Читать книгу The O'Donoghue: Tale of Ireland Fifty Years Ago - Lever Charles James - Страница 10

If sorrow had thrown its sombre shadow over the once-proud house of the O’Donoghue, within whose walls now noiseless footsteps stole along, and whispered words were spoken: a very different scene presented itself at the small hostel of Mary M’Kelly. There, before the ample fireplace, a quarter of a sheep was roasting – while various utensils of cookery, disposed upon and around the fire, diffused a savoury odour through the apartment. A table, covered with a snow-white napkin, and containing covers for a party of six, occupied the middle of the room; cups and drinking vessels of richly chased silver, silver forks and spoons, of handsome pattern, were there also – strange and singular spectacle beneath the humble thatch of a way-side cabin. Mary herself displayed in her toilet a more than usual care and attention, and wore in her becoming cap, with a deep lace border, a bouquet of tri-colored ribbons, coquettishly knotted, and with the ends falling loosely on her neck. While she busied herself in the preparation for the table, she maintained from time to time a running conversation with a person who sat smoking in the chimney corner. Although screened from the glare of the fire, the light which was diffused around showed enough of the dress and style of the wearer to recognize him at once for Lanty Lawler, the horse-dealer. His attitude, as he lolled back on one chair, and supported his legs on another, bespoke the perfection of ease, while in the jaunty manner he held the long pipe-stick between his fingers, could be seen the affectation of one who wished to be thought at home, as well as to feel so.

“What hour did they mention, Mary?” said he, after a pause of some minutes, during which he puffed his pipe assiduously.

“The gossoon that came from Beerhaven, said it would be nine o’clock at any rate; but sure it’s nigher to ten now. They were to come up on the flood tide. Whisht, what was that? – Wasn’t that like the noise of wheels?”

“No; that’s the wind, and a severe night it is too. I’m thinking, Mary, the storm may keep them back.”

“Not a bit of it; there’s a creek down there, they tell me, safer nor e’er a harbour in Ireland; and you’d never see a bit of a vessel till you were straight over her: and sure it’s little they mind weather. That Captain Jack, as they call him, says there’s no time for business like a gale of wind. The last night they were here there was two wrecks in the bay.”

“I mind it well, Mary. Faix, I never felt a toast so hard to drink as the one they gave after supper.”

“Don’t be talking about it,” said Mary, crossing herself devoutly; “they said it out of devilment, sorra more.”

“Well, may be so,” muttered he sententiously. “They’re wild chaps any way, and they’ve a wild life of it.”

“Troth, if I was a man, tis a life I’d like well,” said Mary, with a look of resolute determination, well becoming the speech. “Them’s the fine times they have, going round the world for sport, and nothing to care for – as much goold as they’d ask – fine clothes – the best of eating and drinking; sure there’s not one of them would drink out of less than silver.”

“Faix, they may have iron round their ancles for it, after all, Mary.”

“Sorra bit of it – the jail isn’t built yet, that would howld them. What’s that noise now? That’s them. Oh, no; it’s the water running down the mountain.”

“Well, I wish they’d come any way,” said Lanty; “for I must be off early to-morrow – I’ve an order from the ould banker here above, for six beasts, and I’d like to get a few hours’ sleep before morning.”

“‘Tis making a nice penny you are there, Lanty,” said Mary, with a quizzical look from the corner of her eye.

“A good stroke of business, sure enough, Mary,” replied he, laughingly. “What d’ye think I did with him yesterday morning? I heerd here, ye know, what happened to the grey mare I bought from Mark O’Donoghue – that she was carried over the weir-gash and drowned. What does I do, but goes up to the Lodge and asks for Sir Marmaduke; and says I, ‘I’m come, sir, to offer a hundred and fifty for the little mare I sould you the other day for a hundred; ‘tis only now I found out her real value, and I can get two hundred for her in Cork, the day I bring her up; and sure your honour wouldn’t prevent a poor man making a trifle in the way of his trade.’ ‘You’re an honest fellow, Lanty,’ says he – divil a lie in it Mary, don’t be laughing – ‘you’re an honest fellow; and although I cannot let you have your mare back again, for she was killed last night, you shall have your own price for the four carriage-horses and the two roadsters I ordered.’ With that I began blubbering about the mare, and swore I was as fond of her as if she was my sister. I wish you’d seen his daughter then; upon my conscience it was as good as a play. ‘They have so much feelin’, says she to her father. ‘For fun,’ says I to myself. ‘O murther, murther. Mary, and them’s the people that rules us!’”

