you are laying a plate for the master, just lay one for me right opposite to him ; and don't forget to place a sharp knife and a strong fork by the side of the one plate as by the side of the other." " What do you mean, Jack Hope ? Is it to dine at the same table with your own master ? Oh ! impossible." " Why then you but I w'on't be un- mannerly — nor say what I was going to say — but you old — lady — what other place is there in the entire inn where I can dine ? " " Oh ! but Jack Hope ! Jack Hope ! the idea of a groom dining with his own master ! " " Well, ma'am, and isn't that much better than that the master should dine, and the grooiu die of starvation ? If I died in the night of sheer hunger, who would take proper care of the horses in the morning ? But there is no use in arguing the matter any further. I know the master much better than you do. He is too rich a man, AGNES ARXOLD. * 93 and too great a man to be a bit proud ; and T know well he would much rather see mesittino- down to dinner with him, than to hear I was hungry, and plenty of meat and drink in the house. Mind, I say, and do what T bid you. If you don't, that I may never eat another bit, but I will tell on you, when the master returns — and then see ! — what a ruction there will be ! — T would not be in your coat for a hundred pounds." "Very well. Jack Hope — I will do as you bid me ; but, mind, if Mr. P. Williams gets into a passion when he finds two plates on the table instead of one — remember you are to take all the blame on yourself — at all events I will tell him what you have now said the instant he puts his foot inside the house." " Take my advice, mistress, and say nothing at all on the subject. My master has such an appetite he never says one word at dinner, but is so busy with eating and drinking, that he can see nothing but the dish and the bottle; and twenty chances to one, but though I am dining opposite to him, he will never observe me, nor be at all aware that I am in the room." 94 AGNES ARNOLD, " Oh 1 if that is the case, there is some safety in doing what you ask ; and I will — for peace sake — venture to act as you bid me/' " The first time I looked at you, I thought you were a sensible woman," replied Jack Hope, ^' and now that you show yourself amenable to reason, I am convinced of it. The horses are cared for, and so good morning to you, for a time, mistress. I am now going out to see if there is a ball-alley in the place, or any one to pitch stones against, or throw quoits, or i)lay nine-pins, so that I may be sure to return with something of an appetite." " Oh ! good morning to you ! Jack Hope," said Mrs. Moran with a bitter frown on her countenance. " Heigh, indeed ! " she exclaimed, as she dangled the keys that depended from her girdle. '' T do not think I shall be so great a gainer, as I first fancied, by this fine gentleman, Mr. P. Wilhams. I recommended to him a dinner which ought to be more than enough for twelve persons, but according to the description he gives me of the man's voracity, and the man's account of the master's appetite, I should not be a bit surprised if between the two of them they AGNES ARNOLD. 95 eat up a leg of mutton, a ham, two crammed fowls, a rib of beef, and an apple-pie, besides swallowing the six bottles of claret ! It is a sad look-out for my larder when two such cormorants are pitted against one another at the same table — why, they will eat twice as much as if they fed alone ! However, I have one consolation — I can charge what I like in the bill. The worst of it is I coidd have done the same — and yet saved some of the provisions for myself. Ah ! but then, may be, I would not think of making the bill so heavy. Well ! well ! — come what may of it — I cannot be a loser, and I must be a gainer. Yes — yes — tliat is a consolation. And now — to dress a dinner for Mr. P. Williams that I would not be ashamed to lay before the Duke of Leinster." 90 Chapter VI. JEMMY O'BRTEN THE INFORMER. The widow Moran was on her way to the kitchen, when she heard a loud shouting outside, and the irreverent rattUng of the butt-end of a riding- whip against the 8ign, which as it was a picture — (or a daubing rather of red, blue, and white that was intended by the rural artist as a picture) — of Saint Patrick was regarded as that piece of property, belonging to herself, that should be treated with peculiar respect, if not veneration. The widow's ire was excited ; and knowing that there was not room for a single additional guest in her house, she gladly availed herself of the opportunity of giving vent to her rage, when she was conscious she could do so, without incurring any pecuniary loss. With an agility that was almost marvellous AGNES ARNOLD. 9*^ for her years she hurried back to the door m order that she might rebiike the new comer. For an instant — but scarcely more than an instant — the widow Moran was staggered in her- hostile intentions ; for the stranger rode a large strong horse, which she immediately valued as. being •' well worth forty pounds — to sell again.'*" From the horse she turned up her eyes to gaze- on the rider, and she saw before her a man appa^ rently about forty years of age — large-boned, broad-shouldered, thick-limbed, with huge feet^. and enormous hands, red from exposure to the air, and as grimy-looking, as if they were cour stantly employed about a forge. The figure was that of a low, rude, and vulgar mechanic ; but,, the dress this individual wore was in the very extreme of fashion. His light -blue coat, with long swallow-tails that hung down to the stirrups on both sides of the horse, vvas thrown back in front for the purpose of displaying a yellow waistcoat covered with shining brass buttons, and the waistcoat again was open to show a white shirt with enormous lace frills, that puckered out before him as stiff, and as strongly denticulated as a saw - whilst around the neck was a dazzhng white cravat. VOL. I. r 98 AGNES ARNOLD. that was twisted into septemplicated folds, and ter- minated in a bow that seemed to have beenintended as a representation of the Gordian~"knot. Attached to the waistcoat, which did not descend lower than the chest, were pantaloons of a flaring orange hue —tight fitting to the sMn, and descending down to the calves of the legs, on which were low, white-top boots with huge bright spurs. The costume of the cavalier was complete, for he wore two watches, the long brassy chains of which, mth an enormous bunch of seals to each, hung dowai at least six inches on each side, from the waist-band of the panta- loons. Upon his head was a narrow-shaped, high- crowned, conical hat, and beneath that hat were displayed the bloated features of a man on whose face was written in immistakeable lines " tliis is a a ruffian." Low browed, flat-nosed, thick-lipped and heavy-chinned there were, in the small, malig- nant grey eyes, and the fierce frown, the proofs that he who now looked down upon the widow Moran was a man capable of committing any crime that his own evil passions could suggest to him. "Humph ! " growled this person. " So! there is some one alive and kicking in the crazy old pig- sty. Can I have a bed, my antiquated damsel?" AGNES ARNOLD. 99 " No — ^mister/' replied the widow — " If this inn is a sty — it is too cleanly kept to let such a dirty, big brute of a hoar as you sleep in it." " Ah ! then, ma'am, if your beds are ^^foul as your tongue, a lump of Kilkenny coal must be white compared to the colour of your sheets." " Well, white or black, they are too good for your four ugly bones to rest in them." " If my bones were as ugly as your face, I would hang them up as a scare-crow." " Don't think of hanging yourself, my man, before your time ; for the law will be sure to do that business for you, yet." "■ Whatever was the school you went to for the purpose of learning bad manners you must have proved yourself an able scholar, and carried off the first prize for sauciness. I never saw such ti cross old woman." "And I never saw such a hang-gallows- looking thief." " No more of your impudence you Pill-lane fish-woman, or may be it will be the worse for you. Can't you give a civil answer to a civil question. Can I have a bed? " " No — nor a bolster — nor if a single feather F 2 100 AGNES ARNOLD. would make a bed for you, should you have it in this house, so be off with yourself. This is a place for gentlemen to resort to, and not for the likes of you.- " Not for the likes of me ! What do you mean by saying that, you superannuated bezom ?" " I mean that inns are for the quality, and shebeen houses for strolling vagabonds." "And so — you say — that I am a strolling vagabond — do you dare to say that? " said the wicked-looking traveller, as he changed his riding- whip to his left hand, and went fumbling with his right about the front of the saddle. The widow Moran guessed his evil intentions , but her blood was excited, and she was not to be terrified. " I mean to say," answered the widow, " that if the cap fits you, you are welcome to wear it. And I mean to say too, that there, on the other side of the road, is a shebeen house, where they take in all sorts of worthless persons, and that is the place fittest for you ; and not a decent, respectable inn, where the looks of one like you would be enough to frighten a well-bred tom- cat into a fever. And now having said so much AGNES ARNOLD. 101 I won't lose any more time talking to you; but be off about my business, which is to dress a dinner for one that is no way connected with you, for he is — a real born gentleman." " By Gorah ! and before you go I will give you your ' bit and your sup.' I will teach you to keep a civil tongue in your head." As the ruffian thus spoke, he drew^ out a large horse-pistol from a holster, cocked it, and aimed it at the retreating person of the angry hostess. His forefinger was bending on the trigger when a stone, well and surely aimed by some unknown hand, struck him in the back of the head, and knocked him off his horse — the pistol being discharged at the same instant, and the bullet with which it w^as loaded, perforating the painted sign-board of Saint Patrick. The noise of the pistol-shot, and the clatter caused by a heavy man falling from his horse not only recalled the widow^ Moran to her inn-door ; but also attracted around it all the occupants and customers of the shebeen-house on the opposite side of the road. To judge of the latter persons — the customers of the shebeen-house — by their appearance, it 102 AGNES ARNOLD. would seem as if the widow Moran had giveu no unfair description of them, when she characterised them as " worthless -^ for amongst the group that now collected about the prostrate and inani- mate form of the dismounted horseman were discernible the worst individuals to be found in an Irish town or village. There was, for instance, the broken-down farmer — his inflamed and carbuncled face— a memento of the evil habits which had reduced him from independence to penury. There too was the sooty -bearded, yellow-skinned, red-nosed, cadaverous mechanic, his limbs shaking as if with palsy, and his blood-shot eye indicating that drunkenness had struck the hammer from his grasp, or rendered him incapable of guiding the movements of the loom. There too was the grey-haired debauched, and discharged soldier manifesting in his slovenly habits and his reck- less bearing how all that was good in his training had been obliterated, and all that was evil re- membered ; and ready to be practised — and there too, by his side were unhappy youths who had never learned how to controul their passions, and had become plagues to society before they had AGNES ARNOLD. 103 attained the age of manhood. With these — these hahitiies of the shebeen-house — might be noticed about a dozen strangers, who, though dressed as countrymen, had much of the look and rolhng walk of men who pass the most of their time on horseback. *' My blessing ! " exclaimed the widow Moran, " and the Avidow's blessing ! twice of a Sunday, and three times of a holiday — on the holy fist that flung that sanctified stone that has — I hope in mercy ! — brained that blood-thirsty black- guard, who wanted to shoot me as dead as a red-herring, this day of all other days in the year. Oh ! the villain of the world ! the cowardly villain to raise his hand against a woman ! and to try and shoot a poor lone widow whose husband — may he rest in glory ! — is dead ten long years come next St. John's Eve. Oh ! that I may never sin^ but I would be this minute, as stark and stiff" as a door-nail, but for the decent man — whoever he is — that hit that rascal, I hope in the nape of the neck, and left him there lying on the broad of his back, for me, and every other respectable female to spit upon him with ease and comfort, and as long as we like. There — 104 AGNES ARNOLD. there — he hes, with no more sense in his head, than there was courage in his heart. There he lies, and out of that spot may he never rise again with hfe, the murdering, meandering, mis- creant ! "Ah ! I see — I see his own sort have come eut of the shebeen-house. Ah ! ah ! what do you think of that Maccaroni you scum of the earth ? Isn't he just like one of yourselves — the ofFscouring of the dirtiest puddles. Ah ! ha ! so you are shaking your heads over him. Do so. It's only the likes of you that would be sorry for the likes of him. There— may be, you are grieved about him. Ah 1 then, if you are, I'll engage you won't forget to empty his pockets (if there is anything in them) before you wipe your leyes. " Oh 1 oh ! so you are taking him away with you. Do so, and welcome. It is only such foul carcasses as his should be laid in such a foul dunghill as you arc now carrying him to. Ah ! ha ! — it's you that will have a fine wake if he is Icilled, as I hope he is. It's his two watches, and %is lace-shirt, and his pink-new pantaloons that ■will be well able to keep you, and your associates AGNES ARNOLD. 105 in snuff, tobacco, candles, and whiskey galore for a three night's Keening over him ! There — there — away with him — I would no more let him — dead or alive — inside these doors than I would invite Franey the robber to sup with me. " There, there — take him — and his pistol — aye — and his fine horse too away with you. Ah ! then, if he has any heirs, it's they that will get but a Flemish-account of his goods and chattels, from the likes of you. " Ah ! ha ! by Dad ! they have got him inside the shebeen-house, and isn't it a comfort to me to think that it is himself that has been dragged away like a horse's head to a bonfire ; whereas, if he could, it is myself that they would be wash- ing and stretching to lay me out like a clean corpse to bury me on Sunday next. Oh ! more power to the fist that flung the stone at nim — and as to the blessed stone, there it lies forenent the door. Ah ! then it is I that will pick it up, and make a chimbley-ornament of it, and every time I look at it say a prayer for the man that threw it, and polish my prayer off" with a curse for the man it struck." The widow Moran had indulged in this long f3 106 AGNES ARNOLD. soliloquy, whilst standing in tlie same position within her own house where the man had aimed his pistol at her. Now, however, for the purpose of carrying out the pious intention she had expressed of preserving as a relic, the stone to which she attributed the preservation of her life, she came into the open road, and was in the act of picking up the precious piece of granite, when she accidentally cast her eyes upon her revered sign-board and exclaimed : — " Oh ! the sacriligeous thief ! In trying to murder a poor lone widow he has shot my Saint Patrick through the right elbow ! Phew ! after that, it would be lost time cursing him. He is in for it, at any rate, for ever and a day. If he is not killed at present, he is sure to meet with an evil end hereafter — and, more of that to him ! There, now, as 1 know he is doomed, all I hope is I may live to see him hanged ; and so saying, I will with a hght heart, set about dressing the grand dinner I promised to Mr. P. Williams of Elm-mount, Donnycarney." The accident that occurred to Mrs. Moran's assailant had excited much more of grief and consternation amongst some of the occupants of AGNES ARNOLD. 107 the shebeen-house than she had calculated upon. In addition to its constant customers there hap- pened to be a few persons (as we have already remarked) who, though dressed as farming- peasants, had the bearing and manners of indivi- duals accustomed to other pursuits. Amongst these was a very taJ], and very gaunt man, with large goggling grey eyes, known to his associates by the name of " Hepenstall." This man lazily followed the group that first ran into the road, at the sound of the pistol-shot, and pushing his way through, he looked down at the prostrate body, and the moment he did so, he staggered back, as if he had received a heavy blow, and with a frightful execration cried out : — " Perdition ! It is — Jemmy." " Jemmy ! Jemmy ! " repeated the crowd. " Jemmy what ? Who is he, sir ? Tell us ; for whoever he is, he is a dead man." *' Hush ! you rabble ! " said Hepenstall, in a voice of command which made the poor, tippling mob about him feel that though the stranger was ebthed in frieze, he was not only their superior, but one accustomed to have his orders obeyed. " Come here, Keogh ! " said Hepenstall, as the 11)8 AGNES ARNOLD. crowd drew back, to one of the strangers who stood in the midst of them. "Do you know who is lying there ? " '' No," answered Keogh. *' All I can recog- nise about him is that he is a very ugly Dublin Maccaro7ii whose face is covered with blood." *'You are a drunken buffoon, Keogh; and not fit for the work on which you are now em- ployed. Look again, and you will perceive it is," and Hepenstall whispered in his ear — '' it is — Jemmy O'Brien ! " " What ! " cried Keogh. " Jemmy O'Brien ! the notorious informer ! dressed in that odd manner! " '' It is part of the business of a man, who is both a spy and an informer, always to be dis- guised in strange costumes," answered Hepenstall. *' I knew he was coming here." " Ah ! captain," replied Keogh, " it is because ^ou knew he was coming here, that you were able to recognise him in that plight. Without some such clue to his identity T defy the mother that bore him to know Jemmy O'Brien, when dressed out as a Maccaroni, Poor fellow ! I fear it is all over with him ! He made himself AGNES ARNOLD. 109 up like a buck, and he is now as dead as a haunch of venison.'* " No joking, Keogh. We are here on duty — and it is no time for you to indulge in filthy jests, nor to forget that I am your captain, and you only here as my serjeant-major." " Oh ! bother ' Hepenstall. So long as our uniforms are covered with frieze-coats we are equal. But what are we to do with Jemmy ? Had we not better see where he is shot ; for I suppose it was the shot we heard that killed him." " No — we will remove him to the place we came from, and send for a doctor to examine him." " The gentlemen is still breathing," said one of the uniniated crowd. " I think he is only stunned by a fall from his horse.'' " Here, Keogh," said Hepenstall, still speak- ing in whispers to his associate. " Do you and your men carry O'Brien to the shebeen -house. I shall take charge of his horse, and this pistol which was plainly discharged by him at some person. I am very anxious to know how all this happened. It was unfortunate I did not place one of you as a sentinel outside on the road." " And so have attracted attention towards 110 AGNES ARNOLD. US," saucily answered Serjeant-major Keogh. " Julius Caesar — ^you are aware was like yourself — a captain ! — but it is nowhere mentioned in his Commentaries that he invited the observation of the enemy to one of his ambuscades by planting a vidette in front." " I don't care a for you, or Julius Caesar either, sir," angrily replied Ilepenstall. "Do your duty. Remove this poor fellow as tenderly as you can." " Aye, aye, sir," said Keogh, muttering to himself. " The dog is dead, and I will take him as tenderly as if I were carrying his corpse to the Surgeon's Hall to be anatomised." The mournful procession bearing with it the apparently lifeless body marched at a slow pace from the inn-door to the shebeen-house ; and no sooner had the man been placed on a table, than one utterly unknown to all the inmates rushed in, and gazing down in the face of Jemmy O'Brien, exclaimed : — . " Well ! of all the strange sights that ever my eyes looked upon this sight is the strangest sight that anybody could wish to see as the strangest of all strange sights ! " AGNES ARNOLD. Ill The person who thus gave expression to his astonishment or satisfaction was John Hope, the head-groom of P. WilKams, Esq., of Elm-mount, Donnycarney. " Who are you, sir ? What do you want here ? " said the haughty and insolent Hepenstall. " I want to see if I can do any good," confi- fidently replied John Hope. " What, sir ! Do yon mean to say you are a doctor?" asked Hepenstall, as he looked with contempt at the hunting-cap and green jacket of the bold head-groom. " No, sir, I am not a doctor," answered Hope, " but I am next door to a doctor ; for I am a doctor's man ; and I know enough of medicine to be able to tell you that this good^ dear gen- tleman is only stunned ; and what is more I am pretty sure I can show you where he is hurt." " Indeed ! " said Hepenstall, somewhat sur- prised, "and where is he hurt ? " " Look here ! Give me a scissors," said John Hope as he snatched one out of the side- coat-pocket of a drunken tailor who was looking on with a woe-begone and maudhn countenance 112 AGNES ARNOLD. at what he supposed to be a dead body stretched on the table. " Look here ! " contmued John Hope, and turning the still senseless form round on the face, and ripping up, from the bottom to the top, the back of the orange pantaloons, blue coat, yellow- waistcoat, and fine shirt. "Look here!" he added, pointing to a contused and deeply indented bruise at the base of the skull. " There is the very spot the good gentleman got his hurt. I am as sure of it, as if I saw him struck — and that blow was given to him either with a stick, or a stone, or a spade, or an iron bar, T cannot pretend to say which — but this I am sure of — will anybody, lend me a pen-knife ? — if you will only let me bleed him this instant, you will hear him speaking in ten minutes afterwards — and, may be, before the sun sets, able to take a tumbler of punch with the best of you." " I will let you bleed him," replied Hepenstall. " but mind, sir, what you are about — if any fatal consequence follows from your treatment — as sure as you stand here, I shall never stop until I have you hanged in front of Wexford jail." " You are too agreeable to have long dealings AGNES ARNOLD. 