The most part of ready cash, whatever the sum may have been, which Tom had received at the bank, having been, as he called it, "swallowed up by them cormorants, the attorneys," he had, after all, but a trifling balance in his pocket. He was determined, therefore, to live quietly for some time at his aunt's upon "the lashins and lavins," taking her advice, and arranging with her his plan of operations upon his return to Rathcashmore. And his aunt's advice, in a prudent and worldly point of view, was not to be controverted, if anything could tend toward the attainment of his object; that was the question.

It was impossible, however, that Tom could rest altogether satisfied with the company of his aunt and her husband, and three or four children between ten and seventeen years of age; particularly as the eldest of his cousins was a long-necked boy with big, stuck-out ears, who worked in his father's shop, instead of a graceful girl with dark hair and fine eyes, whose domestic duties must keep her in the house as her mother's a.s.sistant, or perhaps enable her, when she could be spared, to guide him through the princ.i.p.al parts of the town, of which he would have feigned the most profound ignorance. But the eldest child just past seventeen, as we have seen, happened to be a boy, not a girl, and Tom did not consider this the best arrangement that could be wished. In consequence, he sometimes spent an evening from home, with one or other, or perhaps with all the congenial spirits with whom, as a _delegate_--for the truth may be confessed--from another county, he could claim brotherhood. On this occasion, however, he was not on official business in Armagh; and whatever intercourse took place between them was of a purely social nature.

Tom was not altogether such a _mauvais sujet_ as perhaps the reader has set him down in his own mind to be, from the inuendos which have been thrown out respecting him, as well as the actual portions of his character which have made themselves manifest. It must be confessed--nay, I believe it has been admitted not many lines above--that he was a Ribbonman; and although that includes all that is murderous and wicked, when a necessity arises, yet in the absence of such necessity a Ribbonman may not be altogether void of certain good points in his character. It is the frightful _obligation_ which he _labors_ under that makes a villain of him, should circ.u.mstances require the aid of his iniquity. Apart from this, and from what is termed an agrarian grievance, a Ribbonman may not be a bad family-man, although the training he undergoes in "The Lodge" is ill calculated to nourish his domestic sympathies.

Tom had now been upward of a month enjoying the hospitality of his aunt; and notwithstanding that she had done all in her power to entertain him, and "make much" of him, he was beginning to tire of the eternal smoke and flags, and stacks of chimneys, which were always the same to the eye: no bright "blast of sun," no sudden dark cloud, made any difference in them; there they were, always the same dark color, no matter what light shone upon them. No wonder, then, Tom Murdock began once more to long for the fresh breeze that blew about the wild hills of Rathcashmore, the green fields of his father's farm, and the purple heather of Slieve-dhu, with the white rocks of Slieve-bawn by her side.

Absence too had done more really to touch Tom's heart with respect to Winny Cavana than to wean him from the "saucy s.l.u.t," as he had called her in pique on his departure. He had "come across,"--this is the Irish mode of expressing, "had been introduced,"--through his aunt's a.s.sistance, several of what she called illigant fine girls, nieces of her husband's and others, and his heart confessed that none of them "were a patch" upon Winny Cavana, after all. He thus became fidgety, and began to speak of returning home. Of course the aunt opposed her hospitality to such a step, for the present at least: "Just as we were beginning to enjoy you, Tom avic," said she; and of course her husband made a show of joining her, although he knew there had been more beer drunk in the house in the last month than in the six preceding ones; neither did the cold meat turn out to half the account. He knew this by his pocket, not by his knowledge of the cookery. Tom, however, made no promise of further sojourn than "to put the following Sunday over him," and it was now Thursday. But the next morning's post hurried matters. It brought him a letter from his father, which prevented his aunt from pressing his stay beyond the following day, when it was finally settled by Tom that he would start for home. "It ran thus," as is the common mode of introducing a letter in a novel or story:

"DEAR TOM,--This comes to you hoppin' to find you in good health, which I am sorry to say it does not lave me at present; but thank G.o.d for all his mercies. I was very lonesum entirely afther you left me; an the more, dear Tom, as I had not my ould neighbor Ned Cavana to spake to, as used to be the case afore that young chisel of a daughter of his cam round him to brake wid us. She's there still, seemingly as proud as ever; but she'll be taken down a peg wan of these days, mark my words. I have wan piece of good news for you, Tom avic; an' that is, that young Lennon never darkened their doore since you went; and more be token, she never spoke a word to him on Sunda's after ma.s.s, but went straight home with her father from the chapel.