“Omadhauns they are, the devil a’ more!” interposed Mary, whose hearty contempt for the Saxon originated in the facility by which he could be imposed upon.

“That’s what I’m always saying,” said Lanty. “I’d rather have the chaytin’ than the bayting of John Bull, any day! You’ll humbug him out of his shirt, and faix it’s the easiest way to get it after all.”

“It’s a mane way, Lanty,” interposed Mary, with a look of pride; “it’s a dirty, mane way, and doesn’t become an Irishman?”

“Wait till the time comes, Mary M’Kelly,” said Lanty, half angrily, “and maybe I’d be as ready as another.”

“I wish it was come,” said Mary, sighing; “I wish to the Virgin it was; I’m tired heerin’ of the preparations. Sorra one of me knows what more they want, if the stout heart was there. There’s eight barrels of gunpowder in that rock there,” said she, in a low whisper, “behind yer back – you needn’t stir, Lanty. Begorra, if a spark was in it, ‘twould blow you and me, and the house that’s over us, as high as Hungry mountain.”

“The angels be near us!” said Lanty, making the sign of the cross.

“Ay,” resumed Mary, “and muskets for a thousand min, and pikes for two more. There’s saddles and bridles, eighteen hogsheads full.”

“True enough,” chimed in Lanty; “and I have an order for five hundred cavalry horses – the money to be paid out of the Bank of France. Musha, I wish it was some place nearer home.”

“Is it doubting them ye are, Lanty Lawler?”

“No, not a bit; but it’s always time enough to get the beasts, when we see the riders. I could mount two thousand men in a fortnight, any day, if there was money to the fore; ay, and mount them well, too: not the kind of devils I give the government, that won’t stand three days of hard work. Musha, Mary, but it’s getting very late; that mutton will be as dry as a stick.”

“The French likes it best that way,” said Mary, with a droll glance, as though to intimate she guessed the speaker’s object. “Take a look down the road, Lanty, and try if you can hear any one coming.”

Lanty arose from his comfortable corner with evident reluctance, and laid down his pipe with a half sigh, as he moved slowly towards the door of the cabin, which having unbarred he issued forth into the darkness.

“It’s likely I’d hear any thing such a night as this,” grumbled he to himself, “with the trees snapping across, and the rocks tumbling down! It’s a great storm entirely.”

“Is there any sign of them, Lanty?” cried Mary, as she held the door ajar, and peeped out into the gloomy night.

“I couldn’t see my hand fornint me.”

“Do you hear nothing?”

“Faix I hear enough over my head; that was thunder! Is there any fear of it getting at the powder, Mary?”

“Divil a fear; don’t be unasy about that,” said the stout-hearted Mary. “Can you see nothing at all?”

“Sorra a thing, barrin’ the lights up at Carrig-na-curra; they’re moving about there, at a wonderful rate. What’s O’Donoghue doing at all?”

“‘Tis the young boy, Herbert, is sick,” said Mary, as she opened the door to admit Lanty once more. “The poor child is in a fever. Kerry O’Leary was down here this evening for lemons for a drink for him. Poor Kerry! he was telling me, himself has a sore time of it, with that ould Scotchman that’s up there; nothing ever was like him for scoulding, and barging, and abusing; and O’Donoghue now minds nothing inside or out, but sits all day long in the big chair, just as if he was asleep. Maybe he does take a nap sometimes, for he talks of bailiffs, and writs, and all them things. Poor ould man! it’s a bad end, when the law comes with the grey hairs!”

“They’ve a big score with yourself, I’ll be bound,” said Lanty inquiringly.