113 with/' said John Hope, " and what am I to get, if I recover the gentleman? My fee is to be — what the Conn aught man shot at — nothing. And, if I don't recover him, I am to be hanged ! Good morning to you, gentle- men. If I was a real doctor, you could not treat me worse. I tell you bleeding is the only chance to save his life. Try it or not, as you like ; but as I don't want to be hanged I will have nothing to do with him." " I beg your pardon," said Hepenstall, " but I know this gentleman very well ; and it was my extreme anxiety to save his life that made me speak so harshly to you. Do your best to recover him. I shall, in no manner, hold you responsible for the consequences. I have but one word to say to you. Do you know how to open a vein?" "Do /know how to open a vein? " repeated John Hope, " you may be very anxious, mister, about this gentleman ; but if I had not, in my time, drawn blood from many a creature whose life was a hundred times more precious in my sight than his ever can be, I would not undertake to cure him." "There," continued John Hope, "give me a garter — there ! tie it over the os-bos-mios- 114 AGNES ARNOLD. pont-i-cal muscle — there ! there ! tie it as tight as murder — there ! " he, added, rubbing the blade of the pen-knife upon the palm of his hand, as if seek- ing to give it a finer edge, — " There — tJm(/ ! — there is an elegant scarification for you 1 — there ! goes the blood ! — and black, ugly, villainous- -looking blood it is — spurting up like a fountain 1 — flow away ! — the more of it that is lost in that way, the better for the man's self, and — others." *' Stop ! stop ! stop the blood at once, you sir," exclaimed Hepen stall, alarmed as he per- ceived no change was taking place in the counte- nance of John Hope's patient, except that it seemed to be becoming more deadly pale and rigid. " There ! " cried John Hope as he bound up the wound he had himself inflicted. " And now for a jug of cold water. High ! — there it goes ! — a right down good splash ! Ah ! I guessed that would do him good ! Clean cold water is quite a variety to that countenance. The gentle- man is not used to it, and it has — as I expected it would — surprised him back into life again." A flush covered the cheek of the patient : he gasped for some minutes as if recovering breath AGNES ARNOLD. 115 — ^his small, grey feline eyes opened ; but there was no speculation in them, as they tmiied from side to side. Again he closed them, and his whole body trembled, as if he were stung with shooting pains. At last, he muttered out these words : — " Where am I ? . . . What is the matter with me? . . — I shot her bv accident . . . her tongue got entangled in the trigger . . . she said I would be hanged Where is the gentleman ? . . Ah ! I see, sir, I see . . , there's where you hid the pikes .... yes, yes, — I'll swear . . . I'll swear I saw him watchins; the men when they were hiding them" — "Hush! hush! O'Brien," said Hepenstall, putting down his mouth to the ear of the pros- trate villain, — "hush! hush! there are strangers present — they are listening to you." " Who are listening to me ? Who dare listen to me? " cried O'Brien scrambling up into a sitting posture, and leaning heavily on his hands, as he glared around him, his malignity giving him for the moment a strength which it was marvellous to behold, considering the hurt he had received, and the loss of blood he had 116 AGNES ARNOLD. experienced. " Ha ! '* he exclaimed as bis glance met with that of Hope who was standing oppo- site to him. " Ha ! you, sir ! — I know you well. You are the constant companion of that arch- traitor Wilham Putnam M'Cabe. You are the adjutant to Lord Edward Fitzgerald's adjutant- general. Surrender, sir, — surrender at once, or by all the Powers I'll shoot you like a dog where you stand. Major ! major ! — there is a rebel — there, major — arrest him and the old woman Avho abused me — I charge them both with rebellion •v—with hiding pikes in Kirwan's park, and with murdering me — shoot — shoot and hang them both, this instant minute." And whilst he was yet speaking O'Brien's head sunk, the muscles of his arms relaxed, and he fell heavily back upon the table apparently lifeless. " Well ! well ! well ! " said the imperturbable John Hope. " I often heard of the viper that stung to death the man who had warmed it in his bosom. I often heard also of the two old sayings, ' lie down w^ith dogs, and get up with fleas ;' as well as ' put a beggar on a horseback and he will ride to the Old Boy before he gets tired ;' but of all the dis-ingratitude I ever met AGNES ARNOLD. 117 with in the whole course of my life this exceeds everything. So ! — the good gentleman's fee for me, because I recovered him is to have me hung in the most shameful manner — that is — in the company of an old woman ! Oh ! by Dad, this is too dangerous a patient for me to have any- thing more to do with. I would not put another hand on him, if I was to get as great a fee for doing so, as ever the Duchess of Rutland gave to Doctor Boyton. Oh ! good morning to you, genteels ! If you wish to bring that amiable person back to his seven senses, you won't bleed him any more ; and you will dash more cold water upon him — but — follow a friend's advice — and take care that you do not sprinkle a drop of Holy-water upon him. If you do, I am afraid it will kill him ; for I know as Httle of theology as of physic, if 1 am not right in thinking, that the Spirit that gives life to his body would fly away at the first dash of anything blessed that touched the carcase that contains it. '' Hang a decent boy for curing him ! That beats cock-fighting ! " said John Hope, as if muttering to himself, whilst escaping from the shebeen-house. 118 Chapter VII. AN HONEST MAN AND A ROGUE. John Hope walked out into the road, and from the road he turned into the adjoining fields, and as he did so, thus communed with himself ; — " What portion of that political plot which is carried on, in all parts of Ireland by the Cam- dens, Castlereaghs and their myrmidons is to be enacted in this neighbourhood ? What brings here Captain Hepenstall in command of Keogh, Barry, Kenrick, Mallet, Bell, Thompson, and other soldiers in ' Beresford's blood-hounds ? ' Why are these fellows disguised? And what, beyond all others, can be the motive of letting out that miscreant — Jemmy O^Brien — upon this peaceful neighbourhood? There is not — so far as I can perceive — one of our body — there is not an United Irishman — in the whole district. Does this besotted and wicked Government wish AGNES ARNOLD. 119 to create for itself more enemies than it has already by some new deed of blood — by some flagrant act of iniquity ? Even as it is — Jemmy O'Brien — would have slain a poor old woman ; but for the blow I inflicted upon him. Wretch that he is ! and unfitted to breathe — I did not wish to be answerable for his life — to cut him off an unrepenting villain in the midst of his sins — and therefore I did my best to prolong an exist- ence that never would have been endangered, but for me — and that now w^ould be at an end, but that I did my utmost to restore him. " Was I justified in doing so ? Ought one when he sees a mad dog rushing by him — through a false humanity — withhold a blow that slaying the noxious creature would preserve the innocent and unofiending from being bitten by it ? I believe not — and yet having struck down a villain who is thirsting for blood, I have prolonged his life ! How many innocent persons may that tongue, which I have enabled again to speak, yet slay by perjury ? Ah ! Jack Hope ! Jack HopeJ. you are a fool, and when I recount this day's adventures to my friend, Wilham Putman M'Cabe, I am afraid he will account me an idiot — a soft- 120 AGNES ARNOLD. hearted idiot — who has shrunk from the conse- quences of destroying such a monster as O'Brien. In similar circumstances, jVrCabe, 1 know well, would not have spared him. " Again I ask myself the question — ought I to have done that which I am sure my friend would not have done ? Ah ! if O'Brien were not a dog — if he were but an animal without a soul — his brains would now be scattered over the threshold of the widow's door. But the Informer has a soul — an immortal soul, God descended from heaven even for the sake of Jemmy O'Brien ! And — yes — I was right ! Let the God who created him deal with him. I leave him to God. I put his hfe in danger to save another. So far I was justified in doing. I am free — free from the guilt of his blood. Yes — I was right. And if I was right, then I can, when my own last hour comes, say, with humble confidence, ' may God be merciful to me,' as I shewed mercy to the most cruel, remorseless, and blood-thirsty informer that ever existed." " Yes — yes — the more I think of it, the more sure am T that I have done what was most fitting for me to do — and, so thinking, I AGNES ARNOLD. 121 do not care whether M'Cabe laughs at, or abuses me. " But now — let me think of others. What brings all these persons down here? What have Beresford's blood-hounds, or Jimmy O'Brien to do in this part of Ireland ? M'Cabe and I have learned from our Directory that there have been for some month's back constant mes- sages passing from this place — the inn at which we are now stopping — and some persons in Cooke's and Marsden's offices. We have, too, the description of the individual by whom these messages are conveyed. That person, certainly, does not belong to the inn. Perhaps, M'Cabe will discover him before he returns to dinner. Ah ! if we could but light upon the go-between, we should soon be able to get at the pith of the plot. " Whether it be a political plot — and it must be, or O'Brien, Hepenstall, and Keogh would not be here — or whether (which is most impro- bable), a mere scheme of private malice — it is plain — when such villains are mixed up in it, that some innocent person — perhaps more tha one — is marked out as a victim, VOL. I. G 122 AGNES ARNOLD. " Whatever it be, I trust, it may be the good fortune of M*Cabe and myself, to unravel it, to save the innocent, and to bring down punish- ment upon the heads of the guilty. " And now, let me think — think well and maturely, before I meet with and confer wdth my true friend, on those circumstances that have occurred since I saw him — ^what were the exact words used by Jemmy O'Brien upon recovering from his stupor. " O'Brien talked some words that w-ere sense — and some that were nonsense — he recognised me accurately enough, and spoke what w^as per- fect truth of my constant association with William Putman M'Cabe. He then spoke of arms being hidden by one person with the intention of falsely charging another with having hidden them. That is a common trick. More innocent persons have been punished upon that false charge, than upon all other untrue indictments put together. *' Oh ! but such an accusation as that is always made against the poor. It would be absurd to prefer it against a rich man ; for no rich man could be made responsible for arms that were found hidden upon his property, because he AGNES ARNOLD. 123 cannot, as it is supposed a poor man can, see daily every particle of land that belongs to him. " The accusation of hiding arms is then to be made against a poor man ! '' Pho ! nonsense ! neither the government, nor any one in connection with it, would go to the expense of bringing down O'Brien, Hepen- stall, and the whole gang of Keogh's, Barry's, and Bell's to convict a man, without property, of having concealed arms in his possession ! " I am — I see, fairly puzzled — I am as much in the dark, as before I left Dublin. I can make neither beginning nor end to the whole affair, and I must leave it to the sagacity and shrewdness of my friend to render this weari- some riddle intelligible to me. " I give it up — I am in a state of helpless confusion." John Hope, like many others who indulge in long meditations, was, unconsciously, speaking aloud his thoughts ; and he therefore started, as at the sudden appearance of an apparition, when he heard a response to the last words, to which he had given utterance. '* Whatever difficulty your honour is in, G 2 124 AGNES ARNOLD. the best way in the world to get yourself out of it is to have a poor man's prayers at your back. Lord bless you, sir, and give a crea- ture that is hungry and weary, a little silver sixpence." Hope started, as these words, spoken in a drawhng, whining, canting voice, sounded in his ears ; and he looked with some suspicion on the speaker, who appeared to be an old beggar whose head was covered with a broad- leafed, broken hat, and the upper part of his face concealed by a dirty, yellowish rag which was bound over one of the eyes, whilst the lower part of the countenance was buried beneath a huge red beard, that hid the lips and chin. " This is a schemer and not a genuine beggar,'' thought Hope to himself; '' and not improbably has been set to watch me, as I am a stranger in this place. I must deal cautiously with him." And so tliinking to himself, Hope walked quickly forward as if his mind was so deeply engaged in what he had been thinking upon that the appeal of the beggar was unheard by him. AGNES ARNOLD. 125 The beggar, considering his apparent age, displayed wonderful activity, for not only did he walk as fast as Jack Hope, but so much the faster that he was able not only to overtake, but to pass and again confront him in his path. '' The blessing of a poor, half-bhnd beggar be with you, sir, and give me a little silver six- pence." "Ah ! my poor old man !" cried John Hope stopping and looking attentively at the mendi- cant, " you seem to be greatly afflicted. Lost the sight of one eye ! Is it long since that mis- fortune occurred to you?" " Thirty long years, your honour ; and a sore and bitter loss it was to me, by reason of the losing of one eye' has brought on a dimness of the other." " Poor man ! poor man ! How did it hap- pen t " Oh ! easy and simple enough — blasting stones in a quarry. I was too eager about my work; too anxious to see everything going on right, and you behold what has come of it ! A thieving rock, as big as a cannon-ball hit me in the one eye, and made me as blind as an owl from that 126 AGNES ARNOLD. day to this. Ah ! it was a great lesson to me, although it came too late for me to profit by it." " A great lesson to you ! what do you mean ? How, a great lesson to you?" " Yes, indeed, sir, a great lesson ; and one, that as you are young and hearty, it may do you a deal of good to remember. The great lesson I learned from losing my right eye is — that when any man has anything to do for another, he should barely do it ; never overdo it — that when he is to be paid for anything, he should just do that much, and no more — because, if he does more, he may not get paid for it ; and if anything wrong happens to him, whilst doing more, he will be left — as I have been — to beg his bread for the remainder of his days. Oh ! yes, your honour, it was a great lesson ; and from that time to this, I have been advising every man who works for another to be warned by my example — and be very particular however short he may be in the work he has to do, at all events, and for his own sake, never to go one inch beyond it." "That is what they call — 'a great moral lesson.' " AGNES ARNOLD. 127 " Yes, your honour — ' a great moral lesson ' for the working-classes ; but, won't your honour be after giving me that little silver sixpence I have been begging for ? " "Certainly — but first let me ask you — for whom were you working, when this sad accident occurred to you?" "Why then — would you believe it? — for a great Squire in these parts — a Mr. John Kirwan, Esquire.'' "Is he rich?" " Rich ! He is as rich as a Jew." " And is it possible a rich man would have neglected a just claim upon his wealth, and of constant assistance to be rendered to a poor per- son, who was deprived, whilst in his employ- ment and performing his work, of the means of sustaining himself by his honest industry ? Is it possible Mr. Kirwan knows that you have been blinded in his service, and yet are now, in consequence of that accident, compelled to be- come a mendicant?" " Does he know it ? Does old John Kirwan know that I was blinded whilst blasting stones in one of his quarries, and that I am a beggar on 128 AGNES ARNOLD. the face of the earth ? To be sure he knows it — but what does he care for me : there is no law in Ireland to compel the rich to pay for the sup- port of the poor. In fact, and in truth, there is no law at all for a poor man in Ireland, except the law for hanging him, if he takes a pig, a sheep, or a heifer to save himself and children from starvation. And there again, your honour, is another ' great moral lesson' for the poor people, that I am always preaching to them. Of course, I go hither, and thither — into this public house, and that public house ; into this shebeen shieling, and then into that ; and, some- times, I get my nose — but very seldom — into a rich man's kitchen — and wherever I go, I hear the people — servants, labourers, tradespeople — in fact, all sorts and descriptions of individuals talking politics — speaking about the Whigs, and Tories, and Loyahsts, and Republicans, and Democrats, and Orangemen, and United Irish- men ; and then what I am always saying to the poor, that is to the men who live by their work is this : — *' * My good friends — there is not one of these parties but has rich men at the head of it. AGNES ARNOLD. 129 Now, if you remark, all these rich men, no matter what they call themselves — Whigs, Tories, Democrats, Orangemen, United Irish, and such other names — they all say they are friends of yours, and that they all wish to be of service to you. T say, don't believe one of them — don't believe them, because they are rich men — don't, 1 say, believe them ; for all they want is to make use of you, and to serve themselves ; for no matter which of them has the upper-hand, they will all strive to make the poor man work, in order that they, the rich men, may live on the profits of his labours. Do you then let them alone — let them fight their own battles for themselves — for the end of all their battles will be the same — to plunder you — to oppress you — to squeeze the marrow out of your bones. That is your doom. It is bad enough it should be so ; but don't you, my poor people, make bad w^orse by fighting for such men — fighting too, only that you and yoiu' chil- dren may be ground to the earth by one set of tyrants instead of another. AVait awhile ! 1 say, my poor people — w^ait, I say, you that are ser- vants, and mechanics, and day-labourers — wait and see if the rich, by their quarrels with one 130 AGNES ARNOLD. another, may render themselves so weak as to be unable to resist you ; and then — my poor people — lay your hands upon them — squeeze their necks tight — and share their wealth and land among you. Them, and them only, is the sort of politics that you ought ever to bother your heads about.' " Such," continued the beggar, " is another * great moral lessson ' which I learned whilst wandering as a blind beggar ; and I am too good- natured, when I believe in its truth, not to spread the knowledge of it so far as I can — and now, may be, you will be after giving me the little silver sixpence, that I have already told you, it would be a mighty great convenience to me to have in my own pocket.'' John Hope sighed, as he listened to this rhapsody, and placing the sixpence, which the beggar had so urgently asked for in the man's palm, he remarked that the hand stretched out to him was not the withered limb of an old man, but appeared to belong to a person in middle life, and the full vigour of health. "This is certainly an impostor," thought Hope — "but one more question to test his AGNES ARNOLD. 131 sincerity. There! said Hope, speaking aloud; '^ There is the sixpence for you. I would willingly give you more, but that I am not a rich man." " Oh ! if you were a rich man," added the beggar, ''I would only have asked you for a penny, and it is probable I would not get a half-penny, nor even a farthing from you. It is only those that are not rich who give away sixpences, and shillings in — charity ! — as they call it — whilst most of them unwillingly part with their silver ; but still do so, with the vain hope, that the beggar, upon whom they have bestowed it, will fancy them to be, what they are not — great, grand, genteel, and wealthy persons 1" "I suppose," said Hope, "you know all hving in this neighbourhood." " Every mother's soul of them," answered the beggar. " Then, perhaps, you can tell me the name of the fine-dressed gentleman, who met with an accident a few minutes ago opposite the widow Moran's inn." *' To be sure I can," answered the beggar — ** that fine-dressed gentleman lives about ten miles from this place ; and his name is James 132 AGNES ARNOLD. Blennerhasset — he is a son of Ignatius Blenner- basset, Esquire, who was at one time, Member of Parhament for the town of New Ross ; and his eldest brother, George Blennerhasset, was a lieu- tenant of dragoons, and killed not long ago, whilst serving under the Duke of York in Flanders. I know him well — and therefore will not waste my breath in praising him/' " Thank you !" said John Hope, as he turned away from the beggar. '' Now," thought Hope to himself, " I have not the shghtest doubt this fellow is an impostor. He has red hair — and, so far as I could discern his features, corresponds with the description given of the individual who was traced conveying messages to and from this neighbourhood and the Castle. Perhaps, he is — the very man ! I must consult my friend." Hope walked on for a considerable distance in silence, and when he had reached a grove, from which he supposed he could see without being observed, he turned round and looked at the beggar. He saw him sitting down in a field, in company with a countryman — both deeply engaged in conversation with each other. AGNES ARNOLD. 133 Whilst Hope was thus watching, the countryman in company with the beggar, turned round his face, and Hope, at once recognised the features of Captain Hepen stall. Hope stil] watched; and, at last, he saw Hepenstall and the beggar separate from each other — Hepenstall walking slowly towards the shebeen house, and the beggar running in an opposite direction — running with all the speed of a youth of eighteen ! 134 Chapter VIII. UNITED IRISHMEN.— W. P. M'CABE AND J. HOPE. The widow Moran honoured her new and much admh'ed guest by specially waiting upon him at dinner; and it was in the following terms she expressed to the ostler, Jim, her opinions as to the scene she had witnessed. "I am an old woman, Jim," she said, ''as you very well know, and I am five and forty years in an inn, as you must have heard ; and I have seen many strange things in my days, and met with strange people ; but of all I ever heard or saw, that meal of meat which Mr. P. Williams, and his man, Jack Hope, are after tucking into them, beats everything else to stockfish. " Only fancy, Jim — a master and his own servant-man sitting right opposite to one another at the same table ! — and the man with his knife, fork, spoon, tumbler, and glass, all the same as AGNES ARNOLD. 