Читать книгу Seventy Years of Irish Life - William Richard le Fanu - Страница 7

‘Tis well nigh a hundred years, perhaps more, since Cappercullen House was tenanted by a widower named O’Grady—not rich, but of an old and honoured family. He had one only daughter, Mary, the prettiest and merriest little maid in all that countryside, one of whose favourite sports was riding on this old oak bough. Prettier and prettier year by year the maiden grew, till, when just seventeen, at her first dance at a Limerick race ball, she was declared by all to be the loveliest and the brightest girl in the county, which was then, and I believe still is, famous for the beauty of its lasses. It was there she met young Lord Stavordale, eldest son of Lord Ilchester, who had just joined his regiment, and whose admiration she at once attracted. Afterwards they often met, for he lost no opportunity of seeing her as often as he could. He would ride out to Cappercullen, and join her in her walks with her father through the Glen and the Old Deer Park. Soon he loved her with all the ardour of first love. O’Grady saw that his daughter liked the bright and handsome young fellow, but knowing that Lord Ilchester would be sure to object to his eldest son marrying the daughter of a poor Irishman, and fearing that his daughter’s affections should become too deeply engaged, he wrote to Lord Ilchester to the following effect:—“My Lord, I hope you will pardon the liberty I take in writing to you about your son. My only excuse is the great interest I take in the young man, and my fear that if he remains in Limerick he is likely to be involved in an unpleasant scrape. I would, therefore, most strongly advise you to have him moved elsewhere as soon as possible, and I trust to your honour that you will not tell him that I have written to you, or mention to him the subject of this letter.” He received a reply full of gratitude, in which Lord Ilchester said that he regretted that he might probably never have an opportunity of thanking him in person for his kindness, but had requested his old friend, Colonel Prendergast, who was likely ere long to be in the south of Ireland, to call upon him to convey to him his thanks more fully than he could do by letter. Young Stavordale immediately disappeared from Limerick. The poor girl heard no more of him. She tried to be bright and cheery with her father, but he saw that her spirits sank, and that day by day she grew paler and more sad. Thus things went on for some months, when, late in autumn, a letter came from Colonel Prendergast to say that he expected to be in Limerick on the following Friday, and would, at Lord Ilchester’s request, call to see Mr. O’Grady on Saturday, if he would receive him. O’Grady wrote to say he would be delighted to see him, and hoped he would be able to arrange to stay for some little time at Cappercullen. The Colonel arrived accordingly, and it was soon settled that he would stay for a week. At once he took a fancy to the girl, and many a walk they had together, and every day he was more charmed by her pale but lovely face, her gentle manners, and her pretty ways. The week was soon over, and the morning of his departure had arrived. Before leaving, he asked his host whether he could allow him to have a few words with him in private. When they were alone—

“I hope,” he said, “you will forgive me for speaking to you about your daughter. I have been closely observing her, and, though you do not seem to see it, I greatly fear she is far from strong. I dread the winter here for her, and I venture to urge you strongly to take her to a warmer climate for a time.”

“I am greatly obliged for the interest you take in my girl,” said O’Grady; “but I am glad to say you are quite mistaken as to her health. I am convinced that there is nothing serious the matter with her, and trust she will very soon be as well as ever.”

“I am afraid you are deceived,” said the other. “She is so pale, and at times so depressed and sad, that I fear she is more seriously ill than you suppose.”

“I see,” said O’Grady. “I may as well tell you, in the strictest confidence, what is really the matter with her; but you must promise never to let Lord Ilchester know what I now tell you. It was about her that young Stavordale was making a fool of himself; it is about him that she is depressed, but as she has never heard of or from him since he left, she will very soon get over it.”

Colonel Prendergast at once said, “My dear sir, you must really allow me to tell Lord Ilchester. I am certain if he knew what a charming girl, in every way, your daughter is, he would be only too glad that she should be his son’s wife.”

“No,” said O’Grady; “you must never tell him. I know he would never consent to that.”

“But I know he would,” said the other, “for I am Lord Ilchester, and shall be proud to have such a wife for my son.”

So they were wed, and many happy years they spent together. Long years have passed, and they are dead and gone; but the old Ilchester oak still stands in Cappercullen Park to remind us of them; and from this marriage are descended the present Earl of Ilchester and the Marquis of Lansdowne.