This I seen myself; for although I have been very daunny since you left me, I med bowld wid myself not to lose prayers any Sunda' wet or dhry, for no other purpose but to watch herself an' that chap. So, dear Tom, you needn't be afeared of him. I think, indeed; I seen him going down the road the three Sunda's wid Kate Mulvey; so I think Winny tould the truth to her father about him. Dear Tom, I have not been well at all at all for the last three weeks, an' I am not able to be out all day as I used to be, an' I hardly know how matthers are goin' on upon the farm. I see old Ned a'most every day from the doore or the garden, where I sometimes go out when it's fine; I see him wandherin' about his farm as brisk an' as hard as ever. I think nothin' would give that man a brash. Dear Tom, I did not like writin'

to you to say I was lonesum or unwell until you had taken a turn out of yourself at your aunt's; but I am not gettin' betther, an' I think the sight iv you would do me good. Tell your aunt to let you c.u.m home to me now. Indeed, dear Tom, I'm too long alone; an' havin' no wan to spake to makes me fret, though I wouldn't interfere wid you for a while afther you went. If ould Ned Cavana was the man I tuck him to be, he wouldn't let the few words that c.u.m betune us keep him away from me all this time, an' I not well; but he never put to me, nor from me, since you left, nor I to him. Dear Tom, c.u.m back to me as soon as you can, an' maybe we'll get the betther of him an' Winny, afther all. Hopin' your aunt, an' the childer, an' Bill himself, is all in good health, I remain your father till death,

"Michael Murdock."

Tom, as I have hinted, was not without his good points, and, as he read over the above letter from his poor lonely father, his heart smote him for having been so long away, and where, to tell the truth to himself, he had no great fun or pleasure. His conscience, moreover, accused him of one glaring act of ingrat.i.tude and villany, he might call it, toward the poor old man. There was something tender and self-sacrificing in the letter, yet it was not without a complaining tone all through, that brought all Tom's better feelings uppermost in his heart; and he resolved to start for home early the next morning.

He now felt that he had business at home, which at one time he had never contemplated taking the smallest trouble about, beside keeping his poor old father better company than he had hitherto done. Yet, with all this softening of his disposition, he was never more determined to carry out his object with respect to Winny Cavana, by fair means--or by _foul!_

What his father had said about young Lennon gave him hopes that, in the end, a scheme which he had planned for the latter might not be _necessary_.

Tom knew there could be no use in writing to his father to say he would so soon be home with him. The nearest post-town was seven miles from Rathcashmore; and although any person "going in had orders" to call at the post-office, and bring out all letters for the neighbors of both the Rathcashes, yet were he to write now, his letter was sure to lie there for some days, and he would undoubtedly be home before its receipt. Thus he argued, and therefore endeavored to content himself with the resolution he had formed to make no delay; and whatever "his traps" may have been, they were got together and locked in his box at once.

He had engaged to meet a _particular friend_ on the following evening, Friday, partly on _business_ previous to returning to _his own part_ the country. But he would now antic.i.p.ate this visit by going there at once, so as to enable him to leave for home early next morning. He hoped to find his father better than his letter might lead him to suppose; and he had no doubt his presence and society, which he was determined should be more constant and sympathizing than heretofore, would serve to cheer him.

Nothing, then, which his aunt could say, and certainly nothing which her husband had added to what she did say, had any effect toward altering Tom's resolution to start for home on the following morning.

By this means he hoped to reach his father on the evening of the second day,--railways had not been then established in any part of Ireland, not even the Dublin and Kingstown line,--and he would save the poor old man from the lonesome necessity of going to church on Sunday, "be it wet or dry."

He carried out his determination without check or hindrance, and arrived at the end of the lane leading up to Rathcashmore house soon after dusk in the evening of Sat.u.r.day. He travelled by car from C--k; and the horse being neither too spirited, nor too _fresh_, after his journey, stood quietly on the road, with his head down, and his off fore-leg in the "first position," until the driver returned, having left Tom Murdock's box above at the house.

