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6000641 31 L 



MADGE DUNRAVEN. 



i V 



MADGE DUNRAVEN. 



% { 3Calt 



BY THE AUTHOR OF 

"THE QUEEN OF CONNAUGHT," 



IN THREE VOLUMES. 
VOL. I. 




LONDON ; 
RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON, 

gttblislurs in fflriinarg to $rr jfflajtstfi itw flQttctn. 

1879. 

[^ff Jf^A/j Rtscrved.\ 



SSI . L . 2JS 




CONTENTS OF VOL. I. 



PART I. 
OLD IRELAND. 

I. ULTIMA THULE AND A FEW MILES FARTHER 
II. SHRANAMONRAGH CASTLE - 

III. A WAKE AND A FUNERAL 

IV. MR. ALDYN MAKES A PROPOSAL 



PART II. 
BEAUTIFUL ENGLAND. 

I. UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE 

II. MADGE GIVES A DANCING LESSON • 

III. THE DUNRAVENS IN ENGLAND 

IV. INTRODUCES A JUVENILE CYNIC 
V. UP AT THE CASTLE - 



vi CONTENTS. 



CHAPTER PACE 

VI. AMONG GREEN LANES - - - 1 37 

VII. ENGLISH HOSPITALITY - - "155 

VIII. THE DUNRAVENS TO THE RESCUE - - 180 

IX. COMFORTABLE QUARTERS - - - 1 93 

X. ROSAMOND - 205 

XI. ' I WANDERED BY THE BROOK-SIDE ' - 224 



PART I. 

OLD IRELAND. 
— -** 



' Ajpeople, churlish as the seas, 
And rude, almost, as rudest savages.' 

Robert Herrick. 




MADGE DUN RAVEN. 



CHAPTER I. 



ULTIMA THULE AND A FEW MILES FARTHER. 



sT was a dark, dreary dawn in 
October ; the air felt miserably 
damp and chilly, for the rain 
had fallen heavily during the night. The 
low-lying marshes which surrounded the 
little town of Castleferry, County Sligo, lay 
buried beneath great sheets of water caused 
by the autumn floods. For six weeks the 
VOL. I. i 



2 MADGE DUN RAVEN. 

rain had been falling steadily, but on the 
morning on which this story opens it 
gradually ceased. Dawn broke gloomily, 
with a heavy look of sullen discomfort ; 
but, for a wonder, it was dry. 

The long narrow streets were quite de- 
serted ; but down at the railway station, 
which was situated on the outskirts of the 
town, there was a faint stir of life. A 
couple of sleepy porters crouched shivering 
and yawning in a corner of the platform, 
while another moved slowly about, prepar- 
ing for the appearance of the early train 
from Dublin. No bustling movement was 
apparent, scarcely any sound was heard, 
save now and then when the wind, which 
was rising, whistled eerily about the tele- 
graph wires. 

The great church clock, which had been 
sullenly chronicling the half-hours, slowly 



ULTIMA THULE. 



chimed forth six. As it did so, the porters, 
who were still fitfully dozing in their corner, 
rubbed their eyes, yawned, and rising to 
their feet, lazily stretched their limbs, then, 
folding their arms, they shivered and 
sleepily stared about them. 

The chiming of the clock had ceased, 
the echoes had died away, silence ensued ; 
yet still the chilly wind blew in gusts, and 
the raindrops fell with heavy drip, drip 
upon the ground. 

Presently a faint whistle sounded in 
the distance ; a few moments afterwards 
the puffing of the engine was heard ; then 
the train itself glided slowly up alongside 
the platform, and stopped. Still no bustle, 
no confusion. The driver and stoker 
alighted from the engine, addressed the 
sleepy porters, and stared moodily at the 
train : they had reached their destination, 



MADGE DUNRAVEN. 



and were free. One by one the carriage- 
doors opened, and the occupants came 
forth. Two women with bare feet, and 
heads wrapped in shawls ; a Connemara 
boy ; and lastly, a gentleman wrapped up 
in an ulster-coat, who, standing upon the 
rainy platform, gave one quick glance 
around, and called aloud : 

1 Porter ! porter !' 

As no porter was forthcoming, however, 
all having mysteriously disappeared just at 
the time when their services were needed, 
he returned to his carriage and drew forth 
his luggage — a small portmanteau and a 
travelling-bag — and placed them on the 
platform by his side. If the call had been 
ineffectual in attracting attention, the 
articles in question were more successful. 
No sooner had they been drawn forth from 
their obscurity, than the two women and 



ULTIMA THULE. 



the boy who had alighted from the train 
paused to regard them ; the stoker and 
driver of the engine strolled up, and one 
by one the sleepy porters followed; form- 
ing a semicircle around the luggage, they 
stood and gazed from that to the owner, in 
pathetic silence. 

But the stranger, who had evidently 
been accustomed to receive more prompt 
attention, grew impatient, and this time 
almost angrily demanded a car to convey 
him and his luggage away. 

1 A car, is it ?' replied one of the porters, 
who, having by the light of his lantern, 
caught a glimpse of certain white letters 
painted upon the stranger's luggage, was 
earnestly endeavouring to discover what 
those letters might mean. l Sorra car, yer 
honour, to be got at this hour of the morn- 
ing r 



MADGE DUJS1RAVEN. 



* Then what am I to do ?' demanded the 
stranger, in a pure English accent ; ' am 
I to stand here shivering till daylight ?' 

The porter, who had by this time as- 
sured himself that the luggage was the pro- 
perty of the 'Rev. George Aldyn' who was 
a * passenger to Castleferry,' now raised his 
lantern and glanced at the gentleman's 
face. 

'And to what part of the country 
is it that yer honour wishes to go ?' he 
asked. 

' To BaHymoy/ 

' To Ballymoy, is it ? Och, sure then, 
that's a wild country.' 

' You'd serve me better, my man, by 
telling me how I am to get there.' 

' Saints protect us, I was never there 
myself, thank God ! but at seven o'clock 
the mail car leaves Castleferry ; that'll take 



ULTIMA THULE. 



ye to within fifteen miles of it. If ye wish 
to catch that same, I'll carry yer luggage up 
to the inn my own self, and lave ye to the 
care of the driver. It's one Mick Timlin, 
a kinsman of me own.' 

Here he suddenly turned ferociously 
upon the boy, who had stood meekly 
looking on. 

*■ Get out o' that, Tony Bourk, and let 
the gintleman's luggage alone, will ye P 
he said, as he slowly lifted the packages 
one by one, and strolled leisurely away. 

The gentleman following close upon his 
heels, left the little group upon the platform 
at full liberty to speculate upon the extra- 
qrdinary circumstance which could have 
the power to draw a civilised first-class 
passenger into the midst of Castle- 
ferry. 

Quite unconscious of the varied opinions 



MADGE DUNRAVEN. 



which were being passed upon him, the 
stranger continued to follow his guide 
along a road ankle-deep in mud. Al- 
though the approaching dawn was now 
faintly visible, it was still too dark for him 
to see his way clearly. Again and again 
he stumbled and almost fell ; his coat was 
clammy with morning mist and well be- 
spattered with mud, while the chilly whist- 
ling wind made him shiver to the bone. 
A dismal dawn, giving every promise of 
a damp and dismal day. 

After ten minutes' walking they paused 
before a house which was evidently their 
destination. The doors were closed and 
fastened, the windows curtained and dark ; 
the inmates of the house were doubtless 
wrapped in peaceful slumber. Seizing the 
bell, the porter began and continued to 
ring one peal after another without a 



ULTIMA THULE. 



moment's interval. The first peal or two 
brought no response whatever, and the 
gentleman, instead of restraining the 
porter's ardour as he at first seemed 
inclined to do, urged him on to fresh 
efforts. About twenty minutes passed 
thus, and then a faint sound was heard 
inside, a sound of shuffling and grumb- 
ling, and turning of locks and creaking 
of bolts. 

1 Who's there ?' demanded a sleepy voice 
through the keyhole. 

' It's me, Larry Conningham !' shouted 
the porter in reply ; ' open the door, you 
spalpeen you !' 

Another rumbling and scraping and 
pulling at the bolts* accompanied with a 
continued growl of displeasure; then the 
door slowly opened, and there appeared 
a man who had evidently been aroused 



10 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 

from his sleep, and who had hastily 
huddled on a few clothes before he came 
to discover the cause of the unusual 
noise. 

1 What the devil do you mane by dis- 
turbing the house at this hour of the 
morning ?' he began ; but when his sleepy 
eyes fell upon the gentleman in the ulster- 
coat, he paused, slouched back, pushed 
open the door of a room labelled Com- 
mercial, and entering, lit up one jet of 
gas. 

The room looked desolate enough. 
The pallid light fell upon a table which 
was covered with the remnants of a meal ; 
great packages lay here and there about 
the floor, and the air was foul with the 
smell of stale tobacco smoke. Turning in 
disgust from the room, and stepping again 
into the damp but purer air, the stranger 



ULTIMA THULB. 11 

angrily demanded how long he was des- 
tined to wait for the car which was to con- 
vey him to his journey's end. 

'A full hour/ was the cheering reply, 
and the exasperated Englishman, turning 
from the door of the inn, announced his 
intention of passing the time in the open 
street. 

Still the wind blew with a low mournful 
sound, and the white mist fell, but the 
darkness gradually passed away and the 
streets were soon flooded with the dim 
uncertain light of day. 

At length the long hour came to an 
end. 

The luggage, re-emerging into the light, 
again became an object of interest to a 
small crowd gathered upon the pavement, 
after which it was strapped upon the side 
of a dilapidated-looking car, and, together 



12 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 



with its owner, finally conveyed away ; 
while the crowd stared at the depart- 
ing equipage in mute and breathless 
wonder. 



v 




CHAPTER II. 



SHRANAMONRAGH CASTLE, 



gHE car was a public one, and 
bore the mail from the central 
town of Castleferry to the dis- 
tricts which lay around ; but on the day of 
which we speak, the English stranger was 
the only passenger whom it contained. 

Buttoned up in his thick ulster-coat, 
which was fast getting wet through, he sat 
on one side of the car, while his luggage, 
with numerous other boxes and packages, 



14 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 

was piled up on the other ; and the driver, 
perched up in the middle, urged on his 
horse without once glancing around. 
Neither spoke. The one seemed of a 
taciturn disposition, and the other was 
evidently preoccupied with thoughts of no 
very pleasant kind. The town of Castle- 
ferry was soon left far behind. On either 
side of the road ran low roughly-built 
stone-walls, while beyond again stretched 
sweeps of moorland lying black and deso- 
late beneath a dark and lowering sky. 
There were few people on the road. 
Now and then a bare-backed horse ap- 
proached, bearing a man and a woman 
riding pillion into town ; or a barefooted 
girl with a wet shawl wrapped well about 
her head, and her feet and legs stained 
with the dark bog- water, toiled wearily over 
the moor, carrying upon her back a great 



SHRANAMONRA GH CASTLE. 1 5 

creel of turf. As the car approached, the 
creel would be dropped, and the girl would 
stand watching the departing equipage 
with bovine interest in her eyes. Along 
the road which led from Castleferry to the 
wilds of Connaught, passengers were 
seldom seen, so the mail-car, which made 
the journey thrice each week, was an 
object of curiosity to those who happened 
to pass it by. 

At last the long silence was broken. 
The stranger, turning to the driver, asked 
abruptly : 

' How far do you count it from Castle- 
ferry to Ballymoy ?' 

' Forty miles/ was the short reply. 

4 Where do you go to ?' 

4 To Bangor/ 

'And how much farther is it to 
Ballymoy ?' 



16 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 



1 Fifteen miles.' 

1 Shall I be able to hire a conveyance at 
Bangor to take me on ?' 

' Maybe. 1 

Again the stranger was silent. Pre- 
sently he asked : 

# Do you know a place called Shrana- 
monragh Castle 7 

This time the driver turned deliberately 
round, and glared fixedly into the stranger's 
face. 