135 his master; and the man, I declare to you, as much at his ease, and as Httle ' disanulled ' as if he was sitting down with a footman, a post-boy, or a chambermaid ! " Well, Jim, was not that a very curious thing to behold ? And yet it was not half as strange as the master's conduct — for though he could not raise his eyes from the plate without seeing his man right forenenst him, yet for all that he always looked — and I watched him narrowly to see how he would look — but, still and all, he always looked as if he was gazing at nothing but vacancy, or as if he was admiring the picture of ' Death and the Lady^ pasted up against the wall, at Jack Hope's back. It is my firm belief that he never saw his man at all — that he never saw, or thought of any- thing but what he was eating. " And then, Jim — oh, Jim ! — the way the two of them went through every dish that was placed before them ! Fhst of all, the master puts in his carving-knife, and with two or three cuts had as many pounds of boiled mutton on his plate, and with them a stack of boiled turnips ; and away he went munching, munching, munching, and not a word out of his head. Well, no sooner had the 136 AGNES ARNOLD. master so helped himself than the man pulls the dish over to him, takes the whole of tlie leg of mutton — that is as much as his master had left of it — and never stops until he left nothing but a bare bone, and about a pound of ' the flap ' behind him ! " When the master had done with his mutton, the servant— for that is the grand eater entirely, — was done as soon as him. The master then opens a bottle of claret, but instead of using a glass with it, he pours the precious liquid out into a tumbler, and at one draught swallows it off ! No sooner had the master done that, than the man winks to me to put a bottle of claret beside him ; and, of course, I obeyed orders ; and no sooner had I done so, than the man opens the bottle, pours out the half of it into a tumbler, and swigs it off in a bumper. " And only think, Jim ! not a word said by the one or the other wdiilst all this was going on ! " Then in came the ham and the two roast fowls. The master sticks his fork in one bird : the man sticks his fork in another ; and, in a jiffy, the dish was as bare as the palm of your hand ! " As to ham, I thought they never would have AGiNES ARNOLD. 137 done cutting — for they cut and cut away, until they left nothing but the dry part of it untouched. " Then came the beef, and then came the apple pie ; and the only difference between them is that the man eat the most of the rib of beef, and the least of the apple-pie ; whilst the master eat the most of the apple-pie, and the least of the roast beef, and there now are the two of them sitting opposite to one another, as silent as Quakers, and each with his second bottle of claret open before him." It was plain, from the observations of Mrs. Moran, that she was bewildered with astonishment at the appetite and taciturnity of her guests. She was not aware that the two men who had that day dined at her house — William Putnam M'Cabe and John Hope — the trusted emissaries of the leading United Irishmen — were too long practised in scenes of difficulty and peril not to have estab- lished for themselves a mode of communication which should be independent of the tongue. Even whilst Mrs. Moran was looking at them, John Hope had contrived, by signs made mth his fingers — apparently flourishing his knife and fork — or, as if silently strumming a tune on the table- 138 AGNES ARNOLD. cloth, to make his confederate acquainted with the whole of his adventures during the day. No sooner then had the widow withdrawn, and John Hope carefully locked the door, and let down the blind of the solitary window, so far, as that he could see outside without any one from abroad being able to observe what was passing in the room, than he drew his chair close by the side of his friend. " What a pity 1 " said M'Cabe, " you did not finish the work you had so well begun ! Why, when you raised your hand against O'Brien, did you not make the blow effectual, and dash his brains out on the spot ? It would have been only one rascal the less in Ireland. I think you were quite right in venturing into the shebeen house for the purpose of ascertaining who were his associates. But then what madness 1 when you saw you had not killed him — either not to have touched him at all, or not to have allowed him to bleed to death ! " "I was strongly tempted to do so, for a moment," repKed Hope, " but the fact is, WiUiam, I believe in the Scriptures, and not in Voltaire, or Tom Paine. I believe there is a God — I AGNES ARNOLD. 139 believe there is a heaven for the good, and a hell for the wicked ; and I believe there is an eternity of happiness, as well as eternity of punishment; and the fact is, I did not like to plunge into ever- lasting fire a villain who was struck down at the moment that his soul was laden with the sin of wilful and unprovoked murder." " Psha ! " answered M'Cabe, " there is a time for everything ; and this is a world in which each of us has his part assigned to him ages before he is bom. No one has ordained you a priest or a parson. You, Jack, have got no 'cure of souls.' You are an enlisted soldier in the service of the Irish nation, and your duty is to strike down the enemies of your country, whenever and wherever you can." " What is done cannot be undone," observed Hope, " and therefore there is no use in arguing that point further. Jemmy O'Brien is wounded, not killed." *' The greater the pity ! " remarked M'Cabe. " Let us speak of him no further," said Hope, " but tell me, what do you think of the circum- stances I have mentioned? What think you of O'Brien and the Beresford blood-hounds being down here ? " 140 AGNES ARNOLD. " That some shocking crime — perhaps more than one murder is about to be perpetrated," answered M'Cabe. " And at whose instigation ? " inquired Hope. " There is the difficulty, Jack ; if there were only two or three sanguinary villains in the Castle, one might be able to say, ' This is the work of Camden, or of Castlereagh, or Cooke, or Marsden, or Asgyll, or Coote, or Fitzgibbon, or Toler, or Parsons, or O'Grady ; but the fact is, that accursed Dublin Castle is filled with none but miscreants, and so eager are they, one and all, to commit crime, that an outrage has only to be suggested for the benefit of one — for the gratification of his cupidity, or of his animosities — and all the rest are as ready to co-operate in it as if each was individually interested.'' " I have a very bad opinion," said Hope, " of all the persons who now, for the misfortune of this unhappy country, constitute what is called * the Irish Government ; ' but, sometimes I ask myself, whether T am quite right in considering them all alike — equally bad, equally cruel, equally ferocious. There is, for Distance, Lord Camden, an EngUshman, the son or grandson (I forget AGNES ARNOLD. 141 which) of one of the most pure-minded and honest judges that ever sat on an EngHsh bench of justice. He is a nobleman of large fortune — he can have no interest in the persecution of the poor people of this country. How is it possible to suppose a man of his exalted rank can have any sympathy A^dth, or could, even for a moment, countenance the doings of a low villain like Jemmy O'Brien ? What can there be in common between an English nobleman, an English gentleman, and common ruffians like O'Brien, Keogh, and Hepenstall? " '' Ah ! Jack, Jack ! " said IVrCabe, " you are, I fear, not only a soft-hearted ninny, but a very ignorant fool. Where have vou learned your Irish history ? or to what advantage have you been studying the annals of England ? — that is supposing you ever studied anything. So, you think, because Camden, our Lord Lieutenant, may not only profess, but be prepared in England — mind you ! — in England, to act upon the honest, just, fair, and liberal principles of the judge, Camden, so celebrated in the * Letters of Junius ; ' you, therefore, are ready to jump to the conclusion, that he — an EngHsh nobleman and an English gentleman, as you call him — would not 142 AGNES ARNOLD. be willing to sanction an individual murder in Ireland, or a general massacre of the Irish, if once convinced that the one or the other was for the benefit of his own country — to serve his party, the Tories— or to maintain here the domination of England. Ah 1 Jack, Jack ! English and Irish history contain lessons far different from your notions. " Who," continued M'Cabe, as he sipped his claret, '' who is there of all the English poets (Shakspeare always excepted) to be compared with Edmund Spenser ? Where can you find more euphonious verse than his — where a richer fancy — where more exquisitely tender sentiments, and these strewed thickly as diamonds in a royal crown in every canto of his immortal 'Fairy Queen?' And yet the sweet, charming, fanciful, tender poet lived in Ireland, was enriched with a portion of its plun- der, and recommended as a panacea for all its ills, and the benefit of England — an extermination of its people ! And, remember. Jack, the sanguinary proposition of Spenser has not diminished by one particle the popularity of the poet. He is, in their pet phrase, still *the sweet and gentle Edmund.' Then, there was a contemporary of AGNES ARNOLD. 143 his — a great author, a distinguished soldier, a celebrated navigator, the most perfect of cavaliers, the most accomplished of Elizabethan courtiers, Sir Walter Raleigh. He too was in Ireland. In one of his military expeditions he encountered a body of Irish soldiers. They sm-rendered to him their arms — they relied upon his word of honour as a knight, as an English gentleman — that he would treat them with that mercy to which they were entitled as prisoners of war ; and yet, wliat happened? The soldier, the author, the knight, the courtier, murdered, in cold blood, the six hundred Irish soldiers ! And no one, in England, from that day to tliis, has ever thought one whit the worse of Sir Walter Raleigh, because he was guilty of that atrocious and perfidious massacre. Then, again, think of Stratford, and how compas- sionate English matrons stiU weep as they read over his pathetic appeal to his judges on behalf of his children — of his tender remembrance of their mother, ' then an angel in heaven ;' and remember. Jack, how many families he made desolate in Ireland, by his pitiless sword, and cruel confisca- tions ; and see how little these latter circumstances have to do with the disparagement of his reputa- 144 AGNES ARNOLD. tion in England. Are you not aware, Jack, that the most popular name in English history is that of Oliver Cromwell ? When I say ' popular,' I use the word in its truest, broadest, and largest sense — for Oliver Cromwell is the hero of the middle and the lower classes in England — and he is so, even at this very time, when so many there are besotted with notions of loyalty, and of reverence for all those crowned tyrants called ' kings.' Well, now. Jack, why is Oliver Crom- well so popular ? Not because he cut off the head of a perfidious despot — Charles the Eirst — nor because he first banished the bishops out of the House of Lords, and then suppressed the House of Lords itself, as ' a nuisance.' No ; but because he — beyond all the other Englishmen that ever existed — went much nearer than the rest to the poet Spenser's ' Panacea ' for this country — that is, an extermination, by pitiless massacre, of the whole of the Irish race. Take this fact with you. Jack — Oliver Cromwell resolved upon the exter- mination of the Irish — not on account of their being the adherents of Charles I., but because they were Irishmen. Did you ever read ' Ludlow's Memoirs,' Jack Hope ? " AGNES ARNOLD. 143 " No, never," replied Hope, " I have been all my life earning my breads by my hands^ and have had little leisure for book-learning." " I cannot boast of being a diligent student myself/' observed M'Cabe^ *' but I remember very well what I read — and these, I am pretty confi- dent^ are the words to be found in Ludlow, with respect to the proposals of the Irish to abjure the cause of the King, and to become republicans — proposals that were instantly rejected by the English republicans. Here are, I say, Ludlow "s words : * That the party commanded by Owen Roe O'Neal should submit to, and act for, the Parliament, if they might obtain indemnity for w^hat was passed, and assurance and enjoyment of their religion and estates for the time to come : that if such liberty might be extended to them, they would be as zealous for a commonwealth as any other party, instancing, in many counties, where they were so.' Now, what the Crom- wellians wanted was, not that the Irish should be Eepublicans, like themselves : they wanted the lives and lands of the Irish, and the pretext then for depriving them of both was, that they — the Irish — were the upholders of monarchical pria- VOL. I. H 146 AGNSS ARNOLD. ciples 1 The same object is still sought after — that is — an extermination of the Irish, with a confiscation of land. Now, the pretext with the descendants of the Cromwellians in Ireland, and their supporters in England is — not that the Irish are supporters of royalty, but that they are- Republicans ! An excuse, an apology, a pretext, or an argument is never wanting for perpetuating and executing the old English plan — the utter extermination of the Irish race — and an English- man, who is a statesman, and thoroughly imbued with the state-craft of his country, thinks he is acting as becomes his station, his rank, and his position, when he makes use of any vile instrument he can pick up here — a Lord Inchiquin, a Charles Coote,or a Laurence Parsons in Cromwellian times, or the descendants of those persons, with such miscreants as the Beresfords, the Fitzgibbons, the Jack Tolers, and the Jemmy O'Briens, in our own day. No, no. Jack Hope, there is no one unvarying standard of public opinion, by which can be guaged, the motives or acts of an English nobleman, or an English gentleman, in his ovm cou7itry, and in this ; for, the same deeds which, if done in England, and against Englishmen, AGIfES ARNOLD. 147 would make a person for ever infamous there, may, if done in Ireland, and against Irishmen, be an additional claim to public admiration and popular respect in that country. Do not tell me, then, nor do yourself for one moment suppose, that the Lord-Lieutenant, Lord Camden, does not sanction the crimes that are committed in his name, and under his authority. He is to be held responsible for them all, before the tribunal of man, as I feel sure he will be before the unerring Judgment Seat of God." '' All that you say, William," remarked Hope, " may be true, and yet not all the truth. I put my own experience against your book-learning; and the conviction on my mind is that you are mistaken. You mention the names of persons who have acted badly in Ireland, and yet have been popular in England. Now, both your assertions may be true — no doubt are true — and yet the reason you give, and by which you seek to connect the bad acts here, with the popularity there, not true. How are you to prove that those individuals were popular in England because they acted badly in Irelaad? I don't believe they were. I believe they were popular in England, H 2 148 AGNES ARNOLD. because, in England, they were known by quali- ties that entitled them to popularity — as, for instance, Spenser for his poetry ; Raleigh for his genius and many accomplishments ; Wentworth for his eloquence and statemanship ; and even the worst of them all — Cromwell — would be, William, one of your own prime favourites, if he had never been in Ireland ; because he kicked the bishops out of the House of Lords, reduced the nobles to their fitting insignificance, and capped all his merits by cutting off the head of a perfidious king. Now, take our own case, for example : Here are you and I sworn friends ? I know you love and respect me, because you believe me to be an honest and brave man. It is because you believe me to possess those qualities, you honour me with your friendship. Well, now, supposing I had, this day, met Jemmy O'Brien on the road, and pretending not to know him, had invited him to drink with me, and put arsenic or some other poison in his bottle, and so — basely murdered him ! Would you still regard me as worthy of your friendship? Would you still esteem me as an honest and brave man ?" AGNES ARNOLD. 149 "I would detest you — abhor you as a cowardly and perfidious villain, unworthy to live/' replied M^Cabe. " I am sure you would," said Hope, " and, yet, see the injustice the world would do you — ^if, after my having committed such a crime — a crime of which you were entirely ignorant — you were this moment arrested with me — charged as an accessory of mine — condemned to death, for having associated with me, loved me, respected me, treated me as your friend — the world, insisting I was so esteemed by you, not for the good qualities you believed me to possess, but that you had loved me, associated with me, and harl30ured me, because I was a perfidious murderer and cowardly poisoner." ''It would be treating me with monstrous injustice," observed M'Cabe. "And it is my belief," said Hope, ''you are treating the English people with great injustice — the same injustice, when you assert that they admire Spenser, Raleigh, Wentworth, and Cromwell, because they acted badly in Ireland." 15(0 AGNES ARNOLD. " Have you ever read Professor Macrawley's •Lectures on English History?' " asked M'Cabe. **No/' replied Hope, "but what has any Macrawley to do with what I am now saying to you?" " A great deal/' observed M'Cabe. " Mac- xawley is, I believe, an Englishman with a Scotch name. He says that the English hate the Irish — because they are Irish. In his * Lecture on the Eeign of James 11./ he gives an account of the impression produced in England upon the appear- ance of the Irish enrolled as soldiers in the service of their sovereign. This is what he says : ' They (the Irish) had an aspect of their own, a native tongue of their own. They were, therefore, foreigners, and of all foreigners they were the most detested and despised, for they were our vanquished, enslaved, and despised enemies ! ' Professor Macrawley adds, *That this was a univer- sal feeling — a purely English feeling — not a mere sectarian feeling ; ' for he adds, ' So strong and prevalent, indeed, was, at that time, the aversion of the English to the Irish, that the most distinguished Roman Catholics partook of it. Purvis and Bellasyse expressed, in coarse AGNES ARNOLD. 151 and acrimonious language, even at the Council Board, their antipathy to the aliens.' What say you now, Jack ? What have you to reply to the opinion of the great and distinguished Professor of History — Macrawley ? " '' I have to say this," replied Hope, " that I draw my own conclusions, not from what I read in books, but from what I meet with in real life. I am guided not by opinions, but facts ; and this, I affirm boldly, that I have been in England — lived and worked in England — given my time and labour in the service of Englishmen — and I am bound to say, that I never met with anything but fair and just treatment ; never could perceive there was the slightest distinction made between me and others, as between an Irishman and Englishman — never encountered prejudice against me, on account of my country, but always felt that I was respected, because I was regarded as an honest and truthful man. Give me, then, my own experience in preference to all the statements of all the Macrawleys that ever existed." " Ah, Jack, Jack ! you are incorrigible," rephed M*Cabe, " your good nature will be your 152 AGNES ARNOLD. ruin, some day or another. I wish you would remember and act upon the sagacious maxim of a money-making EngUshman, who declared as the grand result of all his experience : — '^ * Man must be saved in this world by want of faith.' " 158 Chapter IX. TRACING OUT A PLOT. "" To resume what we were speaking about/* said Hope to M'Cabe, " can you really believe that Lord Camden has sent down Jemmy O'Brien with some members of the Beresford corps to have a murder, or murders, committed in this part of Ireland, w^hich is now in a state of perfect peace ?" "I repeat," replied M'Cabe, "there are so many remorseless miscreants in Dublin Castle, and all so animated with the same fell spirit — all so willing to shed Irish blood, it is impossible to guess which is the particular person at whose suggestion this expedition has been luidertaken. How can I possibly tell who is the originator of this project, when, to the present day, I am unable to guess who it was incited a mob of ruffians, in Belfast, to attack my father's house — to rob his «hop — to destroy his furniture — and to seek for H 3 154 AGNES ARNOLD. his life as well as mine ? For that outrage, my father appealed to the government for redress ; and when it was refused to him — to show the state to which he considered the Irish to be reduced by their Anglo-Irish government, he had this inscrip- tion placed, in large letters, over his door : — * Watches mid clocks made] and sold here, by M'Cabe — an irish slave.' But, I beg your pardon. Jack Hope, you know as well as myself all the circumstances that have made me — an United Irishman. Let us talk of something more interesting : the appearance of O'Brien and his fitting allies in tliis neighbourhood. I think there is a general principle and a particular motive both involved in this transaction. I think that the general principle which actuates the Irish govern- ment is to force the people into a premature insurrection — that is, by depriving the people of all protection which the law should afford them, to force them to take up arms to defend, for the moment, their lives and properties from the aggressions constantly made on them by persons either ostensibly or covertly in the pay, or under the control of the constituted authorities. To compel the people so to take arms, before they AGNES ARNOLB. 