The meeting between old Mick and his son was as tender and affectionate on the old man's part as could well be, and as much so on Tom's as could well be expected. Old Mick had some secret antic.i.p.ations--presentiment, perhaps, I should have called it--that they would never part again in this world, until they parted for the last time. Daily he felt an increasing weakness of limb, weariness of mind, which whispered to his heart that that parting was not far distant. His son's arrival, however, had the effect which he had promised to himself. He seemed to improve both in spirits and in health. If he had not thrown away the stick,--which the reader was forewarned he would adopt,--he made more use of it cutting at the _kippeens_, and whatever else came in his way, than as a help to his progress.

CHAPTER XVIII.

New Year's Day is always a holiday. And well it is for the girls and boys of a parish, of a district, of a county, ay, of all Ireland, if it should rise upon them in the glowing beauty of a cloudless sun.

Then, indeed, the girls "are drest in all their best." Many a new bright ribbon has been purchased on the previous market-day, and many a twist and turn the congregation side of their bonnets has had. A bow of new ribbon, blue or red, according to their complexion--for these country girls are no more fools in such a matter than their betters--has been held first to this side of their bonnet, then to that; then the long ends have been brought across the top this way, then that way, temporarily fastened with pins in the first instance, until it is held at arm's-length, with the head a little to one side, to test the final position. Their petticoats have been swelled out by numbers, not by crinoline, which as yet was unknown, even to the higher orders. But "be this as it may," the girls of the townlands of Rathcash, Rathcashmore, and Shanvilla made no contemptible turn-out upon the New Year's day after Tom Murdock had returned from Armagh.

The boys, too, were equally grand, according to their style of dress.

Some lanky, thin-shanked fellows in loose trousers and high-low boots; while the well-formed fellows, with plump calves and fine ankles, turned out in their new _corderoy_ breeches, woolen stockings, and _pumps_. I have confined myself to their lower proportions, as in most cases the coats and rests were much of the same make, though perhaps different in color and material, while the well-brushed "_Caroline_"

hat was common to all.

Conspicuous amongst the girls in the district in which our story sojourns, were, as a matter of course, Winny Cavana and Kate Mulvey, with some others of their neighbors who have not been mentioned, and who need not be.

Winny, since the little episode respecting her refusal of Tom Murdock, and his subsequent departure, had led a very quiet, meditative life.

She could not help remarking to herself, however, that she had somehow or other become still more intimate with Kate Mulvey than she had used to be; but for this she could not account--though, perhaps, the reader can. She had always been upon terms of intimacy with Kate; had frequently called there, when time would permit, and sat for half an hour, or sometimes an hour, chatting, which was always reciprocated by Kate, whose time was more on her own hands. In what then consisted the increase of intimacy can hardly be said. Perhaps it merely existed in Winny's own wish that it should be so, and the fact that one and the other, on such occasions, now always threw a cloak round her shoulders and accompanied her friend a piece of the way home. Sometimes, when the day was tempting, a decided walk would be proposed, and then the bonnet was added to the cloak. What formed the burden of their conversation in these chats, which to a close observer might be said latterly to have a.s.sumed a confidential appearance, must be so evident to the reader's capacity, that no mystery need be observed on the subject. To say the least, Emon-a-knock came in for a share of it, and, as a matter of almost necessity, Tom Murdock was not altogether left out.

Kate Mulvey, after the _eclairciss.e.m.e.nt_ with Winny, believed she could do her friend some good without doing herself any harm, a principle on which alone most people will act. With this view she took an early opportunity to hint something to Emon of the result of the interview between herself and Winny, and although she did it in a very casual, and at the same time a clever, manner, she began to fear that so far as her friend's case was concerned, she had done more harm than good. The fact of Tom Murdock's proposal and rejection subsequent to the interview adverted to, had not become public amongst the neighbors; and before Winny had an opportunity of telling it to Kate, Emon had left his father's house, to seek employment in the north. It is not unlikely that he was tempted to this step by something which had fallen from Kate Mulvey respecting Winny and Tom Murdock, although the whole cat had not yet got out of the bag.

Hitherto poor Emon's heart had been kept pretty whole, through what he considered a well-founded belief that Winny Cavana, almost as a matter of course, must prefer her handsome, rich neighbor to a struggling laboring man like him. Tom, he knew, she saw almost every day, while at best she only saw him for a few minutes on Sundays after chapel.