' Shranamonragh Castle ?' he asked ; 
1 the place that belongs to Mr. Dunraven ?' 

' Yes F 

* Sure thin, why wouldn't I know it ? 
And is it to Shranamonragh that yer 
honour's goin' ?' 

• Yes.' 

1 Well, well, and why didn't yer honour 
tell me that same before ?' continued the 



f 



• 



SHRANAMONRAGH CASTLE. 17 

man, now servilely pulling off" his hat and 
allowing the rain to fall unchecked upon 
his uncovered head. ' Sure there isn't a 
boy in Bangor that wouldn't put to his 
pony and run yer honour down to Shrana- 
monragh Castle.' 

Again the stranger, turning from the 
man, relapsed into moody silence. He 
had extracted the information which he 
required, and he had no taste for further 
conversation. To the great change which 
had taken place in the manner of the man 
since he had heard the mention of Mr. 
Dunraven, he paid little attention. It was 
only right, he thought, that fitting respect 
should be paid to a gentleman who occu- 
pied so high a position in the country as 
did his brother-in-law Mr. Dunraven of the 
Castle. 

But although the stranger maintained a 

VOL. I. 2 



18 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 

moody silence, the driver, who since he 
had been informed of the stranger's place 
of destination had evinced a great eager- 
ness to make up for his late taciturnity, 
continued to talk volubly, nearly all his 
conversation tending to the one object, 
namely, the glorification of the Dunravens 
of Shranamonragh Castle. 

Slowly the time passed on. The misty 
rain still fell ; the chilly wind still blew ; 
and as the car passed along, the prospect 
grew darker and more desolate. The day 
brightened ; then it seemed slowly to fade 
away. It was about two o'clock in the after- 
noon when the car, rolling slowly into 
Bangor, paused before the door of the inn, 
and the stranger, alighting once more, 
found himself in an empty - looking 
chamber, drying his cold damp clothes 
before a turf fire. The driver of the car 



SHRANAMOttRAGH CASTLE. 19 

which had brought him thus far upon his 
way rushed hither and thither, helping to 
prepare the conveyance which was to take 
him on. while the landlady of the inn was 
persistent in her offerings of such refresh- 
ments as her house afforded. But all the 
stranger did was to stand like a statue 
before the fire with his hands crossed 
behind him. When his car was ready, he 
took his seat thereon, and was once more 
whirled away through the drizzling mist 
of rain. 

Wilder and wilder grew the prospect 
around him ; thicker and thicker gathered the 
mist of rain. Mile after mile was covered ; 
the day seemed slowly fading into 
night. 

Already the objects on the moor became 
indistinct with the darkening shadows and 
blurred with the chilly rain. At length, 



20 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 

when the evening gloom lay thick upon 
the land, the car stopped upon the summit 
of a hill, the driver pointed with his whip, 
and the stranger, turning in his seat and 
gazing straight before him, saw for the 
first time the village of Ballymoy. 

A cluster of huts, built up of turf and 
thatched with straw, was set upon the flat 
summit of a grassy hillock which rose a 
few hundred yards from the sea-shore. 
About these stretched land, for the most 
part flat and boggy and disfigured with 
unsightly stacks of turf, while here and 
there, cutting the land up into squares and 
triangles, were low stone walls. 

A little apart from the village, set on a 
square patch of moorland close to the road- 
side, was a dwelling which stood quite 
alone. A tolerably large white-washed 
building of two stories, with a slated roof. 



SHRANAMONRAGH CASTLE. 21 

and surrounded by dilapidated out-build- 
ings, which were hardly distinguishable 
from the dark and desolate bog. To and 
from this building straggling figures of 
human beings were going and coming in- 
cessantly. From its windows streamed 
forth rays of light which flickered faintly 
through the pale mist, lighting up the 
black wastes around. In glancing at the 
village the stranger's eyes swept across 
this building ere he turned to the driver 
and asked : 

' Where does Mr. Dunraven live ?' 

'Just there, yer honour.' 

1 Where ?' asked the stranger, rather 
impatiently, as a startled look began to 
overshadow his face, and he purposely 
kept his eyes from glancing in the direc- 
tion which was indicated by the whip- 
handle. 



22 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 



'Just there!' said the driver again. 

' That house on the bogs wid the lights 

in the windows. That's Shranamonragh 
Castle r 




CHAPTER III. 



A WAKE AND A FUNERAL. 

tS the man uttered the words, 
the car, turning sharply into a 
rough bye-road cut across 
the bog, rolled straight up towards the 
house ; and soon the Englishman, alighting, 
found himself standing upon a flight of 
stone steps which led up to the threshhold. 
The do or stood open, and within the 
hall a lamp cast down a faint flickering 
light, revealing to the gaze only bare 



24 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 

boarded floors and cold whitewashed 
walls. 

For a moment the Englishman stood 
looking confusedly about him : then he 
raised his hand to knock at the door. 

€ Och, never stand out in the damp, sor/ 
said the driver, who was about to lead his 
horse to one of the buildings at the back. 
' Shust step in. You'll find Mr. Dunraven 
inside, like enough ; and if he's not 
there, sure I'm going to the kitchen, and 
I'll send a boy meself to find him for 
ye!' 

The driver walked away ; and after 
another moment of hesitation the English- 
man entered the hall. 

There was not a living soul to be seen ; 
but in the air, there was a faint low 
murmur as of many voices, while strange, 
and not altogether pleasant, perfumes 



A WAKE AND A FUNERAL. 25 

seemed permeating the atmosphere of the 
place. As he stood glancing uneasily 
from side to side, the low, deep hum of 
voices grew to a murmur, the murmur to a 
wail, which was increased and prolonged, 
and which finally changed into a wild 
shriek of pain, then died away. For a 
moment he stood listening ; then he auto- 
matically pulled off his dripping hat and 
overcoat, and walked slowly forward in the 
direction whence the sounds issued. 

Proceeding along the chill and empty 
hall, he reached a half-open door, and 
gazing straight before him, beheld a scene 
which caused the look of uneasiness on 
his face to deepen into absolute amaze. 

Within a room, which was lit up with 
guttering candles, small oil-lamps, and one 
or two torches of bog fir, gathered a wild 
crowd of human beings. Men and women, 



2G MADGE DUNRAVEN. 

boys and girls, of all ages and conditions, 
were huddled together, some wailing, 
others crying, and others whispering ; but all 
with their faces turned the one way, their 
wild eyes fixed in the same direction. In 
the middle of the room, amidst the densest 
of the crowd, was a couch draped with white 
damask, and upon this lay the object upon 
which all eyes were turned. 

The dead body of a woman. 

Close beside the couch, with his hand 
placed upon that of the corpse, his head 
bowed, and his eyes fixed vacantly before 
him, sat an elderly man. Near to him, 
kneeling upon the floor, with her face 
buried in the white drapery of the couch, 
was a slim young girl. Around these two 

the living sea of faces gathered, while the 
murmuring of the many voices rose and 
fell in a soft unceasing moan. 



A WAKE AND A FUNERAL. 27 



As the Englishman paused before the 
door of the room, and his eye fell upon this 
group, he shrank back into the shadow, 
while the wondering look upon his face 
changed again into one of surprise and pain. 

Quickly, before he had attracted the 
attention of any one, he shrank away from 
the door, and quietly retracing his steps 
along the hall, entered another room which 
stood open before him. This chamber was 
deserted, save for a great clumber spaniel 
which lay upon the hearth, and the only 
light was that afforded by the flickering 
flame of a slowly-dying turf fire. 

Approaching the hearth the Englishman 
sat down, and resting his elbow on his 
knee, covered his eyes with his hand. 

Again that wild wail, which had startled 
him on his first entrance into the house, 
rose upon the air. The dog, lifting its 



28 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 

head, listened sleepily, then blinking its 
eyes, lay down again to rest ; while the 
wail grew louder and louder, swelling into 
a shrill dirge, and again dying away. As 
it did so, leaving a solemn silence on the 
air, the stranger rose from his seat, crossed 
the floor, and was about to leave the room. 
On reaching the door, however, he found 
himself standing face to face with the master 
of the house — the same person whom he had 
beheld sitting dejectedly beside the corpse. 

' Aldyn F exclaimed this person, without 
any sign of surprise — ' at last !' 

1 Yes, I have come — as she wished/ said 
Mr. Aldyn, in that subdued tone which 
people unconsciouslyassume when speaking 
in the neighbourhood of the dead. 

1 You've come just two days too late/ 
was the reply. i It's all over. Clara is 
dead/ 



A WAKE AND A FUNERAL. 29 

Mr. Aldyn drew a deep, laboured 
breath. 

1 Yes, I have seen her/ he said ; and 
then, as the other seemed about to lead 
him away to the death-chamber, he added : 
< I think I will not go there again/ 

' No ? Well, please yourself. But 
you've come from Castleferry — you want 
something to take/ 

* No, I want nothing/ said Mr. Aldyn, 
glancing round the wretched room with a 
shiver, and at the same time shrinking 
from the touch of the man who stood by 
his side. ' But I am tired ; I should like 
to rest/ 

Without a word of remonstrance, Mr. 
Dunraven took a candle and led the way 
upstairs. Pushing open the door of the 
first room he reached, he handed the 
candle to his guest, and after again grasp- 



30 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 

ing his hand, and begging him in vain to 
refresh himself after the fatigues of the 
day, he withdrew. 

When the last echo of his retiring foot- 
steps had died, Mr. Aldyn locked his door, 
and advancing into the middle of the 
room, held his candle on high and looked 
round. 

The room was large and lofty, but the 
first glance made him shiver. Again he 
beheld bare, whitewashed walls, and a cold, 
uncarpeted floor. The uncurtained window 
was thrown open, and a cold, clammy air 
crept into the room. 

' Shranamonragh Castle!' he exclaimed, 
as he set down his candle and closed the 

window. ' Great heavens ! it's more like a 
beggars' den. And to think that these 
people are related to me ! To think that 
I have been dragged from my home to 



A WAKE AND A FUNERAL. 31 

gaze upon this! Poor Clara! my poor 
sister ! Your rashness has been punished 
indeed !' 

Far into the night the Englishman 
paced the room with slow and measured 
steps. The hours dragged wearily on ; 
the candle flickered down, flared out, and 
died, and the air grew bitterly cold. At 
length, however, exhausted nature gave 
way. He threw himself, dressed as he 
was, upon the bed, and slept. 

When he awakened it was broad day. 
Faint sunrays crept through the panes, and 
lay upon the cold bare floor. The sleep 
had refreshed him ; but the gloomy pic- 
tures of the day before had left their mark 
upon him. His head was aching ; and 
though he had shed no tears, his eyes 
burned like balls of fire. 

He rose, and throwing up the window, 



32 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 

looked out. No rain was falling; but 
heavy clouds had gathered in the sky, 
white steam hung above the hilltops, and 
a thick vapour was drifting in across the 
ocean. Ragged forms, pinched with 
famine, shrinking from the cold, looking 
like dark shadows through the driving 
mists, peopled the desolate road, toiling on 
slowly and wearily towards the house. 
Around the building a great crowd 
gathered, talking volubly in a tongue 
Tvhich he could not understand. 

' My God T he murmured involuntarily, 
as he glanced keenly around, 'what a 
country to live in T 

So saying, he closed the window. After 
making the best toilet that he could, he 
left the room and descended the stairs. 

The front door was partly closed, but 
the chilly wind swept freely in. Several 



\ 



A WAKE AND A FUNERAL. 33 

ragged figures lingered in the hall. As 
Mr. Aldyn appeared, he received a • Cead 
fealta, yer honour !' from one and all. 
One or two open hands were impulsively 
extended towards him, then, after a mo- 
ment, hastily withdrawn. 