165 are properiy drilled and organised, my belief is that the government is indifferent as to what may be the crimes committed, nor in how many parts of the country perpetrated. That, I am convinced, is the general principle of their policy at this time." *' I beheve it is," said Hope, " and yet it is a foolish short-sighted policy. They made for themselves a most formidable enemy in you, when they assailed and "WTecked your father's house — a man who had never given cause of offence to any one." '* There you are wrong. Jack," replied M'Cabe. " My father brought down upon him- self a considerable amount of odium amongst a most influential class in England — the merchants, ship-owners, and capitahsts engaged in the slave trade. A proposal was circulated in Belfast for fitting out a slave ship, and he, as one of the wealthiest citizens in the town, was invited to take a share in it. He attended a meeting of the projectors ; but it was to expose the horrors of the slave-trade : to denounce it as a crime, and to invoke, which he did in his own honest, outspoken, nervous language, the curse of heaven 156 AGKEa ARNOLD. upon the Irishman who would be base enough to participate in such an inhuman traffic. The man who described himself as ' a slave * saved his country from the dishonour of participating in the slave-trade." " Still, I say, the destruction of his property was a wrong utterly unprovoked ; and its effect was to make you an United Irishman. So it is, in all other cases. Every crime committed upon the people, and left unpunished by the govern- ment, shewing by the fact it is unpunished, that it has been connived at, enrols at legist one thousand additional persons as United Irishmen who — but for that crime — would have remained aloof from us." '' Quite true, quite true. Jack — but still our enemies are not such fools as not to know that fact as well as you do. They care little for the enrolment of a thousand men more or less, pro- vided those thousand men are without arms, or do not know how to use them, or have not been taught to hold in line together. What the Camdens and Castlereaghs want is an abortive rebellion — an insurrection, while they have at their command a sufficient military power to AGNES ARNOLD. 157 crush it. If they succeed in that, then they have gained all that they desire ; and we are, thereby, deprived of all hope of that which we seek for — a revolution, and not a rebellion. It is most pro- bable then, that whatever be the crime to be committed here, it will, if perpetrated afford new employment and additional occupation both to you and myself. We shall" have to be again down here — again enroUing, again recruiting, again swearing in members of our Society. That will be our duty ; but, meanwhile, we have something more pressing on hand. It is, if possible, to discover the new plot, and if we can, to baffle it. Now, Jack, whilst you have been engaged in knocking, or rather trying to knock, the brains out of Jemmy O'Brien — and I suppose you would have succeeded if he had any to lose — I was not wholly unoccupied— and first of all I discovered — " " Discovered ! oh ! I am delighted to hear it —'discovered what?'* eagerly asked Hope. " Easy ! easy ! Jack Hope,'* said M'Cabcj smiling at the impetuosity of his companion, *'I discovered a fact which you, as a United Irishman, will be delighted to be acquainted 168 AGNES ARNOLD. with. It is, that in this neighbourhood, the Barony of Eorth, there are to be found amongst the farmers, their sons and servants, the best shots in Ireland— men, from their boyhood, practised in snipe-shooting. So that here — I may say — in less than a week, I can raise a regiment of rifles — far superiour to any in His Majesty's service/' " I am rejoiced to hear it," answered Hope, "but as to the motives which have brought Jemmy O'Brien and Hepenstall here, have you discovered anything?" '* Nothing, Jack, but by inference," replied M'Cabe. *' I have discovered first that there is no Orange Lodge in this entire district but one, and that one is occasionally held in this very house; that the persons composing it come from some distance, and that the principal man amongst them is a lieutenant in an English militia regiment, and that this young gentleman is the nephew of a man of large property, and justly popular in this district. The only person then — at least in this neighbourhood — the only person that could be possessed of sufficient in- fluence to have O'Brien sent down here is the AGNES ARNOLD. 1&9 young lieutenant — Mr. James Kirwan Williams — a namesake of mine — according to the name with which you baptised me, for the benefit of our landlady." ''Ah!'' exclaimed Hope, after musing for some time over this statement of M'Cabe. " I am afraid, we are as far off from the truth as ever. Surely, the young man could not bring down these ruffians from Dubhn — ruffians notoriously in the pay of the government — to murder his uncle." " When seeking for the motives of villians," remarked M'Cabe, '*you never can hope to discover them by fathoming the depths of your own honest heart. In answer to your last objection, I have only to observe that though O'Brien and his companions are known to you and to me, as being in the pay of the government, still they are utterly unknown in this place, and none are in uniform : all are disguised." *' Oh ! but the idea of hiring assassins in Dublin to murder one's own uncle!" exclaimed Hope, horrified, '' oh ! no, no, no — that is im- possible ! Surely no such crime as that was ever before committed in this country." 160 AGNES ARNOLD. " Indeed, there was, Jack,'* replied M'Cabe. " Remember the young gentleman is in the service of the Enghsh government, an officer in its militia, and may be — to obtain his uncle's estate — desirous to prove, by murdering his uncle, his attachment to the EngUsh interest ! Such things have been done before now in Ireland ; for here is the account given by Ludlow of another Irish gentleman — a Mister O'Brien too — although better known by his title of Lord Inchiquin. This is Ludlow's account of that individual when acting as President in Munster : — ' In that ca- pacity he performed many considerable services against the Irish, taking great store of plunder from them, and not sjjaring his own kindred, but if he found them faulty, hanging them up without distinction. Having brought together an army, he marched into the county of Tipperary, and hearing that many priests and gentry about Cashel had retired with their goods into the church, he stormed it, and having entered, put three thousand of them to the sword, taking the priests even from under the altar. Of such force is ambition when it seizes on the minds of men.' So says the old ruthless republican Ludlow ; and AGNES ARNOLD. 161 SO say I — who can tell the force or strength of the ambition of this young Orangeman — or to what extent it has seized his mind, nor to what dark deed of blood it may prompt him ! But still. Jack Hope, be comforted ! All this is mere inference or supposition on my part. I know of no fact to connect young Williams with Jemmy O'Brien beyond this — that the young man attends an Orange Lodge in this house — and I can hear of no other person of any consequence in the neighbom-hood who is an Orangeman." " Unfortunately there is another and a mate- rial fact," added Hope. " It was to this house the messenger from the Castle was tracked ; and I saw myself, to-day, a person whose appearance corresponds with the description given of the Castle-emissary, in communication with Hepen- stall." " No matter, Jack, which way it may be," said M'Cabe, as he looked towards the window — " Here is a carriage, most probably conveying to this inn, and to the room next to us, the very persons of whom we have been talking." Whilst M'Cabe was still speaking, he saw a carriage and four grey horses (the horses' heads 162 A.GNJfiS ARNOLD. gaily decorated witli pink ribbons) drive rapidly up to the inn door, amid the loud huzzas of a multitude that had collected in front of the house. "These must be very wealthy persons, Jack/' observed M'Cabe. " The Lord Lieutenant does not ride in a finer carriage than that, nor has he a greater number of personal attendants to wait upon him. See, Jack, the carriage is followed by no less than ten servant-men. What capital troopers they would make for us, Jack : fine, stout, able, young men they all are. But — ^look ! look ! the carriage door is opened. See ! how the polite Mrs. Moran is curtseying down to the ground ! And who is this ? — a very splendid looking man indeed ! I suppose about my age. I dare say that is the young Orangeman." "That noble youth an Orangeman!" cried Hope in amazement, " Impossible 1 impossible ! Did you ever sec such a smile as that on the face of an Orangeman ?" " I have seen Lord Castlereagh," rephed M'Cabe. " Chivalry, nobility, and candour are stamped upon his brow. I have seen too the young Lord Jocelyn, and that brave-looking fellow AGNES ARNOLD. 163 now before us is not to be compared to him for all the distinguishing characteristics of manly beauty. Ah ! Jack, in making one's way through this wicked world, you must place as little confi- dence in fair faces as in sweet words. They are all masks and man-traps. But who is this next ? Eh ! Jack ? What say you to that little mincing damsel, who contrives as she descends from the carriage to shew that she has not only a very pretty small foot, but just an inch or two, may- hap, more than is absolutely necessary of a veiy finely formed leg ! See ! how timidly, and yet cunningly she glances aroimd her, as she arranges her little gipsy hat, slightly overladen with flashey ribbons. Jack... as sure as you are an Irishman, that dainty, flaxen-haired wench is a waiting- maid, and no countrywoman of yours. But who follows her? An old gentleman — that is the uncle. Jack. Mark ! how gingerly he puts his foot to the ground. Ha ! my poor old gentle- man has had an attack of the gout before now — and he is careful not to provoke the latent and insidious enemy by inflicting the slightest injury on his sensitive big toe. Poor old gentlemen ! It. is easy to guess from looking at his face that 164 AGNES ARNOLD. he never was the maker of his own fortune. There, Jack, is a perfect personification of that class of persons in society who are so aptly described by the Jackeens of Dublin. When they say of them that ' they will never set the Liffey on fire.* But, — 'see, see, see. Jack — that is if you have eyes to see withal ; gaze now until your eye-strings crack — for there, there, indeed is something to look and wonder at ! Did you ever before now behold anything like that issuing from a coach- door ? What a lovely creature ! Oh ! Jack, only that I have forsworn matrimony, and united my life, fate and fortunes to poor old Ireland — there is, of all the young women I ever saw, the one to inspire a man with the thought that women are angels, their smiles bliss, and their love a celestial happiness. Did you ever see such eyes — such a fair and delicate skin — such a sweet rosebud blush — such a daz- zling expression of face ? Oh ! Jack Hope ! Jack Hope I you are a stock or a stone, or you would, like me, be superabounding in terms of admira- tion for that charming young lady,'* " I am dumb with admiration," said Hope. "It is a Bull for you to say that you are AGNES ARNOLD. 165 dumh with admiration. But never mind. Jack, that is not the first, nor will it be the last blunder into which the looks of a pretty girl are sure to lead an Irishman. But stop, Jack. No more talking — they are coming into the inn, and will soon be in the next room/' The first words that M'Cabe and his compa- nion heard were spoken by the young lady who, as she entered the chamber said : — " Where is your nephew, James ? I thought he was to have accompanied or followed us ? " " And so did I, my dear Agnes. It was only when I was stepping into the carriage that his servant came to say that 1 must excuse him, for he was so suddenly seized with a raging head- ache that he was compelled to betake himself to bed." " Poor fellow ! " said Agnes. " I am sure he cannot be well ; for whilst we were at dinner I observed he changed colour several times. He was too very silent ; that, however, I would not have remarked upon, as I did not know but it was his usual manner." '' Oh ! not at all ! not at all ! " rephed Mr. Kirwan. " He generally talks a great deal. It 1C"6 AGNES ARNOLD. is John that is usually taciturn. And, now I think of it, there is a wonderful change between the two brothers to-day. James the garrulous has become dumb, whilst John the silent seemed to me to be suddenly inspired — full of wit and humour, abounding in anecdote, and instead of discussing politics or points of law with me, talking poetry to you, and quoting Shakspeare, and a whole host of nonsensical verse-writers that I had not the slightest notion before now he had ever heard of. I wonder what can be the cause for this sudden change in John ? " To this question Agnes did not venture to make any reply. She did not even smile at the simplicity of the old gentleman in putting it, but casting down her eyes seemed to be engaged in a profound investigation of the riddle that had been given to her to solve. " I forgot to ask you, sir," said John the nephew here entering the room, " at what hour the carriage is to be ready for your return home." '' At nine o'clock precisely. It will be then moonhght, and there will be no excuse for Tim ConoUy driving us into a ditch. Tell Tim, as he values his place, not to drink more than three AaNBS ARNOLD. 167 tumblers of punch between this and nine o'clock. As to the other servants tell them they may amuse themselves as they like until half-past eight ; but af that moment eveiy man of them is to be in his saddle, and ready to follow the carriage the moment it starts from the door. *' I shall not only tell them this/' answered John, " but I will myself take care and see those orders obeyed, I shall look to our men as strictly as an officer does to his soldiers. The charge confided to them is too precious to be neglected." '' I did not know," said Agnes addressing herself to her guardian, until I alighted there was such a cavalcade of horsemen following the carriage. Do you usually travel, Mr. Kirwan, with so many attendants ? " " Never, my dear, except upon state occasions — such as going to the Assizes to meet the judges, when I am summoned on the grand jury." " But here, guardian, you are neither going to the Assizes, nor is my visit to Turview such a solemnity as to call for an exhibition of attendants." " My good child, it might be sufficient for me to say that this being your first appearance in 168 AGNES ARNOLD, this country, as the heiress to large estates, I deemed the occasion one, on which it was becom- ing that your guardian should, in every possible manner, testify his respect for you. Thus the circumstance will be judged of by others, and especially by those who know the simplicity of my tastes. But such is not the real cause for my bringing so many servants with me. I have been reflecting a good deal on the painful subject we this day discussed together ; and the more I think of all the falsehoods that were stated, the more plainly does it appear to me that the main object — I am disposed to say — the sole object was that you should — contrary to ray desire and intention — come to Ireland. The base person who has done this has so far succeeded in his purpose. What ultimate object he has in view I cannot surmise ; but this I am determined upon, that so long as you are in Ireland the sole business of the servants you saw riding after you shall be to act as your body-guard — so, that no improper persons may approach you; or if any such should do so, you can be sure of having assistance near, and give them into custody. Thus you see, my dear child, I wish to save you AGNES ARNOLD. 169 from all annoyance; or, if you are annoyed, it may be but for an instant, and then with the expectation that we shall be able to lay our hands on my slanderer. But come now, my dear Agnes, to meet your tenantry of Turview. They are already assembled and ready to greet you. Their place of meeting is an humble bam, which they have fitted up as well as their means could afford, and their rustic taste suggest, as a ball- room for their dear mistress — the fairest certainly, although very far from being the richest land- owner in Ireland. Come Agnes and receive your tenantry. The guardian who has represented you from infancy has done nothing to induce him to shrink from meeting them and their mistress face to face." '' In this, as in everything else you prove yourself to be what my my poor father always said you were — the truest friend, and the most honest man he ever knew. Come, come, my dear guardian. Nothing can ever occur to shake the confidence, or lessen the love entertained for you by Agnes Arnold." The whole of this conversation was overheard by M'Cabe and Hope as plainly and distinctly TOL. I. 1 170 AGNES ARNOLD. as if they had been sitting in the same room with the speakers. The conversation was followed by a complete silence for a few minutes, during which M'Cabe walked quickly up and down the little chamlDcr, his hands behind his back, and his head bent down as if he was lost in profound thought. ** Finish off your bottle," said M'Cabe sud- denly. "Drain it to the bottom, like a man. Jack Hope, for I am pretty sure you and I shall have a busy night before us. That is right. Here now are my pocket-pistols. Look to them. Load them. See that the flints are sharp, and the priming sound. Now, Jack, do as much for yourself. Load your pistols. Good ! Now, for our short-sticks lead-laden at the top, which we can carry in our sleeves. Now, Jack, listen to me. I think, I see more of the affair than the good simple-hearted old gentleman who has gone to dance in a barn with his ward. First of all, Jack, that old gentleman has two nephews. You were right. Jack — that handsome fine young fellow is not an Orangeman. He is — so the widow Moran told me — a barrister — and he is 6ne of ourselves — I do not mean an United AGNES ARNOLD. 171 Irishman — but, like us, his sympathies are with the poor ; and he has given the proof they are. His brother — the Orangeman is not here. He is either sick, or what is more probable — feigning sickness. And now, Jack, I have guessed the motives for bringing down O'Brien and his gang to this place. They are here for a double pur- purpose — to murder the uncle, and to run away with the ward." " What in the name of common-sense, makes you think so William," said Hope. " What fact has been disclosed that makes you jump to such a conclusion ? " "That which the old man said," replied M'Cabe, " of the young lady being induced by some knavish trick to come to Ireland, contrary to his desires and intention. I wish the old gen- tleman had been somewhat more explicit, and let us know what was the machinery employed that could move on a sudden a young and lovely girl from the quiet repose of England to a sojom^n at such a time as this in a country so agitated and disturbed as Ireland: However, from what was said, it is plain the lady has been entrapped; and this poor old man has vague fears floating I 2 172 AGKES ARNOLD. indistictly in his mind that her personal liberty is endangered. Hence he has brought with him — fortunately for himself and her, I trust — a whole retinue of servants — quite a sufficient number to make a stout battle against the Beresford blood-hounds, with Captain Hepen stall at their head. Now, Jack, one of two things must happen ; either the numbers that Mr. Kirwan has with him are sufficient to deter O'Brien and Hepenstall from any act of violence this evening ; or relying upon their discipline as opposed to numbers they will make the attempt. In the first case, which I think is the more probable, as the young Orangeman is not here, you and I shall have nothing to do but look on and amuse ourselves, and see whether the event cannot be turned to the advantage of our politicfil views ultimately. But if the other contingency should occur, then Jack, you and I shall have once more to fight in a good cause, and do our utmost to bring confusion and defeat upon the enemies of virtue and our country." *' If a man's wishes could influence events, I would say I hope in goodness there may be a fight ! " said the gallant John Hope. AGNES ARNOLD. 173 '' Don't say that Jack, for perhaps when you had knocked down a Beresford, a Hepenstall, or an O'Brien, you would throw away your weapon for fear you might send a soul to hell/' " Try me — only let rae see the villain that would touch the gray hairs of that good old man, or lay an irreverent hand on that lovely young lady — and never call me Jack Hope again, if I don't on the spot tear out the rascal's windpipe." " Well said, Jack ! — spoken like a man and a soldier — and not like a snivelling, swaddUng preacher. But come, let us get amongst the crowd and watch the proceedings in the ball- room." 174 ^ Chapter X. ORANGEMEN AND YEOMANRY IN 17^. The barn adjoining the hotel of the widow Moran iiad been fitted up as a rustic ball-room for the present occasion. Its coarse w^alls were con- cealed beneath snow-white sheets to which were attached wreaths of flowers intermingled with green leaves : its stone-hard floor was carefully swept and then sprinkled with saw-dust, whilst innumerable sconces, interspersed with a few branches of candlesticks, filled with wax-lights shed a radiance around, brilliant as day, and that left not a single portion of the room, not even the most remote corner, in obscurity. To this barn there were two modes of admission. At one end — the lower part of the room — there was a wide door for the entrance of all comers ; whilst close to the upper end, in one of the side walls, near to which were placed arm-chairs for Mr. Kirwan AGNES ARKOLD. 17$ and his ccnnpany, was a small door reserved for Ms entrance, and those who had arrived with him at Turview. The barn, so arranged, presented the appear- ance of a large ball-room and though it could not boast of having a chalked floor, still any such deficiency was in the estimation of its present occupants more than counterbalanced by the amount and variety of its boisterous music ; for there were no less than three fiddles, two bag- pipes, and one dulcimer all playing at the same moment, and seemingly inspiring the dancers with untiring activity. " What a very happy scene this is I '* said Hope to his companion, looking with delight around him, and snapping his fingers so as to keep time to the tune that was then playing. "A very happy-looking scene, you should have said Jack," replied M*Cabe. " Like most scenes in this world — ^fruits upon the shore of the Dead Sea — outside fair, and inside ashes ! Grief, no doubt is here concealing a heart-ache with a smile, and dancing a jig. — Sin too, most probably, is taking part in a reel ; whilst youth, innocence, villainy, rascahty, and ruffianism are 176 AONBS ARNOLD. unconsciously partners, crossing hands, and setting to one another in a country dance. The whole world, Jack, is a phantasmagoria, with this difference that in the streets men seek to conceal their characters, whilst in the masquerade-room they appear as they really are when they put on the "fancy" dress of "assassins," of "sham heroes," " sham priests," and " sham patriots." Ah 1 Jack, whilst you are only thinking of what you see, I am thinking of what may happen before another hour has passed away. Look well and narrowly around you. See if any of the O'Brien and Beresford gang are amongst the company." " There is not one — ^not one, at least, that I can recognise," repUed Hope. " Heaven send they may keep away I — that the old man and his ward may not be molested by them," said M'Cabe. " I seldom hear you pray, William," observed Hope, " and am not often disposed to respond to you, when you do; but to that good-natured wish of yours, I say, with all my heart and soul — amen I " " And now, Jack, that we have the time and AGNES ARNOLD. 