Emon knew the meaning of the word propinquity very well, and he knew as well the danger of it. He knew, too, that if there were no such odds against him, he could scarcely dare aspire to the hand of the rich heiress of Rathcash. He knew the disposition of old Ned Cavana too well to believe that he would ever consent to a "poor devil" like him "coming to coort his daughter." He believed so thoroughly that all these things were against him, that he had hitherto successfully crushed every rising hope within his breast. He had schooled himself to look upon a match between Tom Murdock and Winny Cavana as a matter so natural, that it would be nothing less than an act of madness to endeavor to counteract it. What Kate Mulvey, however, had "let slip"

had aroused a slumbering angel in his soul. He was not wrong, then, after all, in a secret belief that this girl did not like Tom Murdock over-much. Upon what he had founded that belief he could no more have explained--even to himself--than he could have dragged the moon down from heaven; but he did believe it; he even combatted it as a fatal delusion, and yet it was true. But how did this mend the matter as regarded himself? Not in the slightest degree, except so far as that the man he most dreaded, and had most reason to dread, was no longer an acknowledged rival to his heart. Hopes he still had none.

But Emon-a-knock was now in commotion. The angel was awake, and his heart trembled at a possibility which despair had hitherto hidden from his thoughts.

For some time past he had not only not avoided a casual meeting with Winny, but delighted in them with a safe, if not altogether a happy, indifference. He looked upon her as almost betrothed to Tom Murdock; circ.u.mstances and reports were so dovetailed into one another, and so like the truth.

Although there was really no difference in rank between him and Winny, except what her father's well-earned wealth justified the a.s.sumption of, his position as a daily laborer kept him aloof from an intimacy of which those in circ.u.mstances more like her own could boast; and poor Emon felt that it was a matter for boast. Thus had he hitherto refrained from attempting to "woo that bright particular star," and his heart was comparatively safe. But now--ay, _now_--what was he to do? "Fly, Fly" said he; "I'll go seek for employment in the north.

To America, India, Australia--anywhere! Kate Mulvey may have meant it as kindness; but it would have been more kind to have let me alone. This horrible knowledge of that one fact will break my heart."

And Emon-a-knock did fly. But it was no use. There were many reasons quite unconnected with Winny Cavana which rendered a more speedy return than he had intended unavoidable. A stranger beyond the precincts of his own pariah, he found it impossible to procure permanent employment amongst those who were better known, and who "belonged to the place"--a great consideration in the minds of the Irish, high and low. The bare necessaries of life, too, were more expensive in the north than about his own home; and for the few days'

employment which he got, he could scarcely support himself, while his father and family would feel the loss of his share of the earnings at home. No; these two separate establishments would never do. He could gain nothing by it but the gnawing certainty of never seeing, even at a distance, her in whom he now began to feel that his heart delighted.

Besides, he could manage to avoid her altogether by going to his own chapel; yes, he felt it a duty he owed to his father not to let him fight life's battle alone, and--he returned. We question whether this _duty_ to his _father_ was his sole motive; and we shall see whether he did not subsequently consider it a _duty_ to prefer the good preaching of Father Roche, of Rathcash, to the somewhat indifferent discourses of good Father Farrell in _his own_ chapel.

Emon had not been more than ten days or a fortnight away, and he was now following the usual routine, of a day idle and a day working, which had marked his life before he went.

But we were talking of a New Year's day, and it will be far spent if we do not return to it at once, and so we shall lose the thread of our story.

The day, as we had wished a few pages back, had risen in all the beauty of a cloudless sun. There had been a slight frost the night before, but as these slight frosts seldom bring rain until the third morning, the country people were quite satisfied that the promise of a fine day on this occasion would not be broken. The chapel-bells of Rathcash and Shanvilla might be heard sounding their dear and cheerful call to their respective parishioners that the hour of worship had drawn near, and the well-dressed, happy congregation might be seen in strings along the road and across the pathways through the fields, in their gayest costume, laughing and chatting with an unbounded confidence in the faithfulness of the sky.

Tom Murdock, the reader knows, had returned, but he had not as yet seen Winny Cavana. One Sunday had intervened; but upon his father's advice he had refrained from going "for that wan Sunda' to chapel."