With a cold look of surprise in his eyes, 
and an inclination of his proud head, he 
passed silently along the hall, sought the 
room where the great crowd had beea 
collected, and paused before the open doon. 
As he did so, his face contracted with a. 
momentary spasm of pain. The room was . 
almost empty. Chairs and benches were: 
scattered about ; there was no fire ; but 
cold dead ashes lay grey upon the hearth ; 
and the sunrays, creeping in through the 
panes, fell across the floor and lit up the 
empty bier. The damask curtains still hung; 
there like snow, but the wild flowers which 

vol. i. % 



34 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 

had adorned them had drooped and died ; 
the wake-lamps flickered faintly from amidst 
the drooping flowers, but the cold dead 
form was gone. 

With his eyes still tearless, and a look of 
stern sorrow upon his face, Mr. Aldyn 
turned away, and, walking along the hall, 
glanced keenly about him. 

If the house had looked dilapidated by 
night, it had even a more deplorable ap- 
pearance when seen in the light of day. It 
was a good-sized building; the hall was 
roomy, the rooms large, lofty, and well- 
proportioned ; but there was a look about 
it of broken-down gentility, which told a 
sorry tale. A desolate old family dwelling 
it seemed, musty with centuries of neglect, 
where generations of Dunravens had been 
born, lived, and died, each and all of them 
with means insufficient to sustain in all its 



A WAKE AND A FUNERAL. 35 

glory the family name. All the furniture, 
and even the paper on the walls, gave evi- 
dence of poverty and decay. Nay, more, 

all the rooms were characterised by a wild 

» 

uncleanliness and slovenliness which was 
well calculated to offend the taste of the 
fastidious Englishman. Nothing seemed 
to be in its right place, chairs were tumbled 
here and there, hassocks were tossed on to 
sofas, and tables were piled with medleys 
of eatables, drinkables, and wearables. 

In the room where he had sat on the 
preceding night, he found a little more 
order. A bright fire burned in the grate ; 
the table in the middle of the room was 
spread with food. In this room were col- 
lected a couple of priests, a clergyman with 
his clerk behind him, Mr. Dunraven, and 
several others whose names and callings 
could not be guessed. 

3—2 



36 MADGE DUN RAVEN. 

When Mr. Dunraven caught sight of his 
kinsman, he shook him warmly by the 
hand ; and, laying his hand kindly and 
familiarly upon his shoulder, introduced 
him to those present as ' his brother, the 
Rev. Mr. Aldyn, rector of Armstead/ 
The company bowed, and Mr. Aldyn, in- 
voluntarily shrinking from the touch of 
his host, gravely bowed in return, and then 
took his seat at the table. When he had 
broken his long fast, the party joined the 
gathering outside, and the whole crowd set 
off to pay the last respects to the mistress 
of Ballymoy. 

Whither they went Mr. Aldyn could not 
tell : he was conscious of stumbling along 
a rough uneven road ; his ears were 
deafened by the murmuring and moaning 
of the crowd around him ; his eyes were 
dazzled with staring at the black pall which 



A WAKE AND A FUNERAL. 37 

covered the burden they bore. When at 
length he shook off the apathy and looked 
about him, he found himself standing in a 
great green meadow, which stretched down 
to the sea beach. In the middle of this 
meadow was a small whitewashed chapel, 
built by the Dunravens long ago, and still 
sometimes used for service on special 
occasions. Attached to this chapel was a 
graveyard — a square patch of wild land, 
already too well filled with decaying dead. 
In one corner a small space was railed off 
with rusted, broken-down iron railings, 
and a rude wooden cross, ready for erec- 
tion, lay beside the rusty gate. Around 
this little enclosure the crowd assembled. 
The coffin was lowered into the newly- 
made grave ; the clergyman began in a 
clear voice to read the service ; the crowd 
reverently bowed their heads; and Mr. 



38 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 

Aldyn, leaning as if for support against the 
railings, listened like one in a dream. 
Then he himself — for he was in holy orders 
— came forward, and said a prayer for the 
dead ; after which a great wail arose on 
the air ; and he turned, perhaps to hide the 
sorrow in his face, and fixed his eyes on 
the cold, grey, glistening sea. 





CHAPTER IV; 



MR. ALDYN MAKES A PROPOSAL. 



I HAT day passed slowly enough 
to Mr. Aldyn ; but at length 
evening came. When the hands 
of the hall-clock pointed to six, the curtains 
were drawn across the windows of Shrana- 
xnonragh Castle, lighted candles had been 
placed on the table, and Mr. Aldyn and 
Mr. Dunraven sat facing each other upon 
the hearth. 

The house' was tolerably quiet now. 



40 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 

Most of the tenantry had returned to their 
huts, and the few that lingered were in the 
kitchen, talking in such subdued tones that 
their voices scarcely reached the occupants 
of the parlour at all. Mr. Aldyn, having 
thrown himself into an easy-chair, shaded 
his eyes with his hand and quietly watched 
the face of his kinsman. It was by no 
means an unpleasant face ; indeed, it had 
once been handsome, but now it was 
marked by premature lines and wrinkles, 
which gave it the appearance of age. Mr. 
Dunraven, however, was under fifty years 
old, a tall, athletic man, with a powerful 
physique and a plentiful supply of iron- 
grey hair. His clean-shaven face was 
burnt brown, his hands were broad and 
brown too, his dress was wild and careless, 
his manner bluff and unrefined ; but there 
was an air of manly sorrow about him 



MR. ALDYN MAKES A PROPOSAL. 41 

which went far towards melting the ice 
around the Englishman's heart. 

At last Mr. Dunraven rose, and putting 
one hand on each shoulder of his guest, 
gazed into his face with such a look of 
piteous welcome as he had never seen on 
any countenance before. 

( It does my heart good to see you here/ 
he said, 'though I could have wished that 
you'd have come at a better time. It 
would have gladdened her heart to have 
seen you before she went away.' 

Mr. Aldyn moved uncomfortably on his 
chair, and his fingers closed upon his 
aching eyes. Was that dreary feeling of 
remorse never to be uplifted from his 
heart ? The words were kindly spoken, 
and kindly meant, but they hardened him 
not a little against the speaker. Had it 
not been for this man, he reflected, his 



42 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 

sister would never have left him, and they 
might have been happy till the end. For 
some minutes he was silent ; then he asked 
suddenly : 

1 Well, what are you going to do ?' 
Mr. Dunraven looked amazed ; the cool, 
matter-of-fact manner of the Englishman 
rather startled him. He had never been 
in the habit of mapping out his campaigns, 
and he did not think it necessary to do so 
now. Hitherto things had always managed 
to adjust themselves somehow or other, 
and he supposed they would do so still. 
What was he going to do ? What a ques- 
tion to ask a man who only a few hours 
before had laid his wife in the cold ground. 
But when Mr. Dunraven broke into 
some impatient exclamations on the dis- 
tastefulness of discussing his prospects in 
life while his wife was just lying in her 



MR. ALDYN MAKES A PROPOSAL. 43 

newly-made grave, Mr. Aldyn lifted up his 
white hand to silence him, and continued 
as calmly as before : 

' You had an affection for your wife — 
well, so had I, for she was my only sister. 
To mourn for her is useless now ; the time 
for grief is past, for she is out of pain and 
happy. Before she went she left me a task 
to perform. I cannot afford to waste my 
time in useless delay ; her dying request 
must be obeyed now, or never !' 

This time Mr. Dunraven offered no re- 
monstrance. He looked at the speaker in 
a dazed sort of manner, then turned his 
head away. Still the Englishman sat ap- 
parently unmoved, his handsome, cold, 
marble face set into a look of proud endur- 
ing sorrow. After a few moments' silence, 
he spoke again : 

'When my sister felt her end drawing 



44 MADGE DUN RAVEN. 

near, she wrote to me, as you are probably 
aware, begging me to come here. In that 
letter she gave me to understand that you 
were in some great trouble, which I might 
be able to alleviate. I am willing to comply 
with her request as far as lies in my power, 
and give you a helping hand. I suppose/ 
he added, involuntarily glancing around 
the room, ' you are not over rich ?' 

* Rich ? God help me, no !' 

1 This estate round about here is yours ?' 

' Mortgaged, every acre of it !' 

' Humph ! Clara did not exaggerate in 
what she said then. Well, you had better 
be frank with me, and tell me candidly how 
matters stand.' 

At this there passed over Mr. Dunravens 
face a look like that of a frightened child. 

' I couldn't give you any particulars if 
you were to hang me for it. Clara managed 



MR. ALDYN MAKES A PROPOSAL. 45 



all the business matters, and I know nothing 
at all, at all.' 

* But how am I to help you if I don't 
understand the state of your affairs ? 
Haven't you any of the mortgage papers T 

' Papers !' said Mr. Dunraven, relieved. 
* Indeed I have, then, enough to make a 
bonfire for St. Patrick's night !' So saying, 
he unlocked a cupboard which was skilfully 
concealed by the papering of the room, 
took out an armful of rolled-up parchments, 
and deposited them on the table before his 
guest, after which he returned to his chair, 
and looked on as if he were merely an 
independent spectator of some interesting 
scene. 

Mr. Aldyn, grave as a judge, untied the 
pink tape first from one roll, then from 
another, and carefully scanned every page. 
After about half an hour of this work, he 



46 MADGE DUN RAVEN. 

looked up and found the eyes of his kins- 
man roving carelessly about the room. 
' This is a bad job, Dunraven P 
' I suppose it is, 1 returned Mr. 
Dunraven. ' But 'tis not the worst, let me 
tell you/ 

' Good God! it can't be much worse than 

this: 

' Well, that's a matter of opinion,' re- 
turned Mr. Dunraven, ' so we won't quarrel 
about that. But, to my thinking, it's more 
important to have a roof to cover you than 
it is to own a few acres that came to you 
through no merit of your own.' 

' Why, you surely don't mean to say that 
the house is mortgaged ?' asked the amazed 
clergyman. 

'Indeed I do, then, and every stick in it. 
Come and look here.' He opened the 
door and led the way along the hall, his 



MR. ALDYN MAKES A PROPOSAL. 47 

kinsman following him. They came to the 
kitchen, and Mr. Dunraven pointed in. 

A tall, raw-boned man of forty sat by 
the fire smoking his pipe, while a slatternly 
but good-natured looking woman moved 
about, attending to two shabbily-dressed 
men who sat at the table taking their 
tea. 

' Those boys came here two days before 
she died/ whispered Mr. Dunraven, 'and 
devil a soul but myself and Biddy there, 
and Andy, who have been in the family since 
they were boy and girl, knows what for. 
They're decent lads enough, and were well 
known to myself in former days, when the 
Dunravens were better off than they are 
now, God help us ! So just to please me, 
and not to grieve her> they hung about the 
place as any other lads might, looked on, 
and held their tongues/ 



48 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 

Mr. Aldyn's stern face grew woefully 
dark. Impatiently turning away, he re- 
turned to the parlour, followed by Mr. 
Dunraven, and closed the door. For some 
time he said nothing. He carefully rolled 
up the papers which were scattered about 
the table, and placed them again in the 
cupboard from whence they had been 
taken ; then he walked for some time up 
and down the room. Presently he paused 
before Mr. Dunraven's chair. 

' You have got into a terrible plight ; but, 
as I said before, I am willing to help you 
to the best of my ability. Fortunately for 
you, I am able to be of some use. I will 
pay off this mortgage for you, and receive 
the rents of the estate until the loan is re- 
funded.' 

1 1 would do as much for you.' 

1 No doubt, no doubt.' 



MR. ALDYN MAKES A PROPOSAL. 49 

Again there was silence. It was again 
broken by Mr. Aldyn : 

1 My sister has left children ' 

Mr. Dunraven's face lit up imme- 
diately. 