177 opportunity for doing so, let us look around and see what chance there is for us here to pick up recruits. Ha ! Jack — look there ! Do you observe that fine young fellow with the bright green cravat, who is dancing with the pretty dark-haired, blue-eyed maiden, who wears a sash the same colour as his cravat. They are lovei's, no doubt. What a noble fellow ! Mark ! his bearing ! There is the genius of a hero in the brilliant flash of his eye. That man is born a soldier. Can you tell me,'* said M'Cabe stooping down to a little girl with long nut-brown ringlets, who sat on a bench before him, '' who is that young man with the green cravat ? " "Oh, yes, sir," replied the child, her eyes lighting up with pride and joy, at the question being put to her. " That is Thomas Furlong, sir. Everybody knows Thomas Furlong. He is to be my brother-in-law, in a fortnight, sir ; for that is my sister, Nannie Corbet, who is dancing with him, sir.'' " Thank you, my little dear," replied M'Cabe, patting the child on the head ; " and when you grow up to be like your sister, Nannie, I hope you may have as fine a husband/' 178 AGNES ARNOLD. " Oh, I cannot hope for that, sir," answered the child ; " because everybody says that the like of Tom Furlong is not to be found in the entire country, sir." " What say you; Jack, about this Eiirlong ? From his wearing a green cravat, I suspect he is already sworn." " I will soon ascertain that," replied Hope, and as he spoke, he stood for an instant up on the bench, as if he were looking round the room trying to discover there some person that was known to him. In doing this, he ran the fingers of his right hand over his scanty wig. At that instant, Furlong, as he turned in the dance, gazed upwards — exchanged glances with Hope, and giving his right hand to his partner, tossed back the hairs from his forehead with the left. ** He is sivorn,'' whispered Jack Hope, as he stepped down to the floor. '* So much the better," replied M'Cabe; " then we have an additional arm, and a strong one too» to fight on our side. I hope, however, it may not be engaged in its first conflict to-night ! " Scarcely had M*Cabe given expression to this sentiment, than he perceived considerable agita- AGNES ARNOLD. 179 tion in the crowd collected around the large door giving entrance to the barn, and these words murmured, in low but distinct tones, became audible : — " The yeomanry ! the yeomanry ! what in the world brings them here? We never welcome them I They come for no good anywhere ! " The murmurs became more loud and vehement, and attracted, at last, the attention of those who were seated at the upper end of the room, that is, of Mr. Kirwan, who was engaged in conversation with the parish priest, Father Murphy, as well as of Miss Arnold, who was speaking to young Kirwan Williams. Mr. Kirwan stood up, and was about to inquire the cause of this tumult, when the crowd was observed to fall back on both sides of the door, and then there appeared Captain Hepenstall in his red coat and full regimentals, as an infantry officer, followed by twelve men in the blue coats and orange facings of Beresford's Horse, their heavy cavalry swords, in iron sheaths, clattering along the ground every step they walked. As this unlooked-for, and (at that time in Ireland) terrific apparition became distinctly visible^ the music instantly ceased, and the 31 1180 AONBS AENOLD. dancers dispersed, each group of friends and relations gathering in close knots together. " Here, my good child," said M'Cabe, stoop- ing down to the little girl he had before been speaking to, " run over to that young gentleman — Mr. Kir wan Williams — give him this piece of paper, and tell him to read it instantly. "Yes, of course, sir,*' replied the child, hurrying across the room to where Mr. Kirwan and his friends sat, and strictly complying with the directions that had been given. Kirwan Williams opened the paper on which tliese words were written : — " These yeomen have come to commit an act of violence. Place your servants as a guard on the side-door — inside and out — tell them to let none pass but you and your friends. Watch — as the apple of your eye — Mr. Kirwan and Miss Arnold." *' Miss Arnold," said Kirwan Williams, '' I am obhged to leave you for an instant. Place this child in my chair, whilst I am away, and engage her in conversation." '^ Certainly, John — I beg your pardon — Mr. Kirwan Williams I ought to have said," stam- AGNES ARNOLD. 181 mered Agnes, agitated by the appearance of the soldiers, and the anxiety she saw depicted in the young man's face whilst reading the note. " Come, sit down there, my dear, good Uttle girl," said Miss Arnold to the child, '' and tell me what is your name ? " '^ My name ! Is it possible you don^t know my name ? Why, everybody in the village knows my name is Mary Corbet, ma'am,'* answered the girl. *^ Yes, Mary, but as I have only come to this village to-day, I could not know your name." ^* Oh, I don't hve here at all, ma'am. I have only come here to see you and tlie dancing." " And who brought you here, Mary Corbet ?" " My sister, ma'am, Nannie Corbet ; she that is going to be married to Tom Furlong, ma'am, the handsomest man in the room. As you are so rich — everybody says you are as rich as a queen^ ma'am— you ought to be married to the hand- somest man yourself; but, as Nannie Corbet would not consent to that, then I hope you will be married to the next handsomest man iu the room, and everybody says that is the master's nephew — young Master John, ma'am." '^ I am sure I am very much obUged to you for 182 AGNES ARNOLD. your good wishes/' replied Miss Arnold, smiling, '' and, as a proof of my gratitude, take this little gold cross, and keep it for my sake." And so saying, the lady placed a cross, with a Kght blue ribbon, around the neck of the child. *^ Oh, what a pretty cross ! Thank you, ma'am. But I know what I'll do with it. The first thing, every morning, before I put on this cross, I'll say a pater and ave that you may be married to ." The child here looked up, and saw Mr. Kirwan Williams standing by her side ; and then, winking with both eyes at Miss Arnold, she laughed, and said, as she ran back to her friends : — *' Yes, indeed, ma'am, I'll pray every morning that you may be married to ; you know who, ma'am." But, whilst tliis conversation was taking place, other and more important events were occurriig in other parts of the temporary ball-room. Captain Hepen stall walked slowly, and a little unsteadily, up the centre of the room ; for there was a wide space made by the dancers falling back on both sides. Mr. Kirwan stood up and exclaimed : '^ What ! AGNES ARNOLD. 18S an oiSicer 1 followed by soldiers ! Although uninvited, you are welcome, gentlemen ; for you wear the uniform of His Majesty, and I trust the King's subjects will always feel a pleasure in seeing those who have devoted their lives to his service/' '^ Spoken like a jolly, loyal, old trump ! '' observed Captain Hepenstall, with something that sounded like a slight hiccup, at the end of the sentence. '' James Kendrick, you hound, and John Mallet, you villain, stand there as sentinels at the door, and shoot the first man, boy, or woman, that attempts to disturb this pleasant company. We are all loyalists here, and because we are, it is our duty to hang any one that dare to interfere with our amusements. You are my brave old Trojan ! " continued Captain Hepen- stall, advancing to that part of the room where Mr. Kir wan and his private party had been seated, " You are, I presume, John Kirwan of Abbey — Abbey — some place — a Justice of the Peace in this county, and this lovely young lady, with the lively black eyes, and a bok between them of being as much frightened as if she saw a ghost, is, I suppose, Miss Agnes Arnold, the heiress of Turview, and this young gentleman who is frown- 184 AGNES ARNOLD. ing at me, as if I was a rebel, is, I venture to guess, Mr. John Kirwan Williams, your nephew : and this other gentleman, with the pale face and the high forehead, is, I presume, your Protestant Chaplain, although he has, I am sorry to say it, very much the sneaking down-dog scowl of a disguised Jesuitical, Popish priest/' " This gentleman," replied Mr. Kirwan, with dignity, " is my particular friend — a friend known to me, sir, for many years ; and as the Roman Catholic pastor of this parish, unceasing in his labours to maintain his flock in a due obedience to the laws; and the proof that he has not laboured in vain is to be found in the fact, that there is not an United Irishman in the entire district." "Allow me to ask you, sir," said young Kirwan Williams, quitting the side of Agnes, and standing close to Captain llepenstall, and looking at him straight in the face, " why you are here ? Is it in the performance of your duty, or is it merely for amusement ? If it be on duty — per- form it, sir, like an officer of public justice — calmly, decently, firmly, and discreetly. If it be for amusement — the least Miss Arnold and my AONB8 AHNOLD. 185 uncle can expect from their guests is, that they conduct themselves as — gentlemen/* As young Kirwan Williams thus spoke to Hepenstall, the flush which, up to that moment, had covered the entire face of the Captain (and was evidently the effect of drinking) disappeared for a second, and was succeeded by a deadly paleness. The Captain looked as if he had received a sudden electrical shock, which restored him at once to sobriety. " Very bravely spoken," replied Captain Hepenstall. ^' I admire your spirit, sir, and from your style of speaking, I suppose you are a student and follower of the great orator and advocate, John Philpot Curran. I beg the lady's pardon, and your's too, sir, and Mr. Kirwan's, sir, if I have said anything hurtful to their feeHngs. And now, sir, to answer your questions : I am here in the performance of my duty — and I am here also for my amusement ; but, as I was an Irishman, before I was a captain in the militia, I will — Irish like — have my amusement first, and perform my duty afterwards. 1 hope, then, that the dancing, which my appearance interrupted, may be re- sumed ; and if it be so, I trust Miss Arnold will 186 AGNES ARNOLD. show that I am pardoned, by accepting me as a partner in a country dance." " I am perfectly willing to comply with the request thus made to me/' answered Agnes, " on one condition." " Name it. Miss Arnold," said Hepenstall, " and consider it as already performed." "You were good enough to apologise for certain expressions used by you," observed Agnes. *^You politely included, in that apology, my guardian, his nephew, and myself; but you omitted (I am sure it was not intentionally) the reverend gentleman, upon whose account, and not om* own, our feelings had been wounded." "I trust the gallant gentleman will not," added the clergyman, " take the trouble of saying one word on the subject. I pardoned and pitied him for repeating phrases that have become so hacknied they cease to be insulting. I regard laudations and vituperation with the like indiffer- ence. I do not labour to win the one — and I do not cease from labouring to escape the other. And now, Miss Arnold, I must bid you good night. Such festive scenes as these are not the places in which my duties are to be performed. I hare AGNES ARNOLD. IS7 only come here to prove my respect and gratitude for all the kindnesses and charities bestowed upon me and my poor flock, by your guardian and yourself. God guard you and preserve you, my dear Miss Arnold, from all your enemies, spiritual and temporal.'' With these words. Father Murphy passed hastily through the crowded ball-room into the open air. Whilst this conversation was passing, the two friends, M'Cabe and Hope, were seeking for an opportunity to enter into communication with Purlong. The last-named person was, however, for a fev7 minutes, wholly occupied with his destined bride, seeking out a seat, and pro- viding her with refreshments. He had succeeded in both objects, and turned for a moment to look around the room, and observe in what manner the new-comers, the yeomanry, were conducting themselves, when these mystic words sounded in his ears, to which he gave mystical responses : — " Which way does the Liffey run ? " said one voice. " From west to east," replied Furlong. 188 AGNES ARNOLD. " What way ought it to run ? " said a seooiid voice. " From east to west/' answered Furlong. " Who told you that ? " asked the first voice. " Granuaile/' replied Furlong. " What is her other name ? '' aaked the second voice. *' The old woman with the harp/' answered Furlong. '' Who told you that ? " asked the first voice. " Try my hand, and I will tell you/' replied Furlong. At the same moment, his right and left hands were grasped, with a peculiar pressure, by M'Cabe and Hope. " Brothers all," said Furlong. '' For hfe and death, friends and brothers/' responded the Associated United Irishmen. " Are there more of us with you ? " asked M^Cabe. *^ There are only four more United Irishmen in the room. Is there anything to be done ? " asked Furlong. "Yes/' replied M'Cabe, "I believe these yeomen have come here to commit some outrage. AGNES ARNOLD. 189 I cannot exactly say what — ^but I suspect to murder old Kir wan — perhaps, too^ his nephew — and^ most probable of all, to carry off Miss Arnold." ** The villains ! " exclaimed Furlong, " WTiat can seven unarmed men do against so many dra- goons with swords ? " '*In a good cause there never can be too many to ensure its success, nor too few to try and defend it," answered M^Cabe. ''You, at least, shall not be unarmed. Here is a loaded pistol for you, and a bludgeon for one of your friends. I retain a pistol for myself, that never missed fire. Jack Hope will keep his bludgeon for his own use, and give you his pistols for two of your friends. There, then, are six men armed, and the conflict will not last a minute when the bludgeon of Jack will help your remaining friend to the useless sabre of a slain dragoon. We are not so few either. There is Kirwan Williams, I can see by the way his breast-pockets are bulging out, he has provided himself with pistols since my message reached him ; and there are, besides, the servant men, who have arms, if they have the spirit to use them. Furlong," added M'Cabe, turning 190 AGNES ARNOLD. sharply round, and nodding towards the open door. *'Did you ever see Jemmy O'Brien, the informer ? '' " Never," answered Furlong. " Well, then, look 1 there he is peeping in at the door — waiting, I suppose, to give the signal for his confederates to begin." '' What ! that frightful-looking man with the face of a demon ? His head appears to me to be bound up, as if he had been wounded;" observed Furlong. "And so he is — ^very much hurt, I can tell you ; for Jack Hope struck him with a stone, to-day, on the back of the head ; but hurry, Furlong, get your friends together. Collect them as quickly as you can around, and near old Kirwan's chair — ^for that will be the point of attack — if there is — as I now begin to feel certain there will be — a conflict." " Music ! music ! a dance ! a dance ! partners ! partners ! gentlemen choose your partners ! " cried out Old John Kir wan, in a merry voice. " Captain Hepen stall, you will lead ofi" this dance as the partner of Miss Arnold. John, my boy, there is Nannie Corbet, a little pet of mine. Ask AGNES ARNOLD. IM her to dance, John. See ! how she blushes ! She is thinking of Tom Furlong ! she is to be married to him in a fortnight. Tom Furlong 1 where are you sir ? I have just made my nephew take out your destined bride to dance." ''Thank you, sir, for the honour," answered Furlong. '' And Tom Furlong, you son of a gun, why don't you dance yourself ? Are you in the sulks with my pretty Nannie ? " " Not at all, sir, and never will, please God !" replied Furlong, in a good-humoured voice, from behind the crowd. "But the fact is, I have sprained my ankle a bit, and I cannot dance this set." " What tune shall I order the musicians to play for you ? " said Captain Hepenstall, as he led Agnes to take her place at the head of the dancers. " Shall it be Orange Boven ? " '' No," replied Agnes. '^ In England it would be a matter of indifference to me what tune was played. It is not so in Ireland. I will not make my amusements an insult to any one, no matter what may be their party or opinions." "As you please. Miss Arnold. Then what 192 AGNES ARNOLD. say you to * the Wliite Cockade ?' I believe it is danced indifferently by the Papists and Protest- ants — the rebels and loyalists/' *' Very well, Captain, if it is so popular with all persons, I fully approve of it/' " Musicians ! " said Captain Hepenstall, in a loud voice. " I am desired to say it is the 'par' ticular and especial desire of Miss Arnold that you should play a certain tune — a great favourite of hers — and entitled — ' The White Cockade,''' " Look close ! look close to your charge/' whispered M'Cabe to Kirwan Williams ; " for as I am a living man, that villain is giving a signal to his associates to make a disturbance/' The musicians began playing the tune that had been called for in such significant terms, and the dancers had commenced the first figure, when Keogh, the Sergeant-Major in Beresford's Horse rushed forAvard with a pistol in his hand, and exclaimed : — " Stop ! musicians ! Confusion to you ! — stop, I say or I will blow all your brains out ! That is an infernal rebelly tune, and I won't listen to it. What! you — you won't stop, when I bid AGNES ARNOLD. 193 you. Well then — take that — that will dye your white cockade the loyal colour of red!^ As the furious and intoxicated ruffian thus spoke, he held in his shaking hand a pistol which was pointed directly at Mr. Kirwan, although Keogh spoke as if ^he were trying to frighten the musicians. A shriek of horror arose at the danger to which Mr. Kirwan was exposed ; but while it was still piercing the ear with its shrillness, a man was seen to bound forward, and with the single blow of a short cudgel to stretch Keogh lifeless, his finger clutching the pistol and dis- charging it as it fell. The bullet of Keogh' s pistol lodged in the breast of Nannie Corbet, as she stood by the side of Agnes Arnold. " God have mercy on me!" were the only words spoken by poor Nannie Corbet as she fell lifeless in the arms of Kirwan WilHams. At the same moment there was a double scene of confusion in the rustic ball-room. At the lower end where Keogh had been struck down Jack Hope stood flourishing his bludgeon, and exclaiming *' Come on, you thieving, murdering YOX. 1. K 194 AGNES ARNOLD. Orangemen until I have the satisfaction of send- ing your souls to perdition." On the instant, the two dragoons who had been as sentinels at the door rushed forward with drawn sabres to cut down Jack Hope, whilst their companions, fancying that two armed soldiers were able to conquer one man with no other weapon than a stick, moved on towards the top of the room to obey any orders that might be given by their commander. John Hope stood undismayed awaituig the attack of Kendrick and Mallet, and considering how he could best parry both their blows, and return them with interest, when he saw his assailants fall bleeding before him, the one, Kendrick, struck down by the unerring pistol of M'Cabe, and the other. Mallet, 'shot through the head by Furlong. '' Well aimed ! worthy brothers,'* exclaimed John Hope, as he hurried after Furlong and M'Cabe to the upper part of the chamber of blood. "Come! Miss Arnold," cried Captain Hepenstall, as he saw Nannie Corbet fall lifeless in the arms of Kirwan Williams. " Come, your life is not safe here, my men are about to arrest AGNES ARNOLD. 19% -some rebels, who are in this apartment — and, no doubt, there will be a desperate and deadly resistance. Come, Miss Arnold, confide yourself to my protection, and I shall conduct you un- harmed through this scene of blood and confu- sion. Come ! come ! Miss Arnold — there is not a moment to lose. Another instant and your precious life may be sacrificed in the undiscri- minating slaughter that is about to take place." Agnes repUed not a word to this address. She stood, as if paralysed, gazing in the dead placid face of Nannie Corbet, whilst she clasped one of the poor girls senseless, pulseless hands in both her own. " Miss Arnold ! Miss Arnold ! are you mad or panic-stricken ?" cried Hepenstall impatiently. " Nay then, if you will not or cannot vouchsafe me reply, I must try and save you in despite of yourself." As Hepenstall thus spoke, he threw both his arms around Miss Arnold's waist, and sought to draw her by main force away, whilst she held fast by the dead hand, and shrieked aloud : — '' Help ! help ! help ! save me from the k3 196 A6NE8 ARNOLD. assassin ! dear guardian ! Mr. Kirwan ! John I Mr. Kirwan Williams ! help ! help ! help !*' At the same instant Furlong, M^Cabe, and Hope rushed to her rescue. Furlong as yet unconscious of the calamity that had occurred, snatched the body of Nannie Corbet from Kirwan WiUiams, who, seeing Hepenstall clasping his arms around the waist of Agnes, bounded upon him, and with a single blow felling him to the earth, trampled on his face as he lay prostrate. The anger of Kirwan Williams was not that of a man, but of a raging lion. In his fury he could only regard the wretch lying beneath him, as a cowardly woman-slayer, as the assailant of his uncle's guests, as a miscreant, who at the head of a band of assassins had broken into a peaceful and happy assembly, to stain it with blood, and to dishonour it with the worst of crimes. Hence it was that he kicked at the face of Hepenstall as he lay writhing on the floor and shrieking for mercy. John, at length, perceiving the captain's sword by his side, withdrew it from its sheath, and struck it flatways with such awful force on the fallen man's naked head, as to smash it in two, and then dashing the hilt in his face, exclaimed : — AGNES ARNOLD. 