“Troth, I’d like to see myself charge them with any thing,” said she, indignantly. “It’s to them and their’s I owe the roof that’s over me, and my father, and my father’s father before me owes it. Musha, it would become me to take their money, for a trifle of wine and spirits, and tay and tobacco, as if I wasn’t proud to see them send down here – the raal ould stock that’s in it! Lanty, it must be very late by this. I’m afeard something’s wrong up in the bay.”

“‘Tis that same I was thinking myself,” said Lanty, with a sly look towards the roasted joint, whose savoury odour was becoming a temptation overmuch for resistance.

“You’ve a smart baste in the stable,” said Mary; “he has eaten his corn by this time, and must be fresh enough; just put the saddle on him, Lanty dear, and ride down the road a mile or two – do, and good luck attend you.”

There never was a proposition less acceptable to the individual to whom it was made; to leave a warm fire-side was bad enough, but to issue forth on a night it would have been inhumanity to expose a dog to, was far too much for his compliance; yet Lanty did not actually refuse; no, he had his own good reasons for keeping fair with Mary M’Kelly; so he commenced a system of diplomatic delay and discussion, by which time at least might be gained, in which it was possible the long-expected guests would arrive, or the project fall to the ground on its own merits.

“Which way will they come, Mary?” said he, rising from his seat.

“Up the glen, to be sure – what other way could they from the Bay. You’ll hear them plain enough, for they shout and sing every step of the road, as if it was their own; wild devils they are.”

“Sing is it? musha, now, do they sing?”

“Ay, faix, the drollest songs ever ye heerd; French and Roosian songs – sorra the likes of them going at all.”

“Light hearts they have of their own.”

“You may say that, Lanty Lawler; fair weather or foul, them’s the boys never change; but come now be alive, and get out the baste.”

“I’m going, I’m going; it’s myself would like to hear them sing a Roosian song. Whisht! what’s that? did ye hear a shout there?”

“Here they are; that’s them,” said Mary, springing towards the door, and withdrawing the bolt, while a smart knock was heard, and the same instant, a voice called out —

“Holloa! house ahoy!”

The door at the moment flew open, and a short, thick-set looking man, in a large boat cloak, entered, followed by a taller figure, equally muffled. The former dropping his heavy envelope, and throwing off an oil-skin cap from his head, held out his arms wide as, he said —

“Marie, ma mie! embrasse moi;” and then, not waiting for a compliance with the request, sprang forward, and clasped the buxom landlady in his arms, and kissed her on each cheek, with an air compounded of true feeling, and stage effect.

“Here’s my friend and travelling companion, Henry Talbot, come to share your hospitality, Mary,” said he in English, to which the slightest foreign accent lent a tone of recitative. “One of us, Mary – one of us.”

The individual alluded to had by this time dropped his cloak to the ground, and displayed the figure of a slight and very young man, whose features were singularly handsome, save for a look of great effeminacy; his complexion was fair as a girl’s, and, flushed by exercise, the tint upon his cheek was of a pale rose colour; he was dressed in a riding coat, and top boots, which, in the fashion of the day, were worn short, and wrinkled around the leg; his hair he wore without powder, and long upon his neck; a heavy riding whip, ornamented with silver, the only weapon he carried, composed his costume – one as unlike his companion’s as could be.

Captain Jacques Flahault was a stout-built, dark-complexioned fellow, of some four or five and forty; his face a grotesque union of insolence and drollery; the eyes black as jet, shaded by brows so arched, as to give always the idea of laughing to a countenance, the lower part of which, shrouded in beard and moustache, was intended to look stern and savage.

His dress was a short blue frock, beneath which he wore a jersey shirt, striped in various colours, across which a broad buff leather belt, loosely slung, supported four pistols and a dirk; jack boots reached about the middle of the thigh, and were attached to his waist by thongs of strong leather, no needless precaution apparently, as in their looseness the wearer might at any moment have stepped freely from them; a black handkerchief, loosely knotted round his neck, displayed a throat brawny and massive as a bull’s, and imparted to the whole head an appearance of great size – the first impression every stranger conceived regarding him.

