"Very ant.i.thetically put, indeed," said f.a.n.n.y; "but you must excuse me."

"You said there was a tune to it?"

"Yes; but I promised Captain Moriarty to sing him _this_," said f.a.n.n.y, going over to the pianoforte, and laying her hand on an open music-book.

"Thanks, Miss Dawson," said Moriarty, following fast.

Now, it was not that f.a.n.n.y Dawson liked the captain that she was going to sing the song; but she thought he had been rather "_mobbed_" by the doctor and the _padre_ about the reading of the verses, and it was her good breeding which made her pay this little attention to the worsted party. She poured forth her sweet voice in a simple melody to the following words:--

SAY NOT MY HEART IS COLD

I

"Say not my heart is cold, Because of a silent tongue!

The lute of faultless mould In silence oft hath hung.

The fountain soonest spent Doth babble down the steep; But the stream that _ever_ went Is silent, strong, and deep.

II

"The charm of a secret life Is given to choicest things:-- Of flowers, the fragrance rife Is wafted on viewless wings; We see not the charmed air Bearing some witching sound; And ocean deep is where The pearl of price is found.

III

"Where are the stars by day?

They burn, though all unseen!

And love of purest ray Is like the stars, I ween: Unmark'd is the gentle light When the sunshine of joy appears, But ever, in sorrow's night, 'T will glitter upon thy tears!"

"Well, Randal, does that poem satisfy your critical taste?--of the singing there can be but one opinion."

"Yes, I think it pretty," said Moriarty; "but there is one word in the last verse I object to."

"Which is that?" inquired Growling.

"_Ween_" said the other, "'the stars, I ween,' I object to."

"Don't you see the meaning of that?" inquired the doctor. "I think it is a very happy allusion."

"I don't see any allusion whatever," said the critic.

"Don't you see the poet alluded to the stars in the _milky_ way, and says, therefore, 'The stars I _wean_'?"

"Bah! bah! doctor," exclaimed the critical captain; "you are in one of your quizzing moods to-night, and it is in vain to expect a serious answer from you." He turned on his heel as he spoke, and went away.

"Moriarty, you know, Miss Dawson, is a man who affects a horror of puns, and therefore I always punish him with as many as I can," said the doctor, who was left by Moriarty's sudden pique to the enjoyment of a pleasant chat with f.a.n.n.y, and he was sorry when the hour arrived which disturbed it by the breaking up of the party and the departure of the guests.

CHAPTER x.x.xIV

When the Widow Rooney was forcibly ejected from the house of Mrs. James Casey, and found that Andy was not the possessor of that lady's charms, she posted off to Neck-or-Nothing Hall, to hear the full and true account of the transaction from Andy himself. On arriving at the old iron gate, and pulling the loud bell, she was spoken to through the bars by the savage old janitor and told to "go out o' that." Mrs. Rooney thought fate was using her hard in decreeing she was to receive denial at every door, and endeavoured to obtain a parley with the gate-keeper, to which he seemed no way inclined.

"My name's Rooney, sir?"

"There's plenty bad o' the name," was the civil rejoinder.

"And my son's in Squire O'Grady's sarvice, sir."

"Oh--you're the mother of the beauty we call Handy, eh?"

"Yis, sir."

"Well, he left the sarvice yistherday."

"Is it lost the place?"

"Yis."

"Oh dear! Ah, sir, let me up to the house and spake to his honour, and maybe he'll take back the boy."

"He doesn't want any more servants at all--for he's dead."

"Is it Squire O'Grady dead?"

"Aye--did you never hear of a dead squire before?"

"What did he die of, sir?"

"Find out," said the sulky brute, walking back into his den.

It was true--the renowned O'Grady was no more. The fever which had set in from his "broiled bones," which he _would_ have in spite of anybody, was found difficult of abatement; and the impossibility of keeping him quiet, and his fits of pa.s.sion, and consequent fresh supplies of "broiled bones," rendered the malady unmanageable; and the very day after Andy had left the house the fever took a bad turn, and in four-and-twenty hours the stormy O'Grady was at peace.

What a sudden change fell upon the house! All the wedding paraphernalia which had been brought down lay neglected in the rooms where it had been the object of the preceding day's admiration. The deep, absorbing, silent grief of the wife,--the more audible sorrow of the girls,--the subdued wildness of the reckless boys, as they trod silently past the chamber where they no longer might dread reproof for their noise,--all this was less touching than the effect the event had upon the old dowager mother.

While the senses of others were stunned by the blow, hers became awakened by the shock; all her absurd aberration pa.s.sed away, and she sat in intellectual self-possession by the side of her son's death-bed, which she never left until he was laid in his coffin. He was the first and last of her sons. She had now none but grandchildren to look upon--the intermediate generation had pa.s.sed away, and the gap yawned fearfully before her. It restored her, for the time, perfectly to her senses; and she gave the necessary directions on the melancholy occasion, and superintended all the sad ceremonials befitting the time, with a calm and dignified resignation which impressed all around her with wonder and respect.

Superadded to the dismay which the death of the head of a family produces was the terrible fear which existed that O'Grady's body would be seized for debt--a barbarous practice, which, shame to say, is still permitted. This fear made great precaution necessary to prevent persons approaching the house, and accounts for the extra gruffness of the gate porter. The wild body-guard of the wild chief was on doubly active duty; and after four-and-twenty hours had pa.s.sed over the reckless boys, the interest they took in sharing and directing this watch and ward seemed to outweigh all sorrowful consideration for the death of their father. As for Gustavus, the consciousness of being now the master of Neck-or-Nothing Hall was apparent in a boy not yet fifteen; and not only in himself, but in the grey-headed retainers about him, this might be seen: there was a shade more of deference--the boy was merged in "_the young master_."

But we must leave the house of mourning for the present, and follow the Widow Rooney, who, as she tramped her way homeward, was increasing in hideousness of visage every hour. Her nose was twice its usual dimensions, and one eye was perfectly useless in showing her the road. At last, however, as evening was closing, she reached her cabin, and there was Andy, arrived before her, and telling Oonah, his cousin, all his misadventures of the preceding day.

The history was stopped for a while by their mutual explanations and condolences with Mrs. Rooney, on the "cruel way her poor face was used."

"And who done it all?" said Oonah.

"Who but that born divil, Matty Dwyer--and sure they towld me _you_ were married to her," said she to Andy.

"So I was," said Andy, beginning the account of his misfortunes afresh to his mother, who from time to time would break in with indiscriminate maledictions on Andy, as well as his forsworn damsel; and when the account was ended, she poured out a torrent of abuse upon her unfortunate forsaken son, which riveted him to the floor in utter amazement.

"I thought I'd get pity here, at all events," said poor Andy; "but instead o' that it's the worst word and the hardest name in your jaw you have for me."