1 One child. I wish there was a dozen 
more/ 

1 You'd find it rather difficult to keep 
them, I think. Is it a girl ?' 

1 No ; a boy. But I've got a little girl — 
God bless her! — a niece of mine, that's 
just like my own daughter. In troth, I 
don't know which I love best, Conn or 
Madge. She has lived with us ever since 
my poor brother died, ten years ago/ 

Mr. Aldyn looked annoyed. The reck- 
less way in which Mr. Dunraven evi- 
dently undertook responsibilities he was 
so ill fitted to sustain, seemed to him 
little short of absolute insanity. How 
vol. i. 4 



50 MADGE D UNRA VEN. 

could a man have been better situated 
than the creature before him ? He had 
been blessed with an heir, but had been 
spared the trial of younger sons, which, 
alas ! so often follows ; and yet he had the 
thanklessness to wish for more children ; 
and because, forsooth, the Almighty had 
been wiser than he, he must burden the 
family with a girl who had no possible claim 
upon it at all. Heaven only knew what 
further disclosures he might make before 
this beggarly business was brought to an 
end ! 

' Well, well, I will tell you what Til do, f 
said Mr. Aldyn at last, remembering that 
if the old man was little or nothing to him, 
the heir to the estate was his sisters only 
son. * I will not only clear off the mort- 
gage, but I'll relieve you of the boy. Til 
take him with me to England, and do my 



MR. ALDYN MAKES A PROPOSAL. 51 

duty by him as much as if he were my 
own son !' 

As the Englishman uttered these words 
Mr. Dunraven stared at him aghast for 
some minutes. When he paused, he rubbed 
his eyes and looked again. 

1 Maybe I'm a bit thick-headed to-day/ 
he said, 'and don't rightly understand. 
Do you mean to say that, now I have lost 
my wife, you mean to rob me of my own 
boy ? of all I have left in the world ?' 

Mr. Aldyn planted his feet firmly upon\ 
the rug, and crossed his hands behind him. 

1 If you say so, well and good/ he re- 
plied coldly ; ' but I regard the matter in a 
totally different light. I merely wish to 
relieve you of a responsibility, that is all. 
If you do not care to have your son well 
provided for, why that is another matter/ 

Mr. Dunraven did not reply. Without 

4—2 



52 MADGE D UNRA VEK 



once looking at his guest, he walked to the 
door, opened it, and called : 

1 Conn, Conn I come here !' Then leav- 
ing the door open, he returned to his seat 
and sat down in silence. 

A moment afterwards steps were heard 
in the hall ; they paused before the open 
door. 

1 Did you call me, Uncle Patrick ?' asked 
a low, gentle voice, from the shadow. 
Mr. Dunraven shook his head. 
' No, Madge; I called Conn. But come 
in, darling ; I may want you, too. 1 

As he spoke, there entered the room a 
tall, slim girl of sixteen, neatly dressed in 
black. She glanced wistfully at the 
Englishman, whose cold eyes swept over 
her face without recognition of any kind ; 
then walking up to Mr. Dunraven, she 
took her place by his side. 



MR. ALDYN MAKES A PROPOSAL. 53 

Mr. Aldyn's gaze, travelling past the girl, 
was drawn to another figure which at that 
moment entered the room. At the first 
glance, Mr. Aldyn conceived the figure to 
be that of a fully-developed man, but at 
the second he perceived it was only that of 
a lad some twenty years of age, tall and 
powerfully built, with a strikingly handsome 
head and face. His eyes were red, as if 
he had been weeping, and with that instinct 
so common to strong men, he hung his 
head, as if to hide the marks of the sorrow 
which he had not been able to suppress. 

' That is my son/ said Mr. Duriraven, as 
the youth paused just within the doorway. 
' Shake hands with your English uncle, 
Conn, and tell him yourself whether you'd 
like to go with him to England/ 

1 Go to England, father ! What do you 
mean ?' asked Conn, as he stepped into the 



54 MADGE D UNRA VEN. 

room, still painfully conscious of his red 
eyes and tear-stained cheeks, and gave 
his hand to his kinsman. Then as he 
looked for an explanation of his father's 
words, Mr. Dunraven told him all, 
adding : 

1 1 leave you to judge for yourself, Conn. 
Go, if you please, my boy. Fll never 
stand in your way.' 

Conn stood and listened with his eyes 
on the ground, his face half shaded from 
the strangers sight. Even when his father 
had finished speaking, he did not stir ; he 
seemed as if he were weighing the matter 
in his mind, and hesitating as to what he 
should do. All the time the girl kept her 
eyes fixed earnestly upon him. When 
silence ensued, and still he made no move- 
ment, her face began to work convulsively. 
At last she exclaimed : 



MR. ALDYN MAKES A PROPOSAL. 55 

'Oh, Conn, you won't go! Sure, you 
couldn't leave us here alone !' 

And Conn, turning from the stranger, 
said : 

' Of course I shan't go, Madge. If I 
went away, who would look after father 
and you ?' 

At this Mr. Dunraven's face brightened, 
and Madge, half smiling, but with tears 
upon her cheek, slipped one hand round 
her uncle's neck, the other in her cousin's 
palm. Mr. Aldyn looked on a little impa- 
tiently. 

' Very well,' he said at last, ' if you won't 
accept my help, there's an end of the 
matter, I suppose.' 

' But we will take your help, sir, if it's 
properly given,' said Conn. ' It isn't 
likely that I could go away with you, and 
leave my father and Madge here to starve ; 



56 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 

for, if you took the rents, I don't know what 
they would have left to live on. But my 
father is able to work as well as I am, if he 
could only get something to do. Why not 
let us all go over ? We could keep our- 
selves, and you could take the rents till the 
mortgage is paid off.' 

Mr. Dunraven, who never thought for 
himself, but was profoundly impressed by 
thought in others, looked questioningly at 
Mr. Aldyn, who bit his lips and said 
nothing. It must not be supposed that 
such an idea had altogether escaped him. 
Since he had read those mortgage papers, 
and learned the true state of the family 
funds, the idea of lifting the family from 
this squalor, and planting them on civilised 
soil, had more than once entered his mind. 
But he had persistently thrust it back, and 
had finally resolved to offer for the only 



MR. ALDYN MAKES A PROPOSAL. 57 

one in whom he could possibly feel any 
interest. It was bad enough, he thought, 
to be connected with such a family, even 
when the sea parted them ; but to have 
them close to his very threshold, to let 
them run riot in the little village where 
he had been looked up to and respected 
for years, why the idea was too ridiculous 
to be seriously entertained. Ten to one 
they would disgrace him, and make him 
repent of his folly before they had been 
there a month. 

And yet what was he to do ? He could 
not, with that piteous appeal from the 
grave still ringing in his ears, belie the 
trust which his dead sister had reposed 
in him and desert her only child. It was 
clear the boy was clannish, as most of 
those Irish were, and would not move 
unless with a trail of relations at his heels. 



58 MADGE D UNRA VEN. 

It was also clear that if he remained there, 
he would have neither a roof to shelter 
him nor a bed to lie on, when the week was 
out. To be sure, if he took Conn away, 
Mr. Dunraven and Madge would be in a 
bad enough plight ; but then, he thought, 
that was no affair of his. He felt bound 
to provide for his sister s son, not for her 
husband, and a girl who t had no possible 
claim upon her at all. 

But Conn spoke again, and vowed with 
such determination that he would go with 
his father, or not at all, that Mr. Aldyn 
came to consider his words. For fully an 
hour he hesitated ; he weighed the pros 
and cons in his mind ; he drew forth a 
letter and read the words which his dead 
sister had written ere she finally closed her 
eyes. ' Be a friend to my dear husband, 
George ; a second father to my poor, dear, 



MR. ALDYN MAKES A PROPOSAL. 59 

motherless boy/ Such words, coming, as it 
were, out of the grave, for the moment 
softened Mr. Aldyn's heart. After a 
lengthened period of hesitation, he yielded. 
1 I suppose it will be best for you all to 
come ; so, for my poor sisters sake, I will 
try to get you both employment in England. 
It is a good opening for you; you can 
make just as much and just as little of it as 
you please/ 



PART II. 



IM1 » 



BEAUTIFUL ENGLAND. 



■ • cm *' — 

4 IJearnt to love that England. 

^J^ ^^* ^^^ ^1^ 

Such an up and down 
Of verdure — nothing too much up or down. 
A ripple of land ; such little hills, the sky 
Can stoop to tenderly and the wheat-fields climb ; 
Such nooks of valleys, lined with orchises, 
Fed full of noises^by invisible streams ; 
And open pastures, where you scarcely tell 
White daisies*from"white dew. 1 

Aurora Leigh. 




CHAPTER I. 



UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE. 



fHERF, came to the land a poor exile of Erin, 
The dew on his raiment was heavy and 

Of his country he sighed, when at twilight repairing, 

He wandered alone by the wind-beaten hill, 
But the day-star attracted his eyes' sad devotion, 
As it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean, 
Where oft in the pride of his youthful emotion, 

He sang the bold anthem of Erin-go-bragh.' 

The singer was Madge Dunraven. She 
sat upon the grass with her lap full of 
flowers, her eyes fixed dreamily upon those 
which grew around her feet. 



64 MADGE D UNRA VEN. 

^^^™™^^^^^™^™™"^ ^ ■■■■■■■■ ^ ■■■■— ■"■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■^ 

She was by the trunk of a great oak tree, 
in the middle of a grassy dell, which was 
set close upon the margin of an extensive 
wood. All around her the grass was luxu- 
riant, very thick, very tall, and of a rich 
emerald green ; but now and then the soft 
westerly wind, creeping through the thick 
foliage of the trees, swept the tall blades 
apart, revealing, as it did so, glimpses of 
deep purple wood violets, tufts of pale 
primroses, and delicate patches of green 
and golden woodland moss. Upon the 
grass deep shadows lay, but the sun-rays 
crept through the thick-foliaged boughs 
which formed a canopy overhead, falling 
like a golden hand upon the girl's dark 
hair. 

In the air there was a sense of peace. 
Continuously the girl's ear caught the 
twittering and singing of innumerable small 



' UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE: 65 



birds which were hidden in the foliage of 
the wood, while beyond, again, the wood- 
larks sang with that sweet sound which is 
only less € sovereign ' than that of the 
cuckoo. 

But when Madge's clear voice awakened 
the echoes, the other sounds seemed 
hushed ; the voice of the human creature 
was paramount, and all the other music 
died, while all the other musicians listened. 

' Beg your pardon, miss ; but what are 
you doing in here ?' 

Madge turned and started up, while her 
flowers fell in a shower around her feet. 

Before her stood a man, tall and mus- 
cular, with a dark forbidding countenance*. 
He wore a coarse fustian dress, and carried! 
several great iron traps in his handL 
Touching his hat as if involuntarily, and 

VOL. I. K 



66 MADGE DUN RAVEN. 

with a certain sullenness, he repeated his 
question. 

Madge laughed, and shook her head. 

* Indeed, I don't know why I came,' she 
said ; ' but the road was hot and hard, the 
grass was soft and cool, so I strolled in 
among the shadows.' 

1 Didn't you see that, miss ?' 

Looking in the direction indicated by his 
uplifted finger, Madge beheld, stuck up on 
the outskirt of the wood, a small white 
board, on which was written, in great black 
letters : ' Trespassers will be prosecuted.' 

'No,' she said carelessly ; € I did not 
•see that before.' 

1 Well, I wish people would use their 
eyes, that's all,' returned the man, curtly. 
1 What's the good of my having boards put 
up at all, if they beant attended to ?' 

1 Well, you need not be so cross ; I have 



' UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE: 67 

done no harm. I did not think of looking 
for any board, since I was accustomed to 
go wherever I liked when I was in Bally- 
moy.' 

' Ballymoy, miss ? — where may that 
be? 

1 That is my home ; over there, in 
Ireland.' 

The mart looked at her more atten- 
tively, and his cheek wore a grim smile ; 
but the sullen look did not leave his 
eyes. 