I give the story as it was told to me. I cannot vouch for the accuracy of all the details, but the main facts I believe to be perfectly true. Some years ago I told it to Miss Jephson, now Mrs. Boyle, and from it she took the plot of her charming novel, “An April Day.”

A FAMOUS OUTLAW.

Soon after we went to Abington there was, in our neighbourhood, a famous outlaw named Kirby, who was “on his keeping;” that is, in hiding from the police. He had been engaged in any number of agrarian outrages, amongst them the shooting of a landlord near Nenagh. The Government had offered a large reward for his capture, and the magistrates and police in the district were doing all in their power to take him. In his early days he had been passionately fond of races, hunts, and sports of every sort; and even now, when a price was set on his head, he could, sometimes, not resist the temptation of going to a hunt or coursing match. At some of these he narrowly escaped capture. Our friend and neighbour, Mr. Coote, who was a magistrate as well as a clergyman, on coming home from a coursing match, said to one of his men, “Who was that fine-looking fellow that was so active at the match?” “It’s well for him,” said the man, “that your honour didn’t know him. That was Kirby.”

Perhaps the narrowest escape Kirby had was one that also happened very near us. His mother, whom he rarely ventured to visit, lived in a one-roomed cottage about a mile from us, with her only other child, a daughter. One Sunday Kirby arrived, and, after much pressure from his mother, whom he had not seen for a long time, he consented to stay with her till the next day. Meantime an informer, hoping to secure the reward, went into Limerick and told Major Vokes that Kirby was almost certain to be at his mother’s that night. Vokes held a position under Government analogous to that now held by a stipendiary magistrate. He was the most active magistrate in the south, and had detected more crime and brought more offenders to justice than any man in Ireland; and knowing how much it would add to his fame if he could arrest Kirby, he had often before searched the Widow Kirby’s house for him, but never found any one there but herself and her daughter.

On this Sunday evening Kirby’s sister, most fortunately for the outlaw, had gone to a wake in the neighbourhood, and stayed out all night. The old woman had gone to bed, and Kirby was sitting by the fire, his pistols on the table beside him. For some years he had seldom spent a night in the house. When he did so, he sat, as he now was sitting, by the turf fire, where the slightest sound was sure to awake him. His mother had not long been in bed when he heard the sound of a horse and car approaching the house. He sprang to his feet and seizing the pistols, said to his mother—

“At any rate I’ll have the life of one of them before I’m taken.”

“Whisht, you fool!” said his mother. “Here, be quick! put on Mary’s cap, take your pistols with you. Jump into bed, turn your face to the wall, and lave the rest to me.”

He was scarcely in bed when there was a loud knocking at the door, which his mother, having lit a rush, opened as quickly as possible.

In came Major Vokes, accompanied by two constables, who had driven from Limerick with him. “Where is your son?” said Vokes.

“Plaze God, he’s far enough from ye. It’s welcome ye are this night,” she said. “And thanks be to the Lord it wasn’t yestherday ye came; for it’s me and Mary there that strove to make him stop the night wid us; but thank God he was afeared.”

They searched the house, but did not like to disturb the young girl in bed, and finding nothing, went, sadly disappointed, back to Limerick. The news of Kirby’s escape soon spread through the country. Vokes was much chaffed, but Kirby never slept another night in his mother’s house.

It was some months after this that the wife of a farmer who lived near Doon called one morning and asked to see our neighbour, Mr. Coote. When she came into his study, she said—

“Your reverence, could they do anything to Kirby if he was dead?”

“How could they, my good woman? What do you mean?”

“It’s what I was afeared, your reverence, that they might send his body to the prison to be dissected by the doctors.”

Mr. Coote, whom she thoroughly trusted, assured her that nothing of the kind could happen.

“Then,” said she, “come with me and I’ll show him to you dead.”

He went to her house with her, and there he saw, lying dead on the bed, the fine young fellow whom he had, not long before, seen at the coursing match.

“When and how did he die?” he asked.

“Last night,” they said, “he was stopping with us, and when he heard steps coming towards the house, thinking it might be the peelers, he ran out through the back-door, with his pistol in his hand, into the little wood. We heard a shot after he went, but we didn’t much mind it at the time; but this morning we found him lying dead in the wood, with his foot caught in the briar that tripped him.”

In his fall the pistol must have gone off. He was shot through the heart. I do not recollect a larger funeral than his.