197 ''There wretch — there, woman-murderer! there recreant is the sword you dishonoured broken upon your felon-head. Dare to rise, villain, and I will trample out your base life in your craven heart's blood." " Help ! help ! Keogh, Kendrick, O'Brien, Mallet, or this madman will kill me," shrieked Hepenstall. " Stand off villains," cried Kir wan Williams as he saw ten dragoons rushing upon him with their drawn swords. "You will not : then I will sell my life as dearly as possible." As Kirwan Williams thus spoke, he dis- charged his two pistols at the two soldiers nearest to him. Both fell wounded before him, but at the same time he was cut down with tlu'ee sabre blows — two striking him on the head and the third wounding him deeply in the leg. The dragoons were about to stab him where he lay, when a shot fired by a friend of Furlong's wounded one of them in the head. The soldiers, who were as yet unwounded, seeing Mr. Kirwan's servants armed and rushing upon them, became terrified at the amount of injuries inflicted upon their companions, and crjing \ out " retreat ! as AGN£S ARNOIiD. retreat ! " hastily withdrew from the barn carry- ing with them their maltreated commander, and wounded associates, but leaving behind the dead bodies of Sergeant-major Keogh, and those two notorious veterans in Beresford's Horse — James Kendrick and John Mallet, John Hope still flourishing his cudgel, fol- lowed the retreating soldiers to the door, and then observing the dead bodies they had aban- doned, he said to the peasantry around him : — " Here, my friends — take up the corpses of these rascals, and fling them, like so much carrion, outside the barn. There ! do not show the slightest respect or tenderness for them now they are dead; because when they were alive they never exhibited the slightest respect nor tender- ness for you or me, nor our wives and children. They have, you know, done their own bloody work to-night. Ah ! it's the pretty figure the three of them lads is now making before the Judgment Seat, and the maiden-saint they slaughtered, standing by their side !" The orders that were thus given were literally complied with ; for the hearts of the people were filled with indignation against the unprovoked AGNES ARNOLD. 199 murderers of the beautiful and innocent young girl — Nannie Corbet ! She, who but a few moments before had stood amongst them radiant with joy, and looking forward in well-assured hope to a long life of happiness with the noble youth she had chosen as her future husband ! " And now," said Jack Hope, advancing to the door, and addressing himself to the dis- comfited dragoons. " And now. Captain Hepen- stall, and all you other Kevin-street scoundrels, I give you five minutes law to remove those vil e corpses out of that : and then I give you ten minutes law to quit the village of Turview. After that time, I intend, with all the boys in the bam, to go out and look for you ; and as sure as three of your men are dead already, so surely will I not leave a man of you alive that is found in the village afterwards. And now, my heroes, shut the door of the bam not to give those blood- thirsty thieves the satisfaction of seeing all the mischief they have been able to do." The bam-door was closed in the face of Captain Hepen stall and his followers. '* What is to be done now. Captain ?" sa id 200 AGNES AENOLD. Corporal Thompson, one of the few who had escaped unhurt in the recent melee. " Burn down the barn, and all who are inside!" replied Hepenstall, furious with the pains of the wounds that had been inflicted upon him : his face discoloured with bruises, and the blood fast flowing from a deep gash in his head caused by his own sword. " Biu-n down the house I" exclaimed Corporal Thompson — '' that is much easier said than done. You forget there are men with fire-arms in the bam, and that know how to use them. I never saw so many wounded in so short a time. Why, there are only five of us unhurt. If we had attempted to stop in the barn, neither you, nor I, nor one of us would be now alive. We are regularly beaten, Captain. That is the plain truth ; and all that is now left for us to do, is to retreat as fast as we possibly can, carrying our dead along with us." " Corporal Thompson is right," said Jemmy O'Brien, who had remained outside the barn during the entire conflict. *' W^e are not strong enough to conquer the rebels now — but we can have our revenge on them another time. Besides," AGNES ARNOLD. 301 said he, whispering to Hepenstall, " I have just got a message from the Major. It was that prevented me helping you when the mad yomig counsellor was making a paving stone of your face by walking on it. The Major sends me word that the Govern- ment expects to be able to make a most important arrest in Dublin the day after to-morrow, and you and I are both wanted at the Castle in all haste." " Very well — be it so,'* said Hepenstall. *' To horse ! my men. The day will come when I shall have my full revenge upon the Kirwans, and that saucy minx, Agnes Arnold." " Come then," cried O'Brien, " but you need not carry these dead bodies beyond the shebeen house. Let them be laid there for the Coroner. It will be very hard, indeed, if, at this time of day, I cannot collect evidence sufficient to hang every man that is now in the barn, or that I suspect, or who I choose to charge with being there. Yes, the bodies that we plant in this place are the seedlings for many a gallows, and such will be as sure to spring up from them as the oak grows from the acorn." The loud trampling of horses' feet, as the mounted yeomanry rode off, was distinctly heard by the peasantry — men and women, enclosed in K 3 202 AGNES ARNOLD. the barn — but that sudden noise only broke in for a moment upon the general silence that pre- vailed ; for all were dumb with amazement, with horror, and with grief. The silence continued, or was but slightly disturbed by a convulsive sob, when the parish priest, accompanied by Dr. Devitt, a physician, hurried by the small side-door into the barn. It appeared to the priest and physician as if the late festive scene was divided into two groups — a large one and a small one — the large, ga- thered around Eurlong and his slain bride — the small, circled about the prostrate body of Kirwan Williams who lay bleeding on the earth from wounds in his head and leg ; and one of whose hands was clasped by his uncle, and the other by Agnes, who was kneeling at his side. At the first glance, the physician turned to the priest and said : " Alas ! I have but one patient here. The maiden is past all human aid. I must see if my skill can be of any service to the young gentleman." "Be of good cheer, Mr. Kirwan ! " said the physician after a careful examination of Kirwan WilUams^ — " your nephew is very severely — ^but AGNES ARNOLD. 20S not dangerously wounded. With good care and tender nursing his recovery is certain." "Thank God! thank God!'' exclaimed Agnes, bursting into tears — the first tears she had shed from the time she had observed Earwan Williams falhng amid the flashing sabres of the dragoons. " Give, doctor, what orders you please/' said Mr. Kirwan, " my servants shall obey them to the letter." In a short time afterwards Kirwan WiUiams's wounds were bound up, and he was conveyed in a state of insensibiUty to the carriage, with Doctor Devitt as his sole companion. He was followed in a post-chaise by his uncle and Agnes. The English handmaid was provided with a pillion behind Pat Kinchela, the nephew John's man-servant; and the other domestics on horseback brought up the rear. All travelled at a slow pace — so slow, that they seemed not to be returning from a festive gather- ing ; but to have formed part of a funeral pro- cession. From the moment that Thomas Furlong had snatched his destined bride from the supporting S04 AGNES ARNOLD. arms of Kirwan Williams every subsequent event that occurred was, by him, alike unknown, unheeded, and unheard. The fallen head, the closed eyes, the open lips, the white cheek — where lately bloomed the redness of the rose, and the oozing blood which darkly stained the bosom of the snow-white frock all combined to tell their death-tale to the youth — to freeze him with horror at the thought, that the form he now clasped was a corpse — not a living being ! Each moment this conviction grew stronger upon him, and yet in his agony he drew Nannie closer to his breast, as if his ardent kisses could restore the spirit that had departed. Then, ever and anon, he would gaze with trembling terror on his hands, as he removed them from her dress, whilst he sobbed with a hissing, whispering sound of affright : " blood ! blood ! blood ! her own blood ! Nannie's heart's blood on my hands ! And I living to look upon it ! Oh ! it is a dream ! a dream ! When I am in my senses, I shall wake up to-day and reason, and find it not to be so. " Nannie ! Nannie ! darling Nannie ! Look up ! They are gone. The Orangemen are gone ! They are not here — my beloved ! my bride I AGNES ARNOLD. ^05 " They wanted to kill you, darling ! but I have killed them ! and John Hope — God bless him ! I am told he killed the villain who aimed a pistol at you — and sought to shoot you through the very heart. " Blood ! again blood upon my hands 1 It is — yes — it is ! it is ! — Oh [ Heavens ! — it is — Oh ! Heavens ! — it is Nannie's heart's blood ! Nannie dead ! Nannie that was to be my wife ! Why, it was but last night, darling, you shewed me the new frock you were to wear on your marriage-day, and the white ribbons that were to be your bride's favours, and now, my darling, I am told — somebody has said it — that it is your heart's blood that is on my hands — that you are dead — that you will never look upon me more — never smile upon me again — never — never — offer up your pure, holy prayers for me — never — ." '* You are wrong, Thomas Furlong ! Look up ! Be a man, and a Christian ! " said the parish priest. " Nannie, your beloved, is now an angel in heaven. She smiles down upon you — she prays for you. Yes, her pure, holy, and Tirgin prayers are now offered up for you before 206 A&NES ARNOLD. the throne of Grace and Mercy. You have, Thomas Furlong, the prayers of that darling young woman whose senseless clay — ^the body — separated from the pure soul that animated it — separated until that last great day when it will arise glorious and immortal from the grave/' Thomas Furlong appeared to listen to the priest, but spoke not a word in reply. *' God help you ! my poor Thomas ! " said the priest as he brushed away the tears that started from his own eyes. " God help and console you, my poor fellow, and give you strength and grace to bear with the great affliction that has this day fallen upon you ! '' "Father Murphy," said Thomas Furlong suddenly. " Answer me one question — and as you are a priest, and was Nannie's father-con- fessor, for many a year — I am sure you will answer truly." ** To be sure I will," rephed the priest. "What is the question you have to ask me, child?" " Is this Nannie Corbet's heart's blood that is on my two hands ? " ** Alas ! yes, Tom. The innocent heart — AGNES AENOLD. 20? which was the seat of every virtue, that loved God much, you well, and all mankind as brothers — will never more beat with the pulse of life." " Did Nannie ever do harm to anybody ? " "Never!" " Then why did the Orangemen kill her ? " " Ah ! Tom, that is a question difficult to be answered. God's ways are not our ways. No Orangeman could ever have power to kill her, if power to do so was not given him, and that for reasons which we may never know until the light of Eternity shines upon us, and God's supreme wisdom in all things shall be made comprehen- sible to us. And now as to poor Nannie's death, listen to reason. From all I can understand of this lamentable affair the pistol of the Orangeman was not aimed at Nannie but at Mr. Kirwan, and it was when the Orangeman was knocked down and in the act of faUing that his pistol went off, and shot Nannie. So, that it is plain the will of God is manifest in the whole affair. Who can tell for what good and sufficient cause her young hfe has been so suddenly ended. It may be to reward at once with the everlasting joys of heaven, the virtues of Nannie Corbet — it may also 208 AGNES ARNOLD. be to save her from the trials and afflictions which are awaiting us all here below, and that are the just punishment of our sins ; it may also be to wean your own heart from the worldly thoughts with which your mind was filled in contemplating your marriage with her ; or it may be to save your soul — the soul of him she loved so much — as well as her own. It may be too that her death may be a warning to you ; that you like her, are doomed to an early and a sudden death ; it may be so to put you on your guard, that whenever death comes, you shall be prepared, and say, like her, with a clear conscience, as your last words in this life — ' may the Lord have mercy on me : ' " " True ! true ! all very true ; Father Murphy," answered Furlong. " All very true, and very fine — ^just like a sermon ! — but still it all comes to this — Nannie Corbet has been brutally and cruelly murdered by the Orangemen — and Nannie Corbet never did any harm to the Orangemen — and I now want to know, why I am to let the Orange- men massacre whom they like, or, why, when it is their pleasure to slaughter us, it does not become our duty to kill them ? '* '* The man who killed your bride," said M'Cabe AGNES ARNOLD. 209 here coming forward, " was slain on the spot. You yourself killed a second, and a third was shot to death by this hand. So that the Orangemen have lost three lives for one." " Ah ! '* repUed Furlong, relapsing again into grief. " Of what good is that to rae ? Here is Nannie Corbet dead in my arms, and her heart's blood is red upon my hands ! " M'Cabe was on the point of again addressing the bereaved and disconsolate Furlong, when he was grasped by the arm, and these words were whispered in his ear — " the General requires your attendance instantly." " What ! you here, Ratigan ! " said M'Cabe turning suddenly round to look, w^ith astonish- ment, at a lively, Hght-haired, slight-made young man, whose mud-bespattered boots, and splashed dress showed that he had been travelling by long and heavy roads. " Yes," replied Ratigan. " I come direct to you from his lordship. There is bad news abroad. One of the delegates (perhaps more) has turned traitor, and is giving information secretly to the government, as to all our plans and organization. Under these circumstances the Commander-in- 210 AGNES ARNOLD. chief considers it prudent to retire to a place of concealment which shall be known to as few per- sons as possible. In that hiding-place it is his intention to remain until the day fixed for the general rising. You are one of the few to whom the secret will be confided; and to you and myself, and two more, I believe, will be entrusted the duty of guarding him on his way from one part of Dublin to another. Not one hour is to be lost." " Not half an hour : not a minute shall be lost. On, Jack Hope, to the inn. There is my purse. Pay the widow whatever she may demand; pay it without a murmur; for I may have to make use of her inn hereafter. Farewell, reverend sir," said M'Cabe to the priest. *' We shall, I am confident, meet again. Such doings as have taken place here to-night render an union amongst all well-disposed Irishmen, indis- pensible; for when bad men confederate the good should combine. Say, on my part, that nothing but the most pressing business — a naatter, in fact, of life and death — could, at such a moment, separate me from the unhappy young man, Furlong." " For such grief as his," observed the priest, AGNES ARNOLD. 211 " there is in this world' no consolation. It can only only be assuaged by time, by patience, and — by prayer/* As M'Cabe and Hope hurried from the chamber of blood, they both turned to look again at Thomas Furlong. He seemed utterly uncon- scious of all that was passing around him ; his arms still clasped the lifeless body of Nannie Corbet ; and his lips still murmured her name — as if he thought the ears of the dead could be charmed back to their lost faculty of sense, by the unceasing accents of affection. 212 Chapter XL THE LIEUTENANT'S GRIEVANCES, PLANS AND PROJECTS. James Kirwan Williams, a lieutenant in His Majesty's English Militia, was (with the exception of a few female domestics in the lower part of the house), the sole occupant of John Kirwan's princely mansion for many hours of the same day, on which the other members of the family had gone to Turview. Lieutenant Williams had kept away from his uncle, his half-brother, and Miss Arnold, with the intimation he had been attacked by a sudden and severe indisposition, so that it was absolutely impossible for him to accompany them in their projected excursion. Such was the message he desired his servant to convey to them, and in order to impress the bearer with the truth of his words he had thrown himself upon the bed in his own chamber, and AGNES ARNOLD. 21 S had bound a white cambric handkerchief around his head, and was occupied in bathing his templea with vinegar. No sooner, however, had the Ueutenant heard the sound of the carriage- wheels in front of the house, than he rang for his servant, told him his attendance would not be required for the day, and that he was at liberty to go with the other male ser- vants to Turview, and participate in the festivities that had been prepared in honour of Miss Arnold. The instant the servant quitted the apart- ment, Lieutenant Williams bounded with all the elasticity of youth from his bed, locked and bolted the door, and then, concealing himself behind the window -blind, kept his eyes fixed on the broad lawn and wide avenues of trees leading towards the high-road. .There he remained watching — watching with intense anxiety the departure of the carriage — the hurrying after it of the mounted servants; and, finally, his own man, in hot haste following them. Never did the lieutenant withdraw his gaze from the scene before him, until all movement in the landscape spread beneath had ceased, and until the park, the lawn, the whole grounds around with the wide 214 AGNES ARNOLD. spacious mansion appeared to be surrendered to his sole and undivided dominion. The sense of his solitary position came fully upon the lieutenant, and as it did so his dark cheek flushed with pleasure, and his deep set, glittering black eyes flashed with exultation. *' I am alone ! " he exclaimed — *' quite alone ! None of the women servants ever come into the upper rooms at this period of the day. I am there- fore free — perfectly free for several hours. And if fortune favours me free perhaps, for ever — to roam over this noble mansion — to sieze upon the trea- sures it contains — and to possess them as my own — my own sole and undivided property ! "The temptation to win such wealth is not merely a palliation for crime, but an inducement to commit it ; and this I am resolved upon — to win all or perish in the attempt. " Up to this moment everything has succeeded with my plans ; and I now stand ready to grasp two prizes — my uncle's wealth and estates — Agnes Arnold with her wealth and lands. " Let my assistants but play their parts well, and the abduction of Agnes Arnold is certain — the arrest of my uncle upon the charge of trea- AGNES ARNOLD. ^15 sonable practices effected ; with the ultimate bestowal of his estates (as a reward for my being the first informer against him) assured to me — and in addition to all this — the prospect of John's death in his attempt to resist the abduction of Agnes or the arrest of his uncle. " So far all looks well. But then let me reflect Are there not difficulties to be overcome ? Are not chances against me ? I was not prepared for my uncle taking such a large retinue of servants along with him. That and John's courage may render the abduction and arrest more difficult than I cal- culated upon or led Hepenstall and O'Brien to expect. " But I forget — I forget Hepenstall told me he would bring at least a dozen of Beresford's troopers along with him — ^and the sight of their drawn swords, though they cannot ierrify John, will be sufficient to scare the servant-men into quiescence. " — No, no. There is — there can be no failure there — and, now to make assurance doubly sure — to possess myself of all my uncle's papers, and to place — where none but myself can find them — Miss Arnold's title-deeds and Bank receipts 216 AGNES ARNOLD. — those better parts of herself which I long to hold — as her master 1 " I now know these things are — where I long suspected them to be — concealed somewhere in his study. And I was on the point of discover- ing them, when that quick-eyed lady observed my labours on the ceiling. Curses on her ! Had she held her tongue for one minute longer she would have saved me many a weary hour's search. " But I have other matters to look to as well as those valuable documents. " Agnes Arnold is to be my wife ! Agnes Arnold has been living a long time in England. She has mixed there a good deal in society : she is rather a well-looking girl — is known to be a fortune — as a matter of course has had admirers — followers — suitors — perhaps lovers — perhaps an accepted lover upon whom she is perfectly willing — perhaps, has promised when she becomes of age to bestow her hand and fortune. Here are points — very important for her intended hus- band to be acquainted with — and the knowledge of which can be acquired in no other way than by an examination of her papers. AGNES ARNOLD. 217 " What power over the young woman may not the examination of these papers give me ! They may enable me to terrify her into marriage ; and afterwards — to make of her a broken-spirited, fawning, crawHng, and submissive wife ! How I may yet be able to torture her with anonymous letters, not abusing my uncle, but reproaching herself ! Oh ! if she has been but guilty of the most venial indiscretion — of the smallest girlish folly. Oh ! if she has done anything she shrinks from being known to the world, and has but retained the slightest record of it in writing, what a weapon it will be in mine — in her hus- band's hand — to abash her, to terrify her, to shame her — to crush her ! ''But, as yet, I am 'reckoning without my host ' — the means to unravel the secrets of the proud-eyed lady, or to open the various drawers and presses in my uncle's study are not yet in my possession. '* O'Brien promised to carry with him from Dubhn the most perfect skeleton -keys used bj the most accomplished burglars and house breakers both in that city and London. His friend — the Major — assured him he should have TOL I. L 218 AGNES ARNOLD. such keys. The time is fast approaching, nay," said the Heutenant looking at his watch, '' the hour has already come when the Red-Spy should be waiting for me to deliver them into my hands. "To work then — to work — to mar all my good uncle's plans and wishes — his plan of making that milk-sop John an estated gentleman ! and casting me off with a beggarly ten thousand pounds, not the hundredth part of what he bestows upon my white-livered half-brother ! And then his wishes too ! for I see then &s plainly as if they were expressed — that Agnes should choose his heir, as her husband ! No — no — no — good uncle of mine — the derided and contemned negro-woman's son — derided and contemned for no other reason than that — will not rest content with your arrangement. He shall have all, or he will have none. Had you acted more honestly and justly towards liim; and had you spared him your ribald jests upon his mother's skin, the great probability is your life would not be, as it is at this moment, in peril ; and, mayhap, I would not be, what I am — the associate of spies and the confederate of Castlereagh's dagger-men. AGNES ARNOLD. 