“Ah! ah! Lawler, you here; how goes it, my old friend? Sit down here, and tell me all your rogueries since we parted. Par St, Pierre, Henry, this is the veriest fripon in the kingdom” – Talbot bowed, and with a sweetly courteous smile saluted Lanty, as if accepting the speech in the light of an introduction – “a fellow that in the way of his trade could cheat the Saint Père himself.”

“Where’s the others, Captain Jack?” said Mary, whose patience all this time endured a severe trial – “where’s the rest?”

“Place pour la potage! Ma Mie!– soup before a story; you shall hear every thing by and by. Let us have the supper at once.”

Lanty chimed in a willing assent to this proposition, and in a few moments the meat smoked upon the table, around which the whole party took their places with evident good-will.

“While Mary performed her attentions as hostess, by heaping up each plate, and ever supplying the deficiency caused by the appetite of the guests, the others eat on like hungry men. Captain Jacques alone intermingling with the duties of the table, a stray remark from time to time.

“Ventre bleu! how it blows; if it veers more to the southard, there will be a heavy strain on that cable. Trinquons mon ami, Trinquons toujours; Ma belle Marie, you eat nothing.”

“‘Tis unasy I am, Captain Jack, about what’s become of the others,” said Mrs. M’Kelly.

“Another bumper, Ma Mie, and I’m ready for the story – the more as it is a brief one. Allons donc– now for it. We left the bay about nine o’clock, or half-past, perhaps, intending to push forward to the glen at once, and weigh with the morning’s tide, for it happens that this time our cargo is destined for a small creek, on the north-west coast; our only business here being to land my friend, Harry” – here Talbot bowed and smiled – “and to leave two hogsheads of Bourdeaux, for that very true-hearted, kind, brave homme, Hemsworth, at the Lodge there. You remember last winter we entered into a compact with him to stock his cellar, provided no information of our proceedings reached the revenue from any quarter. Well, the wine was safely stored in one of the caves on the coast, and we started with a light conscience; we had neither despatches nor run-brandy to trouble us – nothing to do but eat our supper; saluer madame” – here he turned round, and with an air of mock respect kissed Mary’s hand – “and get afloat again. As we came near the ‘Lodge,’ I determined to make my visit a brief one; and so leaving all my party, Harry included, outside, I approached the house, which, to my surprise, showed lights from nearly every window. This made me cautious, and so I crept stealthily to a low window, across which the curtain was but loosely drawn, and Mort de ma vie! what did I behold, but the prettiest face in Europe. Une ange de beauté. She was leaning over a table copying a drawing, or a painting of some sort or other. Tête bleu! here was a surprise. I had never seen her before, although I was with Hemsworth a dozen times.”

“Go on – go on,” said Lanty, whose curiosity was extreme to hear what happened next.

“Eh bien– I tried the sash, but it was fastened. I then went round the house, and examined the other windows, one after the other – all the same. Que faire! I thought of knocking boldly at the back-door, but then I should have no chance of a peep at la belle in that way.”

“What did you want with a peep at her?” asked Mary, gruffly.

“Diable! what did I want? Pour l’admirer, l’adorer– or, at least to make my respects, as becomes a stranger, and a Frenchman. Pursuivons. There was no entrée, without some noise – so I preferred the room she was in, to any other, and gently disengaging my dirk, I slipped it between the two sashes, to lift up the latch that fastened them. Mort bleu! the weapon slipped, and came slap through the pane, with a tremendous fracas. She started up, and screamed – there was no use in any more delay. I put my foot through the window, and pushed open the sash at once – but before I was well in the room, bells were ringing in every quarter of the house, and men’s voices calling aloud, and shouting to each other – when, suddenly, the door opened, and whiz went a pistol-ball close by my head, and shattered the shutter behind me. My fellows, outside, hearing the shot, unslung their pieces, and before I could get down to them, poured in a volley – why, wherefore, or upon whom, the devil himself, that instigated them, can tell. The garrison mustered strong, however, and replied – that they did, by Jove, for one of ours, Emile de Louvois, is badly wounded. I sounded the retreat, but the scoundrels would not mind me – and before I was able to prevent it, tête bleu! they had got round to the farmyard, and set fire to the corn-stacks; in a second, the corn and hay blazed up, and enveloped house and all in smoke. I sounded the retreat once more, and off the villains scampered, with poor Emile, to the boat; and I, finding my worthy friend here an inactive spectator of the whole from a grove near the road, resolved not to give up my supper – and so, me voici!– but come, can none of you explain this affair? What is Hemsworth doing, with all this armed household, and this captive princess?”