* Well, this beant Ballymoy, miss ; but 
Armstead,' he said. ' You must keep to 
the high-road here, I reckon, else go into a 
field where there be no warnings put up ; 
because, if ever you're caught again, you'll 
likely get prosecuted for trespass, and the 
law don't spare persons. Lord!' he ex- 
claimed, suddenly catching sight of her 

5—2 



68 MADGE D UXRA VEN. 



feet, ' if you ain't been walkin' about here 
with neither shoes nor stockings P 

Madge blushed, and drew her feet back 
as if to hide them ; then she stooped, and 
lifted from the ground her shoes and stock- 
ings, together with some of her fallen 
flowers. 

' I like to feel the grass about my feet/ 
she said. 

' You'll feel something else, if you don*t 
look out/ said the man, with a grim smile. 
' Don't you know that there be snakes 
about here ? 

Madge started, as if one had suddenly 
stung her, and repeated : 

4 Sna&es f 

1 Aye, the long grass is full of 'em. 
Don't you try that game again, miss, or, 
as sure as you're standing there, you'll be 
stung and get your death.' 



'UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE: 69 

'Thank you/ said Madge, moving 
hurriedly away ; * I will not come here 
again/ 

Passing swiftly across the plantation, she 
crept through the railings which enclosed 
it, and disappeared. The keeper stood for 
a moment, regarding the traps which he 
still held in his hand ; then he knelt on the 
ground, and set one of them near the trunk 
of the tree where Madge had rested. 

Pausing on the other side of the iron 
railing, Madge sat down again upon the 
grass, and drew on her stockings and shoes ; 
and, gathering up into a bunch her scat- 
tered flowers, she walked swiftly across the 
meadows until she reached the dusty road. 
Then, climbing up to the top of a grassy 
bank which shut in the highway, she shaded 
her dazzled eyes from the sun's rays, and 
looked around. 



70 MADGE D UNRA VEN. 

m 

What a scene met her view! For a 
time she could scarcely pick out one pros- 
pect from another ; all seemed one luminous 
vision of yellow corn-fields, dark waving 
woods, green meadows rich with aftermath, 
and stretches of dusty road. Presently her 
eye picked out the river, a rapid stream 
winding right through the open valley, and 
spanned at one point by a crumbling two- 
arched bridge. Right above the bridge, 
on a steep hillside, hung the village — 
quaint old gables, roofs of red tile or grey 
thatch, walls of red brick and dark stone, 
gardens laden with fruit, and, on the summit 
of the hill, the church with its shining 
spire. 

As she stood listening and shading her 
eyes, faint sounds were wafted to her 
ears — the far-off call of human voices, the 
rumbling of a wain just then crossing the 



< UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE: 71 

bridge into the village, the waggoner's 
eager cry as his horses faced the hill. All 
seemed drowsily glad and sleepily beau- 
tiful. Over all shone a bright blue sky, 
such as she had seldom seen in Ireland, 
with here and there a moveless cloud of 
spotless vapour softly dissolving into 
feathery film. 

Though the sun was fast sinking, the 
air was still very hot. The roads were 
hard, dry, and very dusty ; but in the 
meadows, where silvery runlets came bub- 
bling from the earth, and in the great 
shadowy woods beyond, there was a sense 
of peace. 

Removing her hand from her eyes, 
Madge w?ls about to pass from the dusty 
road to the meadows lying beyond. Sud- 
denly she paused. Before her, like a pallid 
spectre casting a ghostly gloom upon that 



72 MADGE D UNRA VEX. 

bright scene, rose another lean white post, 
on the top of which was nailed another 
board, on which was repeated, in great 
black letters, the menacing words : * Tres- 
passers will be prosecuted/ 

The letters danced ominously before her, 
as if they mocked her. Beyond the board 
stretched meadows where waved the long 
cool grass, sweet with clover and bright 
with scarlet poppies, while, farther away 
still, sparkled a crystal stream. Before the 
board wound the dreary dusty road. 
Madge looked this way and that, read the 
words again, hesitated, and finally, re- 
straining her impetuous longing for the 
meadows, slowly sauntered along the high- 
way. 

It was very hot here. 

On either side the road was enclosed by 
high banks and hedges, with here and 



« UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE: 73 

.^ — — . . . . _- _ -. — ^- r - mi . n . - 

there a tall green sapling, and ere Madge 
had gone many yards she was enclosed in 
a golden cloud — of dust. The sun's rays 
beat upon her head, her hands became hot 
and damp, while the flowers which she 
held drooped and died. At last she sat 
down upon the bank beneath the shadow 
of a great lime tree, and, placing her 
drooping flowers upon her lap, rested for 
a time. 

When the flushed heat of her face and 
neck had somewhat subsided, and her whole 
frame was cooler from its bath of shadow, 
she gathered up her flowers and went on. 
Still glancing from side to side at the 
bright flowery meadows, and cool rippling 
streams, still looking impatiently at the 
great white boards, which, rising before 
her sight, for ever warned her vagrant feet 
away. 



74 MADGE DUNRAVRN. 

Madge sighed and shrugged her shoul- 
ders. 

1 1 don't like England/ she said. ' I do 
not feel half so free as I did at Ballymoy P 





S&sS^8\~ 


Kl^^^^^3& 


jfErTSIl 



CHAPTER II. 

MADGE GIVES A DANCING LESSON, 

PRESENTLY the lane came to an 
end. 

Madge emerged into the broad 
street, where carts and waggons rolled 
along, scattering the light dry dust like 
smoke. After walking for a few hundred 
yards down the hill, she came to a little 
low white wicket-gate, and, opening it, she 
passed through. 

Some little distance from the main road, 



76 MADGE D UNRA VEN. 

surrounded by a lawn, which was, in its 
turn, enclosed by a wire fence and the 
white gate, was a two-storied cottage, built 
of red brick, smothered, in those summer 
days, with green creeping plants and white 
and red roses. 

Looking across the lawn, beyond a 
tract of cornfields, Madge could see a 
glimpse of the heath, lying covered with 
golden gorse, beneath the summer sky. 

On the white stone steps which led up 
to the door of this dwelling sat Conn, 
grown bigger, broader, and in every way 
more manly since we last beheld him, sur- 
rounded by fishing-tackle, and busily em- 
ployed in tying trout-flies. Stretched on 
the grass beside him were a fawn-coloured 
greyhound and a brown-and-white clumber 
spaniel. At the first sound of Madge's 
footsteps the dogs sprang to their feet, ran 



A DANCING LESSON 77 

towards her, and began licking her hands, 
while Conn, pausing in his work for a 
moment, glanced quietly up. 

' Why, Madge, what makes you so late ? 
he said. ' Father has been home an hour 
or more, and we've had our tea.' 

Madge only laughed, and stepping 
lightly over the tackle which was scattered 
upon the steps, passed her cousin by, and 
entered the house. 

Crossing the little hall, Madge turned 
the handle of an oaken door, and entered 
the dining-room, a small room covered 
with a thick carpet, and filled with old- 
fashioned oaken furniture. The large 
window which fronted the lawn was thrown 
open ; in the middle of the room stood a 
table covered with the remnants of a meal. 
At this table Madge sat down, and pouring 
out some tea and breaking off some bread, 



78 MADGE DUNRA VEN. 

began to eat, pausing occasionally to throw 
scraps of bread to the dogs, which had 
followed her in, and now sat on each 
side of her chair. When the first cup of 
tea and two thick slices of bread had 
disappeared, Madge left her chair, shook 
the crumbs from her dress, took up a book, 
and sitting down upon a hassock opened 
the volume out on her lap, while the two 
dogs, finding the supplies suddenly stopped, 
licked the girl's soft cheek and trotted off 
again. 

Madge had not sat long, however, when 
the sound of music floating in through the 
open window struck upon her ear. She 
listened ; a bright smile overspread her 
face. Throwing her book aside, she made 
her way again into the open air. The sun 
had almost set, leaving the heavens ablaze 
with crimson beams, broken here and there 



A DANCING LESSON 79 

with bars of slate-coloured cloud, portend- 
ing a rainy morrow. Slantwise across the 
lawn lay the streams of fading light, bathing 
the figure and touching the hair of Conn, 
who sat on the white steps of the dwelling 
still busy with his work. By the angle of 
the house sat Biddy, the slatternly-looking 
woman whom Mr. Aldyn first saw in the 
kitchen at Shranamonragh Castle, dressed 
yet in the slipshod fashion of Ballymoy. 
She worked away at some coarse knitting, 
and tapped her foot and nodded her head 
to keep time to the music. The musician, 
no other than Andy, the old Irish man- 
servant belonging to the Dunraven house- 
hold, stood at her elbow, while a few yards 
off, reclining upon the grass and holding 
an open newspaper in his hand, was Mr. 
Dunraven. At sight of her uncle, Madge's 
face grew bright ; she ran across the lawn, 



80 MADGE D UNRA VEN. 

snatched away the paper, and seized his 
hand. 

'Uncle Patrick, come and have a dance T 
she exclaimed, pulling with all her might 
and main to help him to his feet. 

' Easy, easy, Madge !' cried Mr. Dun- 
raven. ' I'm not so young as I was, and my 
bones are tender. Play away, Andy, my 
boy/ he added ; ' give us " Haste to the 
Wedding." ' 

The music changed ; in two minutes 
Madge and her uncle were dancing busily 
upon the lawn. 

In choosing her partner, Madge had 
been unfortunate. After the first few 
minutes Mr. Dunraven paused, wiped his 
scarlet face, and gave out the forlorn 
information that he was not so young as 
he once had been, while Madge glanced 
disappointedly around. As she did so, her 



A DANCING LESSON. 81 

■eyes were attracted towards the road, and 
she saw for the first time several boorish- 
looking figures, carters and farm-labourers, 
who, with clean-washed faces and hair sleek 
and smooth, stood smoking their pipes, 
leaning upon the fence which enclosed the 
lawn, and staring with great cow's eyes full 
into her face. Almost at the same moment 
Mr. Dunraven saw them too, and laugh- 
ingly addressed them. 

' Now, boys/ he exclairfied, ' don't stand 
looking on, but come in and welcome ; 
show that there's metal in your heels.' 

' To be sure,' cried Biddy, whose face 
had brightened up wonderfully at the 
prospect of a bit of fun, ' don't be lettin' 
the mashter ask ye twice, ye great louts 
you !' while Madge chimed in : 

' Oh yes, come over and have a dance ; 
Andy will play for us !' 

VOL. I. 6 



82 MADGE DUNRA VEN. 

The men, thus addressed, looked at each 
other, then at the ground, rubbed their 
heads, shuffled about a bit, and replied 
severally, one after another : 

'We bean't accustomed to dancing, 
master.' 

1 Then 'tis time you were,' replied Mr. 
Dunraven, who was mentally comparing 
these loutish figures with the merry though 
ragged boys of Ballymoy ; ' over with you 
and take a turn. 9 

Again the men looked at one another, 
smiled sheepishly, and glanced longingly at 
the trimly-clipt lawn. Then one of them, 
as if fired with tremendous courage, slowly 
put his leg over the railing, and alighting 
on the grass, stood and grinned and 
scratched his head. Laughing heartily, 
Madge took his hand and drew him along 
the lawn ; and while Andy struck up * St. 



A DANCING LESSON. 83 

Patrick's Day/ she placed herself before 
her partner and began to teach him how 
to dance an Irish jig. For a minute or 
two the great clumsy fellow stood sheep- 
ishly watching her; then he began to 
knock his hobnailed boots together, trying 
in vain to follow her agile movements. 
But Madge was patient, arid very soon she 
got her partner to move with some swift- 
ness, if with little grace. 

When the ice was once broken, and the 
merriment really begun, the men grew 
bolder. One by one they got over the 
railings, and one by one they took a turn 
at the dancing with Madge, until quite a 
group was gathered upon the lawn. 