219 '' But — to work ! to work ! Oh ! what a deUcious evening it will be — to have the gems of my micle's study in my pocket ; and then to be ransacking a young lady's precious, best con- cealed letters, and most private documents. What rich — what savoury secrets may be thus made known to me ! " h 2 220 Chapter XII. THE RED SPY. Jubilant, with these base and felon-Hke thoughts,. Lieutenant WiUiams stole on tip-toe down by the back stairs into the garden at the rear of the house. He ran along by its most shady walk, and thence descended by a precipitous path into a little valley, where there was a grotto overhanging a brawHng stream. Lying prone, at full length upon the moss« covered rocks of the grotto, and with his head supported between both his hands, which rested on the elbows, and gazing down on the gurgling waters, was the man designated by Lieutenant WilHams as " the Red Spy." The man seemed to be so completely occupied with his own thoughts as to be utterly unconscious either of the approach or the presence of Lieu-- tenant Williams. AGNES ARNOLD. 221 f ({ What ! Reddy ! sleeping ! rouse up man ! I am in a hurry ! Have you the skeleton keys ?" said the Lieutenent, impatiently pushing the prostrate man with his foot. " Keep your shoe-leather to cover your own foot, Master James/' said the man, without turning his head, but frowning ominously. " The only difference between your boots and your legs is — the one is polished, and the other is not, and both are as black as the devil. You may kick a negro slave in Jamaica, Master James ; and, may be, he will only grin at you ; but, if you kick an Irish- man, and he is your equal, he will have you, in five minutes afterwards, shivering on the sod, with a pistol aimed at you ; whilst, if he is a poor man, he must take his revenge in his own way, and stick a knife into you. So, be warned. Master James, never touch me with your foot again — for if you do, you will never walk with the same foot ten yards afterwards." "I did not intend to hurt your feelings, Reddy," answered the Lieutenant. " I thought you were asleep, and I wanted to rouse you." '^ And your idea of rousing a man, if he is ^leep, is to kick him out of his bed ! " replied 222 AGNES ARNOLD. the recl-haired man. " That may be West Indian poHtaness ; but, in this comitry, it is regarded as the height of bad manners. Don't do it again, Master James, is all I say. If 1 was to lie here until to-morrow morning, don't you think of touching me with the toe of your boot, or it will be the worse for you." " Well, well, I won't," answered the Lieu- tenant, somewhat impatiently. "Well, don't," observed the man, in a provoking cold tone of voice, and still looking down earnestly at the stream. " I repeat the same thing once more Reddy — I say, I won't." " I don't mind so much. Master James, what you say, as what you do, and therefore, for the third and last time, I say — don't." "Well, well," observed the irritated and impatient Lieutenant, " let us not quarrel about trifles : I really thought you were fast asleep." " It is no trifle, Master James, to touch an Irishman with your foot, and as you are a stranger to our customs, it is as well to warn you of that fact," remarked the man, " and then you say you thought I was asleep : well, and if I was, that AGNES ARNOLD. 223 was DO way to break my rest ; and you are the last man living that ought to do it — because, if I was asleep, it would be from downright fatigue in running about the country, like a madman, and all upon your business. By dad ! I am astonished at myself, at the hard work I go through doing your errands. Would you believe it, Master James, I have actually run all the way from .Turview to this in less than an hour and forty minutes. I would like to see the hunter in your uncle's stable that would do the same thing in ten minutes less, and cross the same number of hedges and ditches that I did." " I am very much obliged to you, Reddy, for taking so much trouble for my sake. Have you the keys?'' " Oh, let us understand one another, Master James, before we begin to talk of the keys," answered the red-haired man — still keeping his eyes fixed on the running waters. " Let us know one another thoroughly. You have your game to play, and I have mine. You say ^ou are very much obhged to me for taking so much trouble for ^mr sake ! That is the way. Master James, that the rich and the great people speak to one another 224 AGNES ARNOLD. — throwing dust in one another's eyes — saying things through other that they never mean ; and thus thinking they are bamboozHng each other, when they know in their hearts they are knaves, or thieves, or pickpockets, or robbers, or murder- ers. That is not the way. Master James, that the poor, or the children of the poor, should speak together. You and I, Master James, are about equals — though I appear to be only a beggar, and you are what is called, ' a gentleman.' Yes, ]\Iaster James, don't be frowning nor dancing about impatiently, as I know you are, though I am not looking at you. I repeat it, (for it is God's truth) you and I are about equal, though all I can wear upon my back is the wallet of a beggar, and you can, when you like, dress your- self in a red coat, all covered with gold lace. Yes, I repeat it, for it is a fact — though you may not like to hear it — we are equals ; or, if there is any difference between us, I am the better of the two ; for though my father was hung for sheep-stealing, and my mother was, by all accounts, no better than she ought to be, yet neither my father nor my mother were slaves, whereas your mother — so it is said — had, when she was a stout young girl, AGNES ARNOLD. £^5 the lashes laid on her broad, bare, black shoulders — '* "Are you mad, or drunk, Ned Reddy?" exclaimed the infuriated Lieutenant, " that you dare thus speak to me." " T dare always speak the truth to my equals/' replied the unabashed Reddy. " It is only to my superiors I take tlie trouble of telling lies. But listen patiently to me, Master James — it is for your own interest to do so. The rich take care of themselves, and they never think they have taken half so much care of themselves as when they are oppressing, trampling on, and robbing the poor. I think. Master James, the poor ought to do the same by the rich — and, indeed, I believe they always do when they have the opportunity, which, unfortunately, is very seldom. Now, Master James, why have I been working so hard for you ? First of all, for my own sake — for the good pay you give me. It was your handsome gratuities to me that first made me take service under you. But there is another reason in addition to that — it is, that you are the offspring (on the mother's side, at all events) of a race of slaves — that is, of poor people — and all poor people w^ere, at one L 3 326 AGNES ARNOLD. time^ I am told, slaves — not merely the workers^ in the fields, but in the shops — the tailors, car- penters, masons, and such like. Now, therefore, it is that I say, that you and I are equals — we both come from the poor ; and you are now engaged in doing what I would like to see the child of every poor person doing — you are trying to spoliate the rich. Oh, it would be a grand thing, I think, to see the son of a black slave the master and owner of proud John Kirwan's fine estates ; and to see the son of a rich father and a rich mother too, like John, your half-brother^ defrauded out of them. I Avould like to see that, and, therefore, 1 am disposed to help you, so far as I can-— and I am the better disposed to help you, because I think — at least, I expect to be — greatly the gainer, by the rise in your fortunes.'' " And so you shall — greatly, immensely the the gainer — you may bo sure of that Reddy. Have you the keys ? '' '' Oh, it is easy promising anything ! I could promise you the Bank of Ireland, Master James^ if I liked, but my promises would not bring your fingers nearer to a guinea in gold," observed the^ red-haired beggar. " Th^re must be something AGNES ARNOLD. 227 positive between us. You see, Master James, I am thinking of settling myself down for life, and giving up the wandering way I have been leading for years. Yesterday, or the day before, a ten pound note would have pleased me — a twenty pound note would have delighted me; and a hundred pound note would have made me feel equal to the King of England himself ; because, with such a sum, I would have been sure of a long holiday — drinking and every other sort of diver- sion I chose to indulge in. It is not so now, Master James, I am a wiser — a deal wiser, and far more sensible man to-day than I was yesterday." " What do you mean, Reddy ? " asked the Lieutenant, impatiently. " I cannot for the life of me guess what you are aiming at, or what purpose can be hidden under the heap of words you are piling together." " Do you see that noisy, squabbling stream of water down there. Master James ? " said the beggar. " Yes, yes ; of course, I see it — but what has that to do with the subject we are now talking about? " asked the Lieutenant. •* it has a great deal to do with it," replied 1228 AGNES ARNOLD. the beggar. " When I threw myself down on this rock, tired and weary, after the hard, sharp run from Turview, I began looking on that stream, and the more I looked at it, the more it made me think of myself, and of you, and of the business we arc both engaged in at this minute. I will tell you, Master James, what I was thinking of. There, says I to myself, there now is that stream running — running on every day, and every hour in the same way. I dare to say, it has been running exactly and identically in the very same way, and over the very same stones, and making tlie very same noise, hundreds and thousands of years before I was born ; and so it will go on — on — on to the end of time for thousands of years after I am dead, buried, and forgotten — just as if I never had been, and as if it always was to be. Then see, Master James, between two of the jutting rocks — that is, between one little waterfall and the other — there is a small, weeny, smooth, placid, shallow pool, on the surface of which there occasionally floats one, and sometimes two dawney bubbles that sail from the foot of one waterfall to the ledge of another — that rise here one minute, that are seen to move along for a moment, a bare AGNES ARNOLD. 229 moment of time, and then — disappear for ever ! That is exactly the case with you and me, Master James. This stream is like the age of the world — the bubble is Master James, who, by the dint of a hard struggle, raises himself above the surface for a moment ; and, as a bubble, is so much better than the mass of waters to which he belongs ; for he is at least conspicuous for a moment — though it be but a moment — and then comes death — the brink of the next waterfall — and down he goes, and vanishes into the oblivion of never-ending forgetfulness ! To be sure, his prosperity cannot last for long — but so long as it lasts, he is better than what he sprung from — he is on the top — ^he is not like the rest of the stream — the sun's rays have rested upon him, and made him shine with all the colours of the rainbow. He has had every thing pleasant that life could afford him, and, therefore, he has had its enjoyment, whilst others, who have passed down the stream with him, have had no enjoyment, and they have not lasted a day longer than himself. Now, Master James, do you see what I am driving at ? If you, by the dint of scheming and manoeuvring, are struggling to be u bubble on the top of the stream, and if I am S80 AGNES ARNOLD. helping you to be a bubble, I don't see any good reason why I ehould not try and be a bubble myself." " What do you mean ?" asked the Lieutenant. " Is it that I should give you a half share of my uncle's wealth and estates?" " No, no, not that exactly, Master James," said the beggar, for the first time changing his position — turning round, and sitting on the mossy rock, on which he had, up to this, lain stretched at full length. "I do not mean — because I am not a madman — that because I am able to be of great assistance to you in your plans, that, when you have succeeded in them, you should say, ' Ned Reddy, here is one half of my uncle's property for you, and the other half I can keep for myself.' I am sure, you would never do any thing half so fair as that ; and if you promised to do it, I would not believe you. On the contrary, if you were to make any such promise, I w^ould be expecting you were only waiting for an oppor- tunity to cut my throat, or to get some one else, for a handsome sum of money, to do it for you. No, no, I know what I am about very well. I will only ask you for a fair reward — a reward AGITES ARNOLD. 231 about equal to what you would have to give to some one else to put me out of your way for ever/' " Speak plainly, Redely. What is it you would wish me to do for you ? What would you conceive to be a sufficient compensation, when you are certain I am in a position to bestow it ? " " Well, now, Master James, that is a fair question — that is the fairest thing you said to me to-day. So, now listen to me, and see if I ask anything that would not be said in any company in the world to be only equal dealings between two men — that is, between the sons of poor people — who had helped themselves, by their wits, into the possession of what did not belong to them. I was a rollicking, devil-may-care sort of fellow^ yesterday — but I am not so to-day. Something has happened to change me. Well, now. Master James, as I w^as looking at the. stream, and think- ing to myself, it came into my mind, that you were striving and plotting, not only to get your uncle's estate for yourself, but also to have the great heiress. Miss Arnold, for your wife, and so come in for her property. I do not know that you intend any such thing, but seeing how very clever 232 AGNES ARNOLD. you are, it just came into my mind that you might be thinking of Agnes Arnold/' Villain as he was, Lieutenant Wilhams started with horror when he heard the name of Agnes pronounced with such familiarity, and accom- panied by a leer from the ruthless satyr-like brute who sat on the rocky floor at his feet. " Miss Arnold ! Miss Arnold ! How come you to speak of her ? What has she to do with any bargain between you and me ? " asked the Lieutenant. " Oh, a good deal," replied the beggar, with a grin. " She has a good deal with putting — for the first time in my life — the thoughts of marriage into my head." " Miss Arnold ! marriage ! you ! — oh, mad* ness ! It is useless to continue this conversation. Have you the skeleton keys ? If you have, give them to me," said the Lieutenant, stamping with rage and vexation. " Oh, faith ! Master James, you must hear my talk out before I begin to say a word in regard to the skeleton keys," coolly remarked the quiescent, and seemingly passionless mendicant. " Soft and quiet goes far in a day,' is an old proverb, that it AGNES ARNOLD. 233 would be much better for your health, Master James, if you kept it in mind and acted upon it. For an able, clever, scheming poor woman's son, and poor man's grandson, you have the worst temper I ever met with. It is easy seeing you come from the land where the pepper grows. Why, you are as hot as if your blood was made of mustard, and your bones of allspice. I am obhged to repeat what I said — that, with old John Kirwan's estates, I thought it very likely you woiUd be thinking of getting, or of trying to get — and I am sure I hope you mav succeed — Miss Agnes Arnold, as a wife.'' " Well," said the Lieutenant, " and what then ? " "And what then ? " added the beggar. "Why then this, and no more — that, in case you got the mistress for a wife, I would like to have the maid for my wife." "Oh," ejaculated the Lieutenant, as he recovered from the agitation into which the mention of the name of Agnes had thrown him. " Oh," repeated the beggar, " aye, and twenty oh's to the back of it — and now, and at long last, may be you are beginning to guess at what I am 234 AGNES ARNOLD. aiming. In looking in at the back of the post- chaise, to see if it was Miss Arnold, in person, that had arrived, who should I see at the same time, by the side of her, but her waiting-maid ? I never saw a girl, before that, T cared a Jack- straw about ; because I never before saw a girl as pretty as a wax doll; and this one beats out all the wax dollies I ever looked at, for her flaxen hair is real hair, and her pink cheeks are the real pinks, only much prettier than flowers, and her blue eyes are not bits of glass, but real blue eyes, as full of life and motion as the blue waves of the sea. And so I was thinking that if ever I was to marry — and I don't see what is to hinder me — then the only girl I would like to marry is Miss Arnold's maid — and I don't see why I should not marry her, if you marry the mistress." " I am sure I have no objection to your doing so," observed the Lieutenant. " You have no objection ! Say that again, Master James, if you please." " If it will gratify you, Ned Reddy, I do say it again. I have not, and never possibly could have any objection to your marrying Miss Arnold's English waiting-maid." AGNES ARNOLD. 235 "Oh, then it is all settled. If you have no objection — it is all as one as settled, and I am sure to be married to the young girl." " I do not see that, Reddy ; for no matter however anxious I may be to see your wishes gratified, still it would depend on the girl herself whether or not she would accept you as a husband." ''Ah ! ha ! " said the beggar, " at last we are coming to the point I wanted to bring you. I have not, master James, been looking down into welis^ nor the clear waters of a smooth lake, without being able to see, even if there was nobody to tell me, that I am a very ugly man ; so that whenever I go a-courting I must always remember, that to make myself agreeable I must have something that will serve as a mask for my deformity. Now, Master James, you are not like me — in one respect — for you really are, notwith- standing the black-drop in your veins, a very well-looking young man. But being so — sup- posing now you took it into your head you would have no one for your wife but the handsome daughter of a grand duchess in England, and that you went there with nothing but what you 236 AGNES ARNOLD. have at present — that is — only your commission as an officer, and just as much or as little money in your pocket, as your uncle chose to allow you — what chances would there be of the handsome daughter of a duchess looking at you ? As much chance and no more as there would be of a rich farmer's daughter leaving her father's warm house to run away with me, with no more shelter for her against a winter's night, than my old ragged frieze coat. But, supposing, instead of being as you are, that you went with the same intentions to England, and that you did so as the master of old John Kirwan's riches and lands, is there a daughter ^of a duchess that would not, at the first word, be ready to jump into your arms ? Yes — ^yes — it is the same all the world over. The rich have all the good things for themselves, and they won't give a bit, nor share a bit, but with those who are like themselves — rich and well to do in the world. And now, in regard to myself, and the little, walking, talking, wax doll of a girl that, I have fallen, of a heap, in love with. You say you have no objection to my marrying her — that you would, in fact, be rather pleased if I was married to her. That is what AGNES ARNOLD. 237 you say. Now, let us see what you will do. You know, that if I went to her, just as I am, — covered with rags, a common beggar, and said to her, ' Miss will you marry me ? ' the certainty is she would say, — 'Get away with you ! you nasty, dirty, low, mean, mangy, disgusting, abominable, ugly beggar ! ' and, maybe, she would set all the dogs in the town after me. But if, instead of appearing before her as a beggar, I got all this red-hair shaved off me, put on a new brown wig, had a blue coat and brass buttons, a yellow kersey- mere waistcoat, tight leather knee breeches, and fine top-boots on me, with a clean shirt, a bran- new hat and bright spurs, and said^ ' Miss Dolly- waxy would you consider it an inconvenience to be married to a man who owns the farm of Bally brady in the county of Waterford — two hundred acres of the best land on the banks of the Blackwater, rent-free for ever, with a cooleen lorougli of four thousands pounds in gold ? Say the word, my blue- eyed beauty, and I am yours, and you are mine, for ever and a day.' What answer do you think, Master James, she would then be after giving me? '' " Accept you as a husband, as a matter of course," rephed the lieutenant. 288 AGNES ARNOLD. " To be sure she would — throw her arms around my neck and swear — ' I was a beauty/ '* remarked Reddy, '' It is the way of the world, Master James — the rich for the rich, the poor for the poor. Wine, wax-doll women, and gold coaches for those who have wealth : sickness, sor- row, ugliness, broken-shoes, and the gallows for those who have not got a cross to bless themselves with. And now. Master James, perhaps you see what I have been driving at all this time ; and what has come of my cogitating for a full half hour over the running stream of brawling water/' " A farm of two hundred acres, rent-free for ever, for yourself, and four thousand pounds in gold to begin housekeeping. That is what you have been driving at — that is what you mean," coolly observed the lieutenant. " That is exactly what / mean ; and now what do ;i/ou mean ? '* asked Reddy. *' To say the truth,'* replied the Lieutenant, " I think your terms extortionate ; for if I am to pay your superiors, Captain Hepenstall, and Mr. James O'Brien at the same rate which you pro- pose for yourself, I shall have nothing left as my own share of the spoil ; and my uncle, or my AGN£S ARNOLD. 239 brother John might — so far as I am concerned — still continue in possession of the estate." "As to Hepenstall or O'Brien/' answered the beggar ; " I have nothing to do with them. ' Every man for himself/ is a maxim of the rich which I like acting upon when anything is to be got by it. Hepen stall and O'Brien have, in this affair, other paymasters besides you, and when carrying out your plans are only doing what those other paymasters approve of, and have sanctioned them in performing. Such is not the case with me. I have been hither, and thither, and over the Irish sea, and delivering letters for you in York and elsewhere. You are my only paymaster, and w^hen I have done your work — but not till then — I am ready to undertake any other job for any other person or party that will come up to my price. But there is one thing I am, very much pleased with, Master James, and you will hardly guess what it is — " " Well 1 ^vell ! what is it ? " said the Lieute- nant again becoming impatient. " It is that you have objected to my terms," answered Reddy. 