“Is the ‘Lodge’ burned down?” said Lanty, whose interest in the inhabitants had a somewhat selfish origin.

“No, they got the fire tinder. I saw a wild-looking devil mount one of the ricks, with a great canvas sail all wetted, and drag it over the burning stack – and before I left the place, the Lodge was quite safe.”

“I’m sorry for it,” said Mary, with a savage determination. “I’m sorry to the heart’s core. Luck nor grace never was in the glen, since the first stone of it was laid – nor will be again, till it is a ruin! Why didn’t they lay it in ashes, when they were about it?”

“Faith, it seemed to me,” said Talbot, in a low soft voice, “they would have asked nothing better. I never saw such bull-dogs in my life. It was all you could do, Flahault, to call them off.”

“True enough,” replied Jacques, laughing. “They enjoy a brisée like that with all their hearts.”

“The English won’t stay long here, after this night,” was Lanty’s sage reflection, but one which he did not utter aloud in the present company. And then, in accordance with Jacques’ request, he proceeded to explain by what different tenants the Lodge became occupied since his last visit; and that an English baronet and his daughter, with a household of many servants, had replaced Hemsworth and his few domestics. At every stage of the recital, Flahault stopped the narrative, to give him time to laugh. To him the adventure was full of drollery. Even the recollection of his wounded comrade little damped his enjoyment of a scene, which might have been attended by the saddest results; and he chuckled a hundred times over what he suspected the Englishman must feel, on this, his first visit to Ireland. “I could rob the mail to-morrow, for the mere fun of reading his letters to his friends,” said he. “Mort bleu! what a description of Irish rapparrees, five hundred in number, armed with pikes.”

“I wish ye’d gave him the cause to do it,” said Mary, bitterly – “what brings them here? who wants them? or looks for them?”

“You are right, Mary,” said Talbot, mildly. “Ireland for the Irish!”

“Ay, Ireland for the Irish!” repeated Mary and Lanty; and the sentiment was drank with all the honours of a favoured toast.

For some time the party continued to discuss Flahault’s story, and calculate on every possible turn the affair might give rise to. All agreeing, finally, on one point, that Sir Marmaduke would scarcely venture to protract his stay in a country, where his visit had been signalized by such a reception. The tone of the conversation seemed little to accord with Captain Jacques’ humour, whose convivial temperament found slight pleasure in protracted or argumentative discussions of any kind.

“Que le diable l’importe,” cried he, at last. “This confounded talk has stopped the bottle this half-hour. Come, Talbot, let’s have a song, my lad; never shake your head, mon enfant,– Well, then, here goes.”

Thus saying, Flahault pushed back his chair a little from the table, and in a rich deep bass voice, which rung through the high rafters of the cabin, chanted out the following rude verses, to a French vaudeville air – giving the final e of the French words, at the end of each line, that peculiar accentuation of a– which made the word sound contrabanda!

Though this information as to Captain Jacques’ performance seems of little moment, yet such was the fact, that any spirit the doggerel possessed could only be attributed to the manner of the singer, and the effect produced by the intonation we have mentioned.

LA CONTRABANDE

“Vive la Contrabande, mes amis,” shouted out Jacques, as he arose glass in hand, and made the room ring with the toast. And every voice repeated the words, in such imitations as they were able.

“‘Tis an elegant song, any way,” said Lanty, “if one only understood it all – and the tune’s mighty like the ‘Cruiskeen Lawn.’”