When the fun was at its height, Mr. 
Aldyn, passing along the road on horse- 
back, and attracted by the sound of the 
music and mirth, reined in his horse close 

6—2 



84 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 



beside the railing which enclosed the lawn, 
and looked frowningly at the group 
gathered beyond. A boy in a smock- 
frock was getting over the railing to the 
lawn; he touched him with his riding- 
whip. 

' What are you going in there for ?' 

' Dunno, yer riv rence !' he replied, 
drawing back and servilely pulling his 
forelock. ' The old master there ' 

' Be off — do you hear P and the boy, 
looking at the lifted riding-whip, drew 
his leg slowly off the railings and slunk 
away. 

Mr. Aldyn watched him go ; then, when 
there came a pause in the music, he called 
out : 

'Is there anything the matter, Dun- 
raven ?' 

Mr. Dunraven, perceiving the horseman 



A DANCING LESSON. 85 

for the first time, strolled up to the railings 
and replied : 

' Not at all. We're just having a bit of 
a frolic. Will you come in ?' 

1 No P was the short reply. 

1 Will you take a glass of grog, then ?' 

' No, no P 

The reins were gathered up, and the 
horse cantered away, while Mr. Dunraven, 
strolling back to his guests, dismissed both 
horse and rider from his mind. 

It was long past sunset ; the air had 
grown dark and chilly, and a heavy dew 
was lying on the grass. The bright 
summer day was succeeded by a sombre 
evening ; the blue sky darkened over and 
was soon covered by clouds heavily sur- 
charged with rain. None had noted the 
growing blackness, for none had anticipated 
a storm ; so the assembled people were 



86 MADGE D UNRA VEN. 



soon surprised by the sudden bursting of 

a heavy shower. 

• Come in, boys, come in P cried Mr. 
Dunraven, leading the way into the 
kitchen. 

Obedient to his will, they followed him, 
and soon stood in the comfortable kitchen, 
listening to the pattering of the rain upon 
the roof. 

• It's only a summer shower,' said Mr. 
Dunraven. Then turning to Madge he 
added : ' Fetch the whisky, darling, till 
I give these boys a glass.' 

A great black bottle of whisky was pro- 
duced, and each man received a glass ; and 
when the rain was over and the night had 
grown clearer, Mr. Dunraven, in wishing 
them good-night, clapped some on the 
back and shook hands all round, while 
Madge laughingly nodded to them and 



A DANCING LESSON 87 

asked them to come again. Andy 
generously volunteered to teach any of 
them how to play on the tin whistle, in 
order that they might have dances in their 
own houses, as the boys had over there in 
Ballymoy. 

When all were gone and the doors of 
the house were closed, Mr. Dunraven and 
Madge returned to the dining-room, where 
they found Conn sitting beside the open 
window. 

' I think Til go to bed, uncle ; I am 
tired,' said Madge, taking his hand in both 
of hers. 

'Good-night, mavourneen,' said Mr. 
Dunraven, gently kissing her cheek. 

'Good-night/ said Conn, stealing his 
strong arm around the girl's waist and 
fondly kissing her ; ' mind you dream of 
me, Madge !' he added, whispering low. 



88 MADGE DUNRA VEK 

* Without a flutter at her heart or a 
blush upon her cheek, Madge returned his 
fond caress, gazing down into his bright 
eyes and letting her hand linger lovingly 
upon his shoulder. Then she turned 
away. As she passed into the hall she 
.found the front-door still open. As she 
was still warm with the dance, she stepped 
out to inhale a little fresh air before going 
to bed. She had walked half-way across 
the lawn when the sound of voices arrested 
her steps. She paused. Several dark 
figures were making their way slowly 
along the road. 

.■ ' That was a queer start, William Jones,' 
said a voice Madge recognised as belonging 
to one of the rustics whom her uncle had 

just entertained. 
. ' Queer enough/ returned the phlegmatic 

individual addressed., 



A DANCING LESSON. 89 

4 Be they gentlefolks, think thee ?' queried 
another. 

' I dunno/ 

'Guess not/ put in the first speaker; 
' gentlefolks don't take up wi' the likes o' 
we f 

Madge's face darkened as the heavy 
footsteps weijt tramp, tramp along the 
road and died away. Re-entering the 
house, she glided noiselessly up the stairs 
and got to bed. Falling into a restless, 
fitful slumber, she dreamed that she was 
back in the dear old home which she had 
left behind her, far away in the wilds of 
Ballymoy ! 




CHAPTER III. 



THE DUNBAVENS IN ENGLAND. 



MEANTIME Mr. Aldyn hurriedly 
pursued his way along the dusty 
lanes. His brow was knit, and 
when he bad reached home, given his 
horse to his waiting groom, and entered 
the Rectory where his wife awaited him, 
the traces of anger had not disappeared 
from his face. His wife, a tall, graceful 
woman of about fifty years of age, sat upon 
the sofa reading a book. When the door 



THE DUNRA VENS IN ENGLAND. 91 

opened and her husband entered the room, 
she gently let the book fall upon her lap, 
fixed a pair of glasses upon her nose, and 
looked at him. 

' Is anything the matter, Aldyn?' she 
asked carelessly, noting his darkened face. 

Mr. Aldyn sat down in his easy-chair 
and ran his fingers through his hair. 

1 The matter ? — yes/ he returned ; • as I 
rode home to-night, what do you think I 
saw ? — Dunraven lying on his lawn, his 
man-servant playing on a tin fife, and that 
girl Madge dancing like a show-girl with a 
lot of Lord Rigby's labourers f 

The lady, raising her eyebrows, gave a 
supercilious smile. 

* Really? If you remember, I antici- 
pated something of the kind when you 
first brought them over. Those kind of 
people never do to dwell in civilised dis- 



d 



92 MADGE DVXRA VES. 

tricts; you would have done better had you 
left them amongst the bogs f 

•Nonsense, Ada! if they don't know 
better thev must be taught.* 

Again that cynical smile. 

• If you reserve the part of teacher to 
yourself, well and good, but I really don't 
see how even you can turn black to white.' 

With this the lady resumed her reading, 
and her husband, quitting the room, shut 
himself up alone and sat down to think. 

The Dunravens had only been six 
months in Armstead, yet already the 
rector had bitterly repented of his rash- 
ness in bringing them over. He had done 
for them all that a man could do. He had 
not only taken the management of the 
Irish estate into his own hands, but he had 
secured good and fairly remunerative em- 
ployment for Mr. Dunraven and Conn, and 



THE D UNEA VENS IN ENGLAND. 93 

he had even gone so far as to interest 
himself in, Madge to the extent of getting 
her daily tuition in a neighbouring school, 
in order that she might finish the very im- 
perfect education which she had had at 
Ballymoy. Yes, his generosity had even 
surprised himself; and how, he asked him- 
self, had he been repaid ? First his inten- 
tions respecting Madge had been coolly 
set aside by the girl herself, who had boldly 
set her face against attending a Protestant 
school, and, in defiance of his wishes in 
the matter, had gone, with Mr. Dunraven's 
consent, to receive daily tuition in a Roman 
Catholic convent which stood like a lonely 
ruin among the outlying village fields. 
Well, after all, Mr. Aldyn reflected, this 
disobedience was of no very great moment, 
and might be easily overlooked. The girl 
was nothing to him beyond the fact that 



04 MADGE D UNRA VEN. 



she hung on to the skirts of his relations. 
But it was quite another thing, and Mr. 
Aldyn thought that his good-nature had 
been decidedly imposed upon, when he 

found that those relations themselves were 
doing their best to drag him down into the 
mud. Mr. Aldyn was a proud man, and 
hitherto his position in the village had been 
a lofty one. He was the rector, and, ex- 
cepting perhaps Lord Rigby, the richest 
and most important man in Armstead. 

Of his antecedents no one knew a word ; 
like a true Englishman, he lived secluded 
amongst his flock, giving no information, 
and asking none. He laid down hard and 
fyst rules of life, to which he held. He was 
a staunch supporter of Church and State. 
He religiously upheld the game-laws, gave 
little away in charity, but paid his bills 
every quarter with praiseworthy punc- 



THE D UNRA VENS IN ENGLAND. 95 

tuality. He believed in the distinction 
of classes ; he had a great contempt for the 
lower orders, though, as in duty bound, he 
coldly attended them when necessary to 
the portals of the next world ; but in his 
heart the golden calf was set up for 
worship, and he gave his devotion like the 
rest of mankind. 

His indignation was great, therefore, 
when he saw that ere Mr. Dunraven had 
been many weeks in Armstead, he was 
hail-fellow-well-met with everybody, quite 
irrespective of social position ; that, while 
taking his place amongst the 4 gentry ' and 
boldly avowing his kinship to the rector, 
he was not above familiarly slapping the 
rustics on the shoulder or drinking a glass 
of grog in the company of the small 
farmers who assembled in the cosy parlour 
of the inn ! What was the rector to do ? 



96 MADGE D UNRA VEN. 

It was clear that if this sort of thing went 
on, he would soon be unable to hold up 
his head amongst his own congregation. 
He had remonstrated already ; the scene 
which he had witnessed that night showed 
him only too plainly that his remonstrances 
had been vain. 

Again the scene flashed vividly across 
his brain. He saw the ragged servant 
playing, Mr. Dunraven strolling aimlessly 
about the lawn, the gaping labourers 
nudging one another, and Madge, that 
brown evil spirit who seemed to be the 
very imp of misrule, dancing frantically 
like a gipsy on the grass ! 

For a moment his anger almost over- 
came him ; he moved towards the door, half 
resolved to cast off the whole family and 
send them back to starve amongst the 
bogs. 



•» 



THE D UNRA VENS IN ENGLAND. 97 

1 No, no,' he murmured, pausing sud- 
denly ; ' I won't do that. Perhaps, after 
all, they may improve. I'll give them 
another chance, and try !' 



VOL. I. 




CHAPTER IV. 



INTRODUCES A JUVENILE CYNIC. 



IGNORANT of the pangs of 
shame which her innocent 
evening's amusement had 
caused the rector to endure, Madge 
went cheerfully to her lessons on the 
following day. By four o'clock her tasks 
were over, and she stood with her back 
towards the closed gate of the convent, 
shading her eyes with her bare hand, from 
the dazzling sunlight. The brightness of 



A JUVENILE CYNIC. 99 

the day had not waned, but a sense of 
coming coolness was diffused through the 
heated air, and the sounds of labour 
seemed growing faint. How bright and 
beautiful everything looked ! even the grey 
old convent, covered with its ivy and soft 
moss, seemed revivified by the sweet kisses 
of the sun ; the fields looked their greenest 
around the little old farms which were set 
here and there in the valleys ; the fruitful 
orchards clustered, and the great oak and 
lime trees waved ; the ponds and tarns lay 
placid, but the streams leapt brightly down 
the hill-sides and flowed through the fruitful 
valleys. 

As Madge, leaving the convent, walked 
quietly along the road, and looked with 
dreamy eyes at the fair prospect around 
her, she thought that never, even in her 
most enraptured childish dreams, had she 

7—2 



100 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 



pictured anything so fair. What a change 
was it from the dreary landscape of Con- 
nemara ! , There were no ragged peasants 
here — no starving, half-clad children ! It 
seemed to Madge a land of peace and 
plenty, such a place as she had often 
fancied heaven must be, when her childish 
imagination had taken a flight upwards as 
she had wandered amidst the dreary bog- 
lands of Ballymoy. 

She had walked some little distance along 
the road when she came to a rough wooden 
stile which led into a field. She paused — 
then, mounting on the first step of the 
stile, she sat down. She was not tired, 
but it was pleasant to linger there, with the 
thick hedge on either side of her and the 
green field behind, and to watch the sun- 
rays twinkling across the valley, the even- 
ing mists gathering about the hollows of 



i 



A JL VENILE CYNIC 101 



the deep meadows, and to listen in a 
strange dreamy way to the distant village 
sounds, the shouts and laughter of children, 
the heavy roll of waggons, and the tramp of 
horses'feet. 