240 AGNES ARNOLD. " Pleased 1 that I objected to your terms/' repeated the Lieutenant somewhat surprised. ** Yes — I am greatly pleased/' said Reddy, ** because your doing so looks as if you meant to act fairly towards me — that you are not indis- posed to come to reasonable terms with me." "There, Reddy, you are quite right/' said the Lieutenant. " I am quite willing to come to terms with you — but they must be fair and reasonable terms." " Well, and sure, that is all in the world 1 want from you, Master James," continued Reddy. " Just Hsten to me, and see if I ask anything that is unreasonable. First and foremost I don't ask you to do anything about the land, until you are the acknoAvledged owner of all your uncle's estates. I don't ask anything now from you in that way, for this simple reason, that I know you are not the possessor of anjacre — something like myself in that way — because neither of us has as much land as would sod a lark.'. Well, when you are the master of your uncle's estates, you will be proprietor of some miles of land in three different counties 3 and all I ask out of the many miles is AGNES ARNOLD. 241 merely two hundred acres — just barely enough to give to him who has helped you to them all — a mere spot of earth ! — a scran of turf for a poor young man who is trying to settle quietly down in life, and take a pretty little wife to himself at the very time that you are getting the beautiful Miss Agnes Arnold with many miles of the old Irish soil and heaps of money past counting. So much for the land question — the poor little two hundred acres, be the same more or less, that makes up the farm of Bally brady, on the banks of the Black- water, a place I know well, and to which I have taken quite a fancy. And now for the money. You must know Master James, that everybody who speaks anything at all about your uncle, says, * he is worth in ready money from forty to fifty thousand pounds ! ' Well ! — say forty thou- sand — then all I ask is the tenth of that. Surely, Master James, you would never miss a dirty four thousand out of such a monstrous treasure as forty thousand. But supposing you tell me ' He is worth no such money,' then all I say is — Master James, far, far be it from me to be inconsiderate — give me the tenth of what he has in ready- money — be it bank-notes or gold— and I am con- VOL. I. M 242 AGNES ARNOLD. tent. I have the skeleton-keys in my pocket. Say yes, — and I will give them up to you — and we can both go together to the old gentleman's study — see what he is worth, and then — settle between us how much I am to take away as my share/' '' What ! rob my uncle whilst he is living I — whilst there is a chance he may return to this house, and discover his loss, and so — ruin me for ever !" exclaimed the Lieutenant, aghast at the audacity and coolness of his fellow villain. " Your uncle is in sure hands once he gets within the gripe of O'Brien and Hepenstall," rephed Reddy. " There is as little chance of him (if he goes all the way to Tm^view) of ever coming back from it to this place as there is of seeing last year's snow again on the ground. But you are right. He is — at all events — still alive — and something, more wonderful than any- thing I ever knew or heard of, might take him safe and sound out of the hands of Hepenstall, or preserve him from the dagger of Jemmy O'Brien. And, therefore, I say. Master James, in this and in all other things you will find me willing to listen to reason. I will not, therefore, AGNES ARNOLD. 24B ask leave to-day to take as much as a pound note of his momey; but, at the same time, I say, that as sure as I am talking to you nothing but what is fair and proper, so surely you sha'nt touch with as much as one of the tips of your little fingers a single individual skeleton key, unless I have first your promise that you will let me accompany you into your uncle's study, and there look over with yon, all the money and money's worth he has collected, so that I may be sure how much [you vAW be master of before this hour to-morrow, and at the same time, to learn how much of that money I am entitled to. What say you Master James?" said Reddy starting to his feet. '' I am ready to do accord- ing to your bidding. If you say ' no,' to walk away with the keys, and give them back to him from whom I received them. If you say *yes* —to skulk after you into the house, and help you to search in your uncle's study— and, may be, I can point out places of concealment there, you would never dream of. I have so 'cute a nose for gold, that where nobody else would ever see it or think of searching for it, I can smell it i I am better used to looking for what does not M 2 244 AGNES ARNOLD. belong to me and finding it than you are, Master James. You are only beginning a trade, at which Ned Reddy is a well-known and practised hand." The Lieutenant reflected for a few moments. He remembered that he wanted the keys not only for the purpose of a secret examination of his uncle's room': but also to search through the trunks and drawers of Miss Ai-nold. '' I consent to your accompaning me to my uncle's room," repHed the Lieutenant. " Give me the keys." "Spoken like a hero!" cried the delighted Reddy. " And now, mind you. Master James, how fairly I mean to act towards you. If you and I find there are fifty, sixty, aye, a hundred thousand pounds in bank notes and gold, I won't ask you for a single shilling beyond the four thousand : whereas, if you find only thirty thou- sand, T will be satisfied with three thousand ; if twenty thousand, all I will ask is one thousand — ^but, if there be less than ten thousand, mind you, — I must have at all events, one thousand ; for if I am to have the wax-dolly girl as my wife, I could never hope nor expect her to marry such AGNES ARNOLD. 245 a face as mine, unless I was able to say with truth that I was the master of a thousand golden guineas. Come, Master James. Come to your uncle's room." " Where are the keys ? Give them to me/* said the Lieutenant. *' Here they are, sir — here they are, twenty elegant skeleton keys,'' replied Reddy. '^ Twenty keys ! There, Reddy, as an earnest of the good fortune I hope they are destined to bring me — there is a gold piece for every key," said the Lieutenant as he emptied his purse into the open hands of the beggar. '' Twenty golden guineas ! and some of them as bright and shining as a May morning ! You are and always have been a prince in payment. Master James, and more power to you 1 It was worth running such a distance, as from Turview to this, for such a prize," cried the deUghted beggar, as he pocketed the money. " Ah ! you are looking at the skeleton keys l" continued Reddy, observing the Lieutenant, who was examining, with some surprise, the strange shapes in which many of the instniments were formed. 246 AGNES ARNOLD. "Ah! Master James," said Reddy, '4ook well at them ; for they are really deserving of HxG very highest astonishment. There is great talk, in these times, of wonderful inventions — of drawing hghtning from the clouds, and of men being able to mount up into the skies with bladders, called, as I have heard, ' balloons.' But what signifies all such vain curiosities, when compared with the invention of a skeleton key ? A man cannot make money out of a flash of lightning ; nor when he has got up into the skies can he put a cloud into his pocket, or if he could, what would be the worth of it, or why should anyone give him a penny piece for a puff of mist ? For a long, long time, I am told, all the world was stark, staring mad, looking for what was called ' the philosopher's stone ' — that is some- thing that could turn whatever it touched into gold. Well ! Master James — there is what the world was so long looking for, because the * skeleton key ' is the real, undoubted * philoso- pher's stone.' There is the means whereby men can possess money without earning it : there is the ' philosopher's stone ' that brings hidden gold to light : there is the thing that reveals what the- AGNES ARNOLD. 247 miser has hidden in the bottom of his strongest of strong boxes, and scatters it abroad amongst those who know how to make use of it, by taking every enjoyment in hfe out of it. Oh ! it is a grand, a great, and a good instrument ; for it helps to make the rich poor and the poor rich. No — Master James, never since the world began was there an invention to equal * the skeleton key ' — and there, within your grasp, you have the master- pieces of that master-discovery. Look then well at them — for they are^ I can tell you-— and I speak from a long knowledge in the art of lock- picking — they are the finest skeleton keys that ever the hand of a thief yet touched. Look then, I again say, attentively at them; for they are deserving of the greatest admiration, wonder, and amazement. 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" This important subject is discussed ably and temperately ; and though many differences will arise in the minds of some of our clergy, as well as some pious laymen, it should be added to every library." — Herald. " Written by a churchman, who is evidently a man with deep and sincere religious feelings. His book is temperately written, and will have a wholesome tendency, if wisely received."— 'ixaw?jw^;-. MR. NIWBY'S NEW PUBLICATIONS. 5 XIV. In 1 vol., price 2s. 6d., DR&WIITG-ROOM CK&R&DBS FOR iiCTIITG. By C. WARREN ADA^IS, Esq. " A valuable addition to Christmas diversions. It consists of a number of well-constructed scenes for charades.'' — Guardian. XV. In 1 vol., price 12s., MSHHIS SKGL&ND. By LORD WILLIAM LENNOX. "It overflows v^ith racy, poignant anecdotes of a generation just passed away. The book is destined to lie upon the tables of many a country mansion." — Leader, XVI. In 1 vol., price 5 s., KITIGHTS OF THB CROSS* By MRS. AGAR. " Nothing can be more appropriate than this little volume, from which the young will learn how their forefathers yenerated and fought to preserve those places hallowed by the presence of the Saviour." — GtMrdian. " Mrs. Agar has written a book which young and old may read with profit and pleasure." — Sunday Times. " It is a work of care and research, which parents may well wish to see in the hands of their children." — Leader. " A well-written history of the Crusades, pleasant to read, and good to look upon." — Critic. 6 XR. NETi-BY'S NEW PUBLICATIONS. xvir. In 1 vol., post Svo., price 10s. 6d., &N AUTUMN IN SILESIA, AUSTRIA PROPER, AND THE OBER ENNS. By the Author of *' Travels in Bohemia." XVIII. STEPS OIT THE MOUNT&IITS* " This is a step in the right way, and ought to be in the hands of the youth of both sexes." — Review. " The moral of this graceful and well-constructed little tale is, that Christian influence and good example have a better effect in doing the good work of reformation than the prison, the treadmill, or even the reformatory." — Cntie. "The Steps on the Mountains are traced in a loving spirit. They are earnest exhortations to the sober and religious-minded to undertake the spiritual and temporal improvement of the condition of the destitute of our lanes and alleys. The moral of the tale is well carried out ; and the bread which was cast upon the waters is found after many days, to the saving and happiness of all therein concerned." — Athenceum. XIX. In 1 vol., post 8vo., price 10s. 6d., ZE&L m THE WORK OF THE MIITISTHY. By L'ABBE DUBOIS. " There is a tone of piety and reality in the work of I'Abbe Dubois, and a unity of aim, which is to fix the priest's mind on the duties and responsibilities of his whole position, and which we ad- mire. The writer is occupied supremely with one thought of con- tributing to the salvation of souls and to the glory of God." — Literary Churchman. MB. KEWBY S NEW PTBLICATIONS. 7 XX. Iq 1 vol., price 5s., FISHES AND FISKIITG. By W. "VnilGHT, Esq. " Anglers will find it worth their while to profit by the author's experience." — Athenaum. " The pages abound in a variety of interesting anecdotes connected with the rod and the line. The work will be found both useful and entertaining to the lovers of the piscatory art." — Horning Post. "It is both amusing and instructive," — Bail// Telepraj)/i. " A pleasant and gossipping book on the subject, with authentic facts gleaned from sources which could be depended upon, and worthy to be remembered, relative to angling in all its branches." — Lancet. XXI. In 1 vol., price 10s. 6d., THE NSW EL DOS&DO; OE, BEITISH COLUMBIA. By KINAHAN COENWALLIS. " The book is ftdl of information as to the best modes existing or expected of reaching these enviable countries." — Morning Chronicle. " The book gives all the information which it is possible to ob- tain respecting the new colony called British Columbia. The book is altogether one of a most interesting and instructive character."— 27ie Star. " The work is veiy spiritedly written, and vnll amuse and in- stract." — Observer. S MB. NEWBY S NEW PUBLICATIONS. XXII. In 1 vol., price 10s. 6cl., BEING AN ESCAPE EROM ITALIAN DUNGEONS. "We find the volume entertaining, and really Italian in spirit." "There is much fervour in this romantic narrative of suffering." •^Uxaminer. XXIII. In 2 vols., post 8vo., price 21s., & P&ITOR&M& OF THE ITEW WORLD* By KINAHAN COBNWALLIS, Author of " Two Journeys to Japan," &c. " Nothing can be more spirited, graphic, and full of interest, nothing more pictorial or brilliant in its execution and animation." -—Globe. " One of the most amusing tales ever written." — Revieic. " He is a lively, rattling writer. The sketches of Peruvian Life and Manners are fresh, racy, and vigorous. The volumes abound with amusing anecdotes and conversations." — Weekly Mail. XXIV. In 1 vol., 8vo,, price 10s. 6d,, LIFE OF &LEX&ITDER THE FIRST. By IVAN GOLOVIN. " It is a welcome contribution to Russian imperial biography." — Leader. " Mr. Golovin possesses fresher information, a fresher mind and manner applied to Russian affairs, than foreigners are likely to possess." — Spectator. MR. NE'^BY S NEW PUBLICATIONS. 9 XXV. lu 1 vol., price 21s. THIRTY-FIYS YEARS OF & DRAMATIC AUTKOR^S LIFE. By EDWARD FITZBALL, Esq. " We scarcely remember any biography so replete with anecdotes of the most agreeable description. Everybody in the theatrical world, and a great many out of it, figure in this admirable bio- graphy." — Globe. " One of the most curious collections of histrionic incidents ever put together. Fitzball numbers his admirers not by hundreds and thousands, but by vaxYLions.''— Liverpool Albion. " A most wonderful book about all sorts of persons."— i?ir»??;t^- ham Journal. XXVI. In 1 vol., price 10s. 6d,, GHOST STOSISS. By CATHARINE CROWE, Author of "Night Side of Nature." " Mrs. Crowe's volume will delight the lovers of the supernatural, and their name is legion." — Morning Post. " These Tales are calculated to excite all the feelings of awe, ani we may say of terror, with which Ghost Stories have ever beeB read." — Morning Advertiser. XXVII. In 1 vol., 12mo., price os. 6d., LE TRESOa DS L& L&NGUS FR/ilTG&ISB. By PROFESSOR LIANCOURT. MR. NEWBY S NEW PUBLICATIONS. XXVIII. In 2 vols., post 8vo., TS& TABLE TALK. By MRS. MATHEWS. " Livingstone's Africa, and Mrs. Mathews' Tea Table Talk mil be the two most popular works of the season." — Bicester Herald. " It is ordinary criticism to say of a good gossipping book, that it is a volume for the sea-side, or for the fireside, or wet weather, or for a sunny nook, or in a shady grove, or for after dinner over wine and walnuts. Now these lively, gossipping volumes will be found adapted to all these places, times, and circumstances. They are brimfuU of anecdotes. There are pleasant little biographical sketches, and ambitious essays." — Athenaeum . " The anecdotes are replete with point, and novelty, and truth- fulness." — Sporting Magazine. " No better praise can be given by us than to say, that we con- sider this work one of, if not the most agreeable books that has come under our notice." — Guardian. " For Book Clubs and Reading Societies no work can be found that will prove more agreeable." — Express. " The widow of the late, and the mother of the present Charles Mathews would, under any circumstances, command our respect, and if we could not conscientiously praise her work, we should be slow to condemn it. Happily, however, the volumes in question are so good, that in giving this our favourable notice we are only doing justice to the literary character of the writer ; her anecdotes are replete with point and novelty, and truthfulness that stamps them genuine."— Sporting Review. XXIX. In 1 vol., 12mo., price Is. 6d., ARITOLD'S FIRST L&TIIT COURSE. ME. nettby's new publications. U XXX. In 2 vols., post 8vo., price 2l3., TWO JOURNEYS TO J&P&IT. By KINAHAN CORNWALLIS. " The mystery of Japan melts away as we follow Mr. Cornwallis. He enjoyed most marvellous good fortune, for he carried a spell with him which dissipated Japanese suspicion, and procured him all sorts of privileges. His knowledge of Japan is considerahle. It is an amusing book." — Athenaum. " This is an amusing book, pleasantly written, and evidencing generous feeling." — Literary Gazette. " We can honestly recommend !Mr. Cornwallis's book to our readers." — Momivg Herald. "The country under his pencil comes out fresh, dewy, and pic- turesque before the eye. The volumes are fall of amusement, lively and graphic." — Chambers' Journal. XXXI. In 1 vol., post 8ro., price 10s, Cd., HISTORICAL GLSANINGS AT HOME AXD xVBEOAD. By MRS, JAJ^IIESON. *•■ This work is characterized by forcible and correct descriptions of men and manners in bygone years. It is replete with passages of the deepest interest," — Review. XXXII. In 1 vol., price 43., Sixth Edition, THS BSS-KSSPSR^S GUIDE. By J, H. PAYNE, Esq. " The best and most concise work on the management of bees.*' •^Quarterly Eevieu;. 12 MR. newby's new publications. XXXIII. In 1 vol., price 5s., THIITGS WORTH KITOWIITG ABOUT HORSES. By HAKRY HIEOVER. " From tlie days of Nimrod until now no man has made so many, few more valuable additions to what may be called * Sporting Litera- ture.' To those skilled in horses this little volume will be very welcome, whilst to the raw youth its teachings will be as precious as refined goW—Critic. " Into this little volume Harry Hieover has contrived to cram an innumerable quantity of things worth knowing about the tricks and bad habits of all kinds of horses; harness, starting, shying, and trotting; about driving; about the. treatment of ailing horses ; about corns, peculiarities of shape and make and about stables, training, and general treatment." — Field. "It is a useful book about horses." — Daily Telegraj^h. " Few men have produced better works upon the subject of horses than Harry Hieover." — Revieto. " The author has omitted nothing of interest in his ' Things worth knowing about horses." — Athenoeum. XXXIV. In 1 vol., price 5s., THE SPORTING WORLD. By HARRY HIEOVER. " Reading Harry Hieover's book is like listening latily and luxuriously after dinner to a quiet, gentlemanlike, clever talker." — Athenanm. " It will be perused with pleasure by all who take an interest in ihe manly games of our fatherland. It ought to be added to every sportsman's library." — Sporting Review. 3III. net\-by's new pubucations. 13 XXXV. lu 1 vol.j demy 8vo., price 12s., THE SPOETBII&IT^S FRIEITD III A FHOST. By HARRY HIEOVER. " Harry Hieover's practical knowledge and long experience in field sportSj render his writings ever amusing and instructive. He relates most pleasing anecdotes of flood and field, and is well worthy of st\nlj:'—T/ie Field. "No sportsman's library should be without it." — Sporting Magazine. " There is amusement as well as intelligence in Harry Hieover's book." — Alhoncpum. XXXVI. In 1 vol., dcaiy 8vo., price 123., SP0RTIIT6 FACTS &ITD SPORTIITG FAITGISS. By HARRY HIEOYER. Author of " Stable Talk and Table Talk/' "The Pocket and the Stud," " The Hunting Field," &c. " This work wiU make a valuable and interesting addition to the Sportsman's Library." — BeIVs Life. ''• In addition to the immense mass of practical and useful in- formation with which this work abounds, there is a refreshing buoyancy and dash about the style, which makes it as attractive and fascinating as the pages of the renowned Nimrod himself." — Dispatch. "It contains graphic sketches of celebrated young sporting characters." — Sunclat/ Times. 14' MK. newbt's new publications. XXXVII. lu 1 vol., price 5s., Third edition, THE PROPER CONDITION FOR ALL HORSES. By HARRY HIEOVER. " It should be in the hands of all owners of horses." — Bell's Life. " A work which every owner of a horse will do well to consult." ••^Mornhig Herald. " Every man who is about purchasing a horse, whether it be hunter, riding-horse, lady's palfrey, or cart-horse, will do well t o make himself acquainted with the contents of this book." — Sporting Ma^iazine. XXXVIII. In I vol., price 5s., THE WORLD, AND HOW TO - SQUARE IT. By HARRY HIEOVER. XXXIX. In 1 vol., price 4s., BIPEDS AND QUADRUPEDS. By HARRY HIEOVER. " We recommend this little volume for the humanity towards quadrupeds it advocates, and the proper treatment of them that it inculcates." — Bell's Life. MR. NHWBY^S KEW PUBUCATIONS. IB XL. In 1 vol., price 53., PRECEPT xtND PRACTICE. By HARRY HIEO^TR. XLI. In 1 vol., price 5s., HINTS TO HORSEMEN, SHOWING HOW TO MAKE ]\IONEY BY HORSES. By HARRY klEO\T:R. "When Harry Hieover gives hints to Horsemen, he does not mean by that term riders exclusively, but owners, breeders, buyers, sellers, and admirers of horses. To teach such men how to make money is to impart no valueless instruction to a large class of man- kind. The advice is frankly given, and if no benefit result, it will not be for the want of good counsel." — Athenczum. " It is by far the most useful and practical book that Han'y Hieover has •written." — Express. XLII. CHRISTMAS GIFT BOOK. Price Is. 6d., PRINCE LIES. By G. P. JA2kIES, Esq. Author of " The Gipsy," " Richelieu," &c. " It is worth its weight in gold."— J/^^ Globe. " !Mo6t valuable to the rising generation ; an invaluable little book." — Guardian. 16 MR. newby's new publications. xmi. In 2 vols., post 8vo,, price 21 s., NAPLES, POLITICAL, SOCIAL, AND RELIGIOUS. By LORD B * * * * * " The pictures are as lively and bright as the colours and climate they reflect." — Spectator. " It is a rapid, clear historical sketch." — Advertiser. "The author has done good service lo society." — Court Circular. xtiv. In 2 vols., price 21s,, cloth, THE LIFE OF PERCY BYSSHB SHELLEY. By CAPTAIN MED WIN, Author of " Conversations with Lord Byron." " This Look must be read by every one interested in literature." — Morning Post. " A complete life of Shelley was a desideratum in literature, and there was no man so competent as Captain ^fedway to supply it." — Inquirer. " The book is sure of exciting much discussion." — Lit. Gazette. ILV. Price 2s. Gd., beautifully illustrated, THE HAPPY COTTAGE, A TALE EOR SUMMER'S SUNSHINE. By the Author of " Kale Vernon," "Agnes Waring." t ♦