“Well, Harry,” said Flahault, slapping his friend on the shoulder, “will the song persuade you to turn smuggler? I fear not. You’d rather practise your own ‘Contrabande’ among the bright eyes and dark locks of the capital. Well, there are worse ‘metiers.’ I have had a turn at it these fifteen years, and whether on the waters of Ontario, or Champlain, or scudding along under the fog-banks of the Scheldt, I never grew weary of it. But, now for a little business talk – where is the Padre? where’s Father Luke? was he not to have been here to-night?”

Mary whispered the answer in the captain’s ear.

“Ah! parbleu,” exclaimed he aloud – “is it so? Practising a little ‘Contrebande’ of his own – trying to see a poor fellow safe over the frontier, into the next world.”

“Fie for shame, Captain Jacques,” said Mary, with pious horror. “That’s not the way to talk of the holy offices.”

“I wish I had old Maurice Dulang here, the priest of Trois Rivières, he’s the boy could despatch them without trouble.”

Neither Lanty nor Mary gave any encouragement to Flahault’s new turn of the conversation, and so, addressing himself to Talbot, he went on —

“We were dining together one day, at the little inn at Trois Rivières, when a messenger came from Lachégon, for the Père to administer the last rites to a ‘mourant.’ Maurice promised to be there in half-an-hour, but never stirred – and though three other messengers came for him, the answer was all the same – until, at last came word, ‘Cest trop tard, il est mort.’

“‘Trop tard!’ said Maurice, ‘not a bit of it; give me a pen and ink, and some paper.’ With that he folded a piece, note fashion, and wrote —

“‘Mon cher Pierre – Fais ton petit possible pour cet pauvre diable, qui s’est glissé hors du monde sans mes soins. Apparement il était bien pressé; mais tu l’arrangera pour le mieux.

“‘Ton viel ami.’

“‘Maurice Dulang. “‘St. Pierre, à la Conciergerie au Paradis.’

“‘Put that in his mouth,’ said Maurice, ‘and there’s no fear of him.’”

“‘Twas a blessed gospel he gave him,” said Mary, who did not comprehend the French portion of the story, “and sure it’s as good as any thing.”

“We all thought so, Mary. Poor Maurice related the story at Lyons, when he was led out to the guillotine – but though the Commissaire laughed heartily, and enjoyed it much, they had found a breviary in his portmanteau, and they couldn’t let him off. Pauvre bête! To travel about the world with the ‘pièce de conviction’ in his possession. What, Harry, no more wine?”

“I thank you, no more for me, although that claret is a temptation.”

“A bouquet, every glass of it! What say you, Master Lawler – does it suit your palate?”

“I begin to think it a taste cold, or so, by this time,” said Lanty; “I’m not genteel enough for wine, God help me – but it’s time to turn in, any how – and there’s Mary asleep already.”

“I don’t stir till I finish the flask,” said Jacques, firmly; “and if you won’t drink, you needn’t grudge me your company. It’s hard to say when we meet again. You go northward, Talbot, isn’t that so?

“Yes, and that’s the point I wish to come to – where and how shall I find a mount? – I depended on this priest you spoke of to meet me, but he has not made his appearance.”

“You never fell upon your legs more fortunately – here’s your man for a horse, all Ireland over. Eh, Lanty, what’s to be had now?”

“Devil a thing can be got for love or money,” said Lanty. “If the gentleman only told me yesterday – ”

“Yesterday, Master Lanty, we were riding white horses in the Western Ocean – but that’s gone by – let us talk of to-day.”

“My own hackney is here in the stable. If his honour likes him, I’ll sell him; but he’s a fancy beast, and must have a fancy price.”

“Has he strength and speed for a fast ride,” said Talbot, “and will his condition bear it?”

“I’ll answer for it – you may push on to Cork in a hand gallop, if you give him ten minutes’ rest, and a glass of whiskey at Macroom.”

“That’s enough – what’s his price?”