Madge had sat listening and looking on 
for some little time, when a sharp click 
and a merry ringing laugh made her start 
and look round. About a hundred yards 
from where she sat were two figures — one 
a lady seated on horseback, the other a 
gentleman who stood holding open a gate 
which led into the opposite field. The 
lady passed through the gateway, turned 
to wave her hand to the gentleman who 
raised his hat, tightened the reins of her 
horse, and cantered away. 

The gentleman closed the gate, stood 
for a moment watching horse and rider, 
then he too turned, and walked slowly 



102 MADGE DUNRAVgN. 

along the road towards the spot where 
Madge still lingered. For some time the 
hedge screened her, but presently his eye, 
which was carelessly roving about, met 
hers. He smiled and raised his hat again. 
As he did so, Madge stepped down from 
her stile and gave him her hand. She 
had recognised George Aldyn, the rector s 
only son. 

' Don't disturb yourself/ he said, smiling 
pleasantly, and holding her hand in both 
of his. ' I like evening solitude as well as 
you. Sit down ; I'll sit beside you/ 

Madge shook her head. 

' No, indeed ; I am going home !' 

' Ah !' he replied, smiling again (what a 
strange smile it was, she thought ; half- 
cynical, half - curious, and wholly self- 
possessed), ' you are not a philanthropist, 
I observe ; you would have kept your seat 



A JUVENILE CYNIC. 103 

if you could have had the stile all to 
yourself, but because I ask the half of it 
you throw it up ; but never mind P 

' Indeed,' answered Madge, looking 
puzzled, for there was something about the 
way in which this young man conducted 
himself which always puzzled and very 
often annoyed her, 'you can sit on the 
stile if you choose ; it is nothing to me P 

Then she held out her hand and said 
good-bye. 

1 Wherefore good-bye ?' asked her com- 
panion. 

' Because I am going home/ said Madge, 
rather irritably; 'it is foolish to stand 
talking like this/ 

'Then since you think me so foolish/ 
returned George Aldyn, ' you will perhaps 
object to my walking home with you, Miss 
Dunraven/ 



104 MADGE DUN RAVEN, 



Madge looked puzzled again. 

1 Why should you walk home with me ?' 
she asked. 

He shook his head. 

' Indeed, I cannot tell ; but, incredible as 
it may seem to you, I came along here for 
that very purpose.' 

1 To meet met 

1 Exactly ; and you think me an ass for 
my pains, I see !' 

Madge drew back her hand. 

'It was kind of you to come/ she said ; 
' I am sorry if I have annoyed you ;' and 
then she walked slowly along the road, and 
George Aldyn took his place at her side. 

He was a tall, slim, gentlemanly young 
man of about three-and-twenty, not quite 
so handsome in the face as Conn, and a 
child to him in point of physical strength, 
but endowed with a good deal more natural 



A JUVENILE CYNIC. 105 

grace and artificial polish of manner. When 
she had first seen him, Madge had been 
made painfully alive to her cousin's defi- 
ciencies, and she had heartily wished that 
Conn had been something like the rector's 
son. But she had soon ceased to wish that. 
Accustomed as she had always been to 
the buoyant, straightforward, headstrong 
manner of her Irish cousin, she was a good 
deal irritated and puzzled by the cynical 
bantering tone of this young Englishman. 
She was seldom comfortable while in his 
company, and when they separated they 
generally did so in irritation, if not in anger. 
It was very good of him to come and 
meet her, Madge thought, but she would 
much rather he had stayed away. She 
was afraid to hazard any remark lest she 
should get a bantering reply, so she walked 
on in silence. Presently some magnetic 



106 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 

influence made her turn her head, and their 
eyes met. He smiled. 

' A sixpence for your thoughts/ he said, 
spinning the silver piece into the air and 
catching it again. 

' I was wondering who that lady could 
be who left you in the road and cantered 
across the field.' 

He laughed outright this time, and 
Madge's face grew dark. 

'And I was wondering/ he said, 'how 
long your woman's curiosity would let you 
refrain from asking that very question / 
then, as she remained silent, he added : 
' Well, since you have seen her, I may as 
well tell you, Madge. That is the young 
lady my father means me to marry.' 

' Means you to marry ?' repeated Madge, 
more astonished than before. 

'Exactly. My father, with that admi- 



A JUVENILE] CYNIC. 107 



rable foresight which characterises all his 
actions in life, planned the match for me 
several years ago.' 

'Why, I did not know that you were 
going to be married !' 

' Did you not ? well, you know it now ; 
and some day you shall get a nearer view 
of the object of my — or rather of my father s 
— choice/ 

' But if you are going to marry her she 
must be your choice. You are very fond 
of her, are you not ?* 

He smiled, shrugged his shoulders, and 
replied : 

' She has a good many thousand pounds P 

Madge's face flushed up. 

'And you are going to marry her be- 
cause of that ? 

1 1 did not say so ; but naturally, if I 
marry the lady, the money will fall to my 



108 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 

■ m ■ ■ i 

share too ! Why, Madge, you look angry ; 
what is the matter ?' 

1 1 am not angry/ said Madge, € but I 
am sorry ; I did not think you were quite 
so bad as that.' 
Bad ?' 

' I never imagined you would sell your- 
self/ 

' Nor would 1/ he returned indolently ; 
' say ten thousand pounds — pshaw ! I be- 
lieve if I were put up to auction, Madge, I 
should fetch at least twenty. But you are 
angry still ; what is the matter ?' 

1 It is such a contemptible thing for a 
gentleman to marry for money f 

' Ah, that idea weighs upon you, and, I 
see, by no means operates in my favour ; 
but let me assure you, my romantic little 
kinswoman, that, young as you are, you 
are sadly behind the age. Not marry for 



A JUVENILE CYNIC. 109 

money ? why, nobody does anything else 
now-a-days ; the age of romance and all 
that sort of thing is past. Just as railways 
have supplanted the old stage-coaches, so 
money takes the place of love. You see I 
only conform to the prejudices of the age 
in which I live. A little sober affection is 
all very well in its way, but fancy how a 
fellow's constitution must suffer when he 
has to pass through all the stages of 
romantic passion — when his heart bounds, 
his nerves throb* his eyes burn, and all 
that sort of thing! Oh, I mean to go 
through my life tranquilly enough, and just 
you see if I don't develop into a fine, fat, 
placid man of forty !' 

All this time Madge's dark, earnest eyes 
had been fixed upon his face as if she 
were endeavouring to read a puzzle. 
When he paused, she said quietly : 



1 10 MADGE D UNRA VEN. 



' You have not said anything about the 
lady yet ; is she going to marry you for 
your money ?' 

'Certainly not/ he replied, lifting his 
hat for a moment and running his fingers 
through his hair. ' She will marry me for 
love r 

' She admires you, then ?' 

He just glanced at her and smiled 
again. 

c I perceive there is a certain amount of 
malice in that question. Now do you 
conscientiously think she could know me 
and not admire me ?' 

' Yes, of course I do/ returned Madge, 
promptly ; ' / know you, but I do not 
admire you at all !' 

He raised his brows and shrugged his 
shoulders, but his irritating good-humour 
did not desert him. 



A JUVENILE CYNIC. Ill 

'And that's all the thanks I get for 
coming to meet you ?' 

' I did not ask you to come and meet 
me. I would much rather you had stayed 
away/ 

'Well, that's frank, at any rate. Ah/ 
shaking his head, ' I am afraid the I rish 
have no gratitude/ 

'At any rate, they have some heart/ 
returned Madge, excitedly. 'They are 
not cold and calculating like you English ; 
they have genuine affections and kindly 
feelings. If an Irishman were starving, he 
would not sell his soul as you English 
would/ 

He had touched the right chord at last. 
As he looked at the bright, beautiful, 
flashing face, his own lethargic features 
grew animated. He ceased his bantering 
tone and became more serious. 



112 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 

4 And so you really think that I would 
sell my soul, Madge — if/ he added paren- 
thetically, * I really possess that little 
article/ 

' I have only your word for it. If you 
choose to libel yourself it is no affair of 
mine.' 

Her head was turned away now, and, 
hard as he stared at her, he could not 
draw her eyes to his face. 

' Will you take my arm, Madge ? 

4 No, thank you !' 

' Let me carry those books for you ?' 

• No/ 

4 Ah ! I perceive I have offended you, 
as it is always my luck to do. Oh, 
Madge, I see you have an Irish heart; I 
fear you will have a stormy life/ 

1 1 hope so/ 

'What!' 




A JUVENILE CYNIC. 113 

• I do not wish to be an icicle. I would 
much rather have a stormy life than not be 
able to feel affection for anything on earth. 
I would not be like you for the world.' 

By this time they had reached the great 
green gates which shut in the grounds sur- 
rounding the Rectory. Madge paused, for 
at that moment Mr. Aldyn drew up his horse 
close to where they stood. He shook hands 
with Madge, and asked, in a kind but con- 
descending tone, how she got on with her 
studies. Madge answered glibly enough, 
and his eyes, wandering about her while 

she spoke, presently fell upon her ungloved 
hands. 

' Have you no gloves ?' he asked. 

' Yes, indeed/ returned Madge, sud- 
denly remembering that she wore none. 
' I have them in my pocket/ 

1 Then why don't you put them on ? 

vol I. 8 




114 MADGE DVNRAVEN. 

4 Indeed I don't know ; I suppose I 
forgot I seldom wore gloves when I was 
in BaDymoy.' 

An ejaculation was on the tip of Mr. 
Aldyn's tongue, but he only frowned 
slightly and said : 

4 My dear child, you must try to forget 
what you did there. It is not the custom 
in England for a young lady in your posi- 
tion to walk about like one of the lower 
orders/ 

Mr. Aldyn always spoke of the * lower 
orders ' as if they were quite beyond the 
pale of ordinary humanity. Madge pulled 
her gloves out of her pocket and began to 
draw them on, for she had noted at a side- 
glance that George Aldyn's hands were 
encased in black kid. 

When she raised her eyes to his face, 
she found that he was smiling to him- 



A JUVENILE CYNIC. 115 

self and curling his proud lip, so, wishing 
both the gentlemen ' good-night/ and re- 
fusing George Aldyn's escort farther, she 
walked away. 

The last gleam of sunlight had faded 
from the meadows, and far away in the 
west the sun had sunk to rest in the glow 
of its own splendour. The mists of coming 
twilight gathered about the mountain- 
peaks, the air was cool, but myriads of 
insects floated before the girl's face. She 
walked on quickly across the fields, and. 
soon reached her home. As she passed 
the kitchen-door she saw a beggar-woman 
crouched upon the ground, holding a baby 
in her arms. When she saw Madge she 
rose to her feet and shrank away ; the next 
moment she boldly stepped forward and 
held forth her hand. 

'One penny, my pretty lady/ she 

8—2 




11G MADGE DUNRAVEN. 

said, ' to buy food for my little 
child' . 

Madge felt in her pocket and found it 
empty. 

' I have no money/ she said ; then, open- 
ing the kitchen- door, she added: * but go 
in, you can get some food.' 

The woman looked startled. Was the 
girl joking ? she thought, or was it merely 
a ruse to get her caught and handed over 
to the police for mendicancy ? She was 
well initiated into her trade, and she knew 
the manners and customs of rural England. 
She had travelled the country for years, 
and she had never before even been invited 
to warm her half-frozen limbs by an Eng- 
lishman's fire. 

' Will you not go in ?' asked Madge, ob- 
serving her hesitation. ' Biddy will give 
you some tea and bread if you are hungry, 



A JUVENILE CYNIC. W 



and I will ask my uncle for a sixpence for 
you, as I have not one/ 

The woman looked at her again ; this 
time she crossed the threshold. Biddy, 
who, as usual, was very dirty and very busy, 
placed a chair for her at the table; but 
Madge passed on into the parlour, where 
she found both Mr. Dunraven and Conn. 

Madge got her sixpence, and after she 
had given it to the beggar-woman, who 
was quietly taking tea with Biddy in the 
kitchen, she returned to the parlour. 

' What makes you so late, Madge ?* 
asked Mr. Dunraven. 

' 1 was talking to George Aldyn/ re- 
turned Madge, quietly taking her seat at 
the tea-table. 

During the meal Madge was very quiet, 
and after it was over she rested her elbow 
on the table, her chin in her hand, and 



118 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 

began to think, wondering whether this 
same Englishman would always be a 
puzzle to her, or if she would some day be 
able to read his character aright 



k 




CHAPTER V. 



UP AT THE CASTLE. 



\ H I LE Madge and George Aldyn 
were discussing the pros and 
cons connected with a mer- 
cenary marriage, the young lady who had 
unconsciously given rise to the discussion 
was making her way across the fields. 
She seemed to be in no hurry, however, 
for, after she had crossed the first meadow, 
she leaped her horse lightly over a low 
grassy bank, pulled up suddenly in the 



120 MADGE DUN RAVEN. 

middle of the road, and throwing the reins 
loosely on the horse's neck, allowed him to 
walk quietly along, whilst she, resting her 
cheek on her hand, relapsed into a dream. 

It was very pleasant on the highway, 
very cool and quiet. The road was dusty 
beneath her horse's feet, but the great 
green banks which shut in the meadows on 
either side were covered with dog-violets, 
speedwells, and primroses, and the inter- 
twining boughs of the tall beech-trees 
formed a canopy for her head. Before 
her, across the white road, the sunrays fell 
and the shadows lay ; the drowsy hum of 
bees, which hovered above the sweet- 
scented banks, filled her ears with music, 
while the butterflies and blue moths floated 
thick in the air before her and settled 
about her dress. 

She neither saw nor heard : there was a 




UP AT THE CASTLE. 121 

look in her eyes and a quiet expression on 
her face which showed that her thoughts 
were far away, and that the present, with 
all its sunshine and beauty, was quite 
obliterated from her mind. 

What a beautiful face it was I Every 
feature was perfect, from the soft, rounded 
chin to the broad white brow, smooth and 
delicate as marble. Her cheeks, usually 
pale, were no\/ flushed with heat and 
exercise, and there was a tremor about 
her mouth and delicate pink nostrils. An 
ideal soul seemed now reflected in the girl's 
countenance. 

A stumble of her horse, a faint sound 
of voices, recalled her to herself. 

In a moment the whole look of the girl 
changed. She laughed a pretty but not 
very pleasant laugh, straightened her body, 
and threw up her head. Her lip curled 



\ 



122 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 

slightly, and the light in her eyes grew 
cold. Gathering up her reins, she urged 
on the animal, and then drew up near 
an open gate, and looked over. 

In the neighbouring field, a few yards 
from where she sat, were the figures whose 
voices she had heard. One she recognised 
as Lord Rigbys head-keeper, the other — no 
other, indeed, than Conn Dunraven — she 
never remembered to have seen before. 
Conn's right hand held the mane of a big- 
boned horse which stood beside him, his 
left was outstretched towards a shaggy 
greyhound which crouched at his feet. 

' I tell you you are wrong/ he said de- 
cidedly ; ' the dog never poaches ; but the 
hare crossed his path, within an inch of his 
nose, and what could he do but run it ? 
Poor old fellow, hes not to blame — he 
hasn't got into English ways yet. He 



UP AT THE CASTLE. 123 

generally had three good days a week 
when he was at Ballymoy, but he's never 
had a course since he left home/ 

1 It don't matter to me what the brute's 
been accustomed to,' returned the keeper, 
angrily and rather insolently ; ' but I know 
what I've got to do, and I'll do it. A 
poacher's a poacher — it don't matter to me 
who he be ; and if /can't keep 'em off the 
land, the law will, that's all.' 

' Be civil now,' returned Conn, hotly, 
4 or you'll find your match, Mr. Keeper!' 

4 You'll have that dog shot !' 

' I'll see you d d first !' 

'Very well then,' returned the keeper, 
doggedly, Met me catch him on this land 

again, and I'm d d if I don't shoot the 

brute myself!' 

Conn put his foot in the stirrup and 
mounted his horse. 



124 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 

' Harm that dog,' he said decidedly, 
4 and it will be the worst day's work you 
ever did. I'd put a bullet into the man 
that killed him.' 

Touching his horse with his whip, he 
turned towards the open gate, near which 
the young lady sat on horseback, a calm 
spectator of the scene. At this unex- 
pected apparition he started, then he lifted 
his slouch-hat, passed quietly by, and 
whistling up his dog, galloped quickly 
down the road and disappeared. 

When the sound of his horse's hoofs had 
died away, the young lady turned to the 
keeper. 

4 What was it all about, Scott ?' she 
asked. 

The man lifted a dead hare from the 
grass, and touched his hat as he came 
forward. 



UP AT THE CASTLE. 125 

4 It's them confounded Irish, miss/ he 
said ; i the Lord only knows what they've 
been used to in their own country, for they 
don't seem to know how to behave like 
Christians now they're here. They calls 
themselves gentlefolks, I'll be bound ; but 
/ never saw a lady that roamed about the 
woods with nothin' on.' 

' With nothing on — what do you mean ?' 

'Well, next to nothin', begging your 
pardon, miss. She hadn't got a bit of shoe 
nor stocking on when I caught her in the 
plantation yesterday, making noise enough 
to frighten all the birds within half a mile 
of her ; and now this young chap comes 
running his hound in the preserves. But it's 
the last time he'll hunt here, I can tell him. 
If he wants a shooting, why don't he rent 
* it, as any decent gentleman would ?' 

The girl laughed, and, nodding abruptly 



126 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 

to the keeper, touched her horse with the 
whip and cantered away. 

She had gone about two miles when she 
suddenly pulled up again, this time before 
two great iroix folding gates. A small, 
low-roofed lodge stood just within on one 
side, and as the hoofs of the lady's horse 
clattered up, a woman came out of the 
lodge, curtsied, and threw the gates wide* 
Entering, the lady trotted slowly up a 
broad avenue lined with tall beech-trees, 
and soon came within sight of a great, grey, 
battlemented building, faced by expansive 
lawns, and having for a background several 
well-stocked orchards and numberless out- 
buildings. The front entrance was ap- 
proached by a flight of stone steps, on each 
side of which crouched a lion. A red flag 
waved from the towers, and caught the full 
rays of the setting sun. 



UP AT THE CASTLE. 127 

At the foot of the steps the lady dis* 
mounted, and, as a groom led her horse 
away, she ran up the great stone steps and 
entered the house. 

' His lordship was asking for you, miss,' 
said the footman, who held the door wide ; 
' he wants to see you before dinner.' 

4 Very well ; where is he ?' 

4 In the library.' 

4 Say that I will be with him im- 
mediately. Nay, never mind/ she added 
quickly, as she passed on. * I will send 
Osborne.' 

She ran upstairs, and rang to summon 
her maid. In a quarter of an hour she 
herself was standing before a great mirror, 
surveying herself from head to foot. She 
was dressed in a robe of spotless white, 
without ornament of any kind. Her 
glistening golden hair was coiled around 



128 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 

her head, while here and there a stray tress 
lay upon her brow. Her grey eyes calmly 
surveyed the outlines of her slim figure, 
her soft white throat, full red lips and 
delicately-carved nostrils, then a look of 
thorough satisfaction stole over her face, 
and she smiled. 

' That will do, Osborne,' she said, with- 
out even glancing over her shoulder ; ' go 
and tell his lordship that I am at his 
service.' 

In five minutes the maid returned, and 
the proud girl left the room, ran down- 
stairs and entered the library. As she. 
held back her hand to close the door 
gently behind her, her eyes swept the room 
in one comprehensive glance ; then they 
settled upon the only inmate, a tall, thin, 
nervous-looking man, with a face white as 
alabaster. His eyes were small and cat-like, 



UP AT THE CASTLE. 129 

his nose high and thin. A white mous- 
tache covered his mouth, and his hair was 
of a light straw colour. He did not appear 
old, and his white skin was not marred by 
a single wrinkle. 

As the girl entered he was tapping the 
floor impatiently with his foot. 

1 Where have you been, Rosamond ?' he 
asked, rather irritably. 

' 1 have been riding, my lord/ returned 
the girl quietly, with a slight curl of the 
lip. 

' Dear me, I know that. I learned that 
when I sent for you an hour ago. Why is 
it you are always riding when I want you ?' 

* I was not aware that I was wanted.' 

All this while the girl had not advanced 
a step ; her hand was on the white and* 
gold handle of the closed door, her eyes, 
roaming carelessly about the room ; but 

vol. i. 9 



130 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 

when Lord Rigby said in a fretful voice, 
• Come here, Rosamond,' she crossed the 
room and sat down in the chair which he 
pointed out to her. 

' I have had Aldyn here to-day,' he said, 
'and we have been talking over that 
arrangement which was entered into three 
years ago. Dear me,' he added im- 
patiently, ' I shall be glad when it is all 
over. You cause me a great deal of 
anxiety, Rosamond.' 

He paused ; but the girl said nothing, 
neither did she make a movement. Her 
half-closed fingers supported her chin, and 
her eyes still roved carelessly about the 
room. 

'We were talking it over,' continued 
Lord Rigby. 'and I quite agree with 
Aldyn that it is about time the promise 
was fulfilled.' 



UP AT THE CASTLE. 131 



, ' What promise, my lord ?' 

' Why, Rosamond, how dull you 
are ! Have you forgotten that you 
promised to become young Aldyn's 
wife ?' 

' Indeed, my lord, I don't think the 
young gentleman ever spoke to me upon 
the subject/ 

Her companion looked at her as if he 
would like to shake her, but he was too 
well bred to lose his presence of mind even 
for a moment. 

' You were fortunate in having your 
affairs arranged for you/ he continued 
quietly. ' It is a very good match for you, 
indeed ; for what are you but a penniless 
girl, dependent upon me for all you will 
get ? You always have been dependent 
upon me, and I have done my duty by 
you, Rosamond. You cannot deny that, 



] 32 MADGE D UNRA VEN. 



though you are, and always have been, 
ungrateful !' 

The girl's proud lip curled. 
' I have always obeyed you, my lord/ 
' Obeyed me ? yes, you were obliged to 
do that ; but after living with me for nine- 
teen years, one would think you would 
have shown me something more than 
obedience. Rosamond, you are a heartless 
girl r 

Rosamond laughed outright, then she 
rose from her seat and walked a few steps 
towards the door. 

1 1 beg your pardon, my lord,' she said, 
'but I could not avoid laughing. You 
uttered a stale truism with such an air of 
originality that it quite amused me. I have 
given you my obedience all these years ; I 
am willing to obey you still, even to the 
extent of marrying Mr. Aldyn, but if you 



UP AT THE CASTLE. 133 

- 

ask for sentiment, I tell you frankly I have 
none to give ; for that you come several 
years too late. But I have not heard what 
you wish to say to me/ she added ; i you 
sent for me, my lord, to discuss, I presume, 
my contemplated marriage ? Well, as all 
the preliminaries are complete, I suppose 
the sooner I am disposed of the better ?' 

Lord Rigby rose and bowed formally. 

1 You are perfectly right/ he said ; 4 the 
day you leave this house will be the happiest 
day of my life/ 

'And I need not say anything more 
definite now ? I may have a little time to 
reflect ?' 

* Certainly, but let the delay be as brief 
as possible. You are acquainted with my 
wishes; we need not discuss the subject 
again F 

With another bow he resumed his seat, 



134 MADGE D UNRA VEN. 

while the girl, curtsying low, passed