Neither, on the same advice, had he gone near old Ned's house. The old man--that is, old Murdock--had endeavored to spread a report that his son Tom was engaged to be married to a very rich girl in Armagh. He took his own views of all matters, whether critical or simple, and had his own way of what he called managing them. He was not very wrong in some of his ideas, but he sometimes endeavored to carry them out too persistently, after anybody else would have seen their inutility.

On this New Year's day, too, he had hinted something about his son's not going to ma.s.s, but Tom would not be controlled, and quickly "shut up'" that is the _fashionable_ phrase now-a-days--the old man upon the subject. His opinion, and he did not care to hide it, was, "that he did not see why he should be made a mope of by Winny Cavana, or any other conceited piece of goods like her." His father's pride came to his aid in this instance, and he gave way.

Rathcash chapel was a crowded place of worship that day. Amongst the congregation, as a matter of coa.r.s.e, were Winny Cavana and Kate Mulvey, both conspicuous by their beauty and solemnity. Tom Murdock, too, was there; doubtless he was handsome, and he was solemn also, but his solemnity was of a different description. It was that generated by disappointment, with a dream of villany in perspective.

Tom was not a coward, even under the nervous influence of rejected love. Physically, he was not one in the matters of everyday life; and morally, he wanted rect.i.tude to be one when he ought. He therefore resolved to meet Winny Cavana, as she came out of chapel, as much as possible as if nothing had happened, and to endeavor to improve the acquaintance as opportunity might permit. He purposed to himself to walk home with her, and determined, if possible, that at least a friendly intercourse should not be interrupted between them.

Emon-a-knock had steadily kept his resolution, notwithstanding our doubts, and had not gone to Rathcash chapel for the last four or five Sundays; he was even beginning to think that Father Farrell, after all, was not quite so much below Father Roche as a preacher.

At length there was a rustling of dresses and a shuffling of feet upon the floor, which proclaimed that divine worship had ended; and the congregation began to pour out of Rathcash chapel--men in their dark coats and Caroline hats, and women in their best bonnets and cloaks.

Tom Murdock was out almost one of the first, and sauntered about, greeting some of the more distant neighbors whom he had not seen since his return. At length Winny and Kate made their appearance. Winny would have hurried on, but Kate "stepped short," until Tom had time to observe their approach. He came forward with more cowardice in his heart than he had ever felt before, and Winny's reception of him was not calculated to rea.s.sure him. Kate was next him, and held out her hand promptly and warmly. Winny could scarcely refuse to hold out hers; but there was neither promptness nor warmth in her manner. An awkward silence ensued on both sides, until Kate, with more anxiety on her own behalf than tact or consideration on her friend's, broke in with half a score of inquiries, very kindly put, as to his health--the _very long_ time he was away--how the neighbors _all_ missed him so much--what he had been doing--how he left his aunt--how he liked Armagh, etc, ending with a _hope_ that he had come home to _remain_.

Winny was glad she had so good a spokeswoman with her, and did not offer a single observation in her aid. To say the truth, there was neither need nor opportunity; for Kate seemed perfectly able, and not unwilling, to monopolize the conversation. Tom endeavored to be sprightly and at his ease, but made some observations far from applicable to the subjects upon which his loquacious companion had addressed him. He had hoped that when they came to the end of the lane turning up to their houses, that Kate Mulvey would have gone toward her own home, and that he must then have had a word with Winny alone; but the manner in which she hastened her step past the turn, saying, "Kate; you know we are engaged to have a walk 'our lone' today,"

showed him that no amelioration of her feelings had taken place toward him; and without saying more than "Well, this is my way," he turned and left them.

Bully-dhu was standing near the end of Winny's house, looking from him; and as he recognized his mistress on the road, commenced to wag his huge tail, as if asking permission to accompany them. "Call him, Winny," said Kate; "he may be of use to us; and, at all events, he will be _company_," and she laid a strong emphasis upon the last word.

Winny complied, and called the dog as loud as she could. Poor Bully wanted but the wind of the word, and tore down the lane with his mouth wide open, and his tail describing large circles in the air. He had well-nigh knocked down Tom Murdock as he pa.s.sed, but he did not mind that; and bounding out upon the road, cut such capers round Winny as were seldom seen, keeping up at the same time a sort of growling bark, until the enthusiasm of his joy at the permission had subsided.

CHAPTER XIX.