“Take a look at him first,” replied Lanty, “for if you are judge of a beast, you’ll not refuse what I ask you.” With these words he lighted a candle, and placed it in an old iron lantern, which hung against the wall, and opening a small door at the back of the cabin, proceeded, by a narrow passage cut in the rock, towards the stable, followed by Talbot, Flahault remaining where he was, as if sunk in meditation. Scarcely, however, had the two figures disappeared in the distance, when he shook Mary violently by the shoulder, and whispered in a quick, but collected tone —

“Mary – Mary, I say – is that fellow all safe?”

“Ay is he safe,” said she, resuming her wonted calmness in a second. “Why do you ask now?”

“I’ll tell you why – for myself I care not a sous – I’m here to-day, away to-morrow – but Talbot’s deep in the business – his neck’s in the halter – can we trust Lawler on his account – a man of rank and large fortune as he is, cannot be spared – what say you?”

“You may trust him, Captain,” said Mary, “he knows his life would not be his own two hours if he turned informer – and then this Mr. Talbot, he’s a great man you tell me?”

“He’s a near kinsman of a great peer, and has a heavy stake in the game – that’s all I know, Mary – and, indeed, the present voyage was more to bring him over, than any thing else – but hush, here they come.”

“You shall have your money – you’ve no objection to French gold, I hope – for several years I have seen no other,” said Talbot entering.

“I know it well,” said Lanty, “and would just as soon take it, as if it had King George on it.”

“You said forty pounds, fifty Louis is not far off – will that do?” said the youth, as he emptied a heavily filled purse of gold, upon the table, and pushed fifty pieces towards the horse-dealer.

“As well as the best, sir,” said Lanty, as he stored the money in his long leathern pocket-book, and placed it within his breast pocket.

“Will Mrs. M’Kelly accept this small token, as a keepsake,” said the youth, while he took from around his neck a fine gold chain of Venetian work, and threw it gallantly over Mary’s; “this is the first shelter I have found, after a long exile from my native land; and you, my old comrade, I have left you the pistols you took a fancy too, they are in the lugger – and so, now good-bye, all, I must take to the road at once – I should like to have met the priest, but all chance of that seems over.”

Many and affectionate were the parting salutations between the young man and the others; for, although he had mingled but little in the evening’s conversation, his mild and modest demeanour, added to the charm of his good looks, had won their favourable opinions; besides that he was pledged to a cause which had all their sympathies.

While the last good-bye was being spoken, Lanty had saddled and bridled the hackney, and led him to the door. The storm was still raging fiercely, and the night dark as ever.

“You’d better go a little ways up the glen, Lanty, beside him,” said Mary, as she looked out into the wild and dreary night.

“‘Tis what I mean to do,” said Lanty, “I’ll show him as far as the turn of the road.”

Though the stranger declined the proffered civility, Lanty was firm in his resolution, and the young man, vaulting lightly into the saddle, called out a last farewell: to the others, and rode on beside his guide.

Mary had scarcely time to remove the remains of the supper, when Lanty re-entered the cabin.

“He’s the noble-hearted fellow, any way,” said he, “and never took a shilling off the first price I asked him;” and with that he put his hand into his breast pocket to examine, once more, the strange coin of France. With a start, a tremendous oath broke from him – “My money – my pocket-book is lost,” exclaimed he, in wild excitement, while he ransacked pocket after pocket of his dress. “Bad luck to that glen, I dropt it out there, and with the torrent of water that’s falling, it will never be found – och, murther, this is too bad.”

In vain the others endeavoured to comfort and console him – all their assurances of its safety, and the certainty of its being discovered the next morning, were in vain. Lanty re-lighted the lantern, and muttering maledictions on the weather, the road, and his? own politeness, he issued forth to search after his treasure, an occupation which, with all his perseverance, was unsuccessful; for when day was breaking, he was still groping along the road, cursing his hard fate, and every thing which had any share in inflicting it.

“The money is not the worst of it,” said Lanty, as he threw himself down, exhausted and worn out, on his bed. “The money’s not the worst of it – there was papers in that book, I wouldn’t have seen for double the amount.”

Long after the old smuggler was standing out to sea the next day, Lanty Lawler wandered backwards and forwards in the glen, now searching among the wet leaves that lay in heaps by the way side, or, equally in vain, sounding every rivulet and water-course which swept past. His search, was fruitless; and well it might be – the road was strewn with fragments of rocks and tree-tops for miles – while even yet the swollen stream tore wildly past, cutting up the causeway in its passage, and foaming on amid the wreck of the hurricane.

Yet the entire of that day did he persevere, regardless of the beating rain, and the cold, drifting wind, to pace to and fro, his heart bent upon recovering what he had lost.

“Yer sowl is set upon money; devil a doubt of it, Lanty,” said Mary, as dripping with wet,# and shaking with cold, he at last re-entered the cabin; “sorra one of me would go rooting there, for a crock of goold, if I was sure to find it.”

“It is not the money, Mary, I tould you before – it’s something else was in the pocket-book,” said he, half angrily, while he sat down to brood in silence over his misfortune.

“‘Tis a letter from your sweetheart, then,” said she, with a spice of jealous malice in her manner, for Lanty had more than once paid his addresses to Mary, whose wealth was reported to be something considerable.

“May be it is, and may be it is not,” was the cranky reply.

“Well, she’ll have a saving husband, any way,” said Mary, tartly, “and one that knows how to keep a good grip of the money.”

The horse-dealer made no answer to this enconium on his economy, but with eyes fixed on the ground, pondered on his loss; meanwhile Mrs. M’Kelly’s curiosity, piqued by her ineffectual efforts to obtain information, grew each instant stronger, and at last became irrepressible.

“Can’t you say what it is you’ve lost? sure there’s many a one goes by, here, of a Saturday to market – and if you leave the token – ”

“There’s no use in it – sorra bit,” said he, despondingly.

“You know your own saycrets best,” said Mary, foiled at every effort; “and they must be the dhroll saycrets too, when you’re so much afraid of their being found out.”

“Troth then,” said Lanty, as a ray of his old gallantry shot across his mind; “troth then, there isn’t one I’d tell a saycrct too as soon as yourself, Mary M’Kelly; you know the most of my heart already, and Why wouldn’t you know it all?”

“Faix it’s little I care to hear about it,” said Mary, with an affectation of indifference, the most finished coquetry could not have surpassed. “Ye may tell it, or no, just as ye plaze.”

“That’s it now,” cried Lanty – “that’s the way of women, the whole world over; keep never minding them, and bad luck to peace or case you get; and then try and plaze them, and see what thanks you have. I was going to tell you all about it.”

“And why don’t you?” interrupted she, half fearing lest she might have pulled the cord over-tight already; “why don’t you tell it, Lanty dear?”

These last words settled the matter. Like the feather that broke the camel’s back, these few and slight syllables were all that was wanting to overcome the horse-dealer’s resistance.

“Well, here it is now,” said he, casting, as he spoke, a cautious glance around, lest any chance listener should overhear him. “There was in that pocket-book, a letter, sealed with three big seals, that Father Luke gave me yesterday morning, and said to me, ‘Lanty Lawler, I’m going over to Ballyvourney, and after that, I’m going on to Cork, and it’s mighty likely I’ll go as far as Dublin, for the Bishop may be there, and if he is, I must follow him; and here’s a letter,’ says he, ‘that you must give the O’Donoghue with your own hands’ – them was the words – ‘with your own hands, Lanty; and now swear you’ll not leave it to any one else, but do as I tell you;’ and, faix, I took my oath of it, and see, now, it’s lost; may I never, but I don’t know how I’ll ever face him again; and sure God knows what was in it.” “And there was three seals on it,” said Mary, musingly, as if such extraordinary measures of secrecy could bode nothing good.

“Each of them as big as a half-crown – and it was thick inside too; musha ‘twas the evil day I ever set eyes on it!” and with this allusion to the lost money, which, by an adroitness of superstition, he coupled with the bad luck the letter had brought him, Lanty took his farewell of Mary, and, with a heavy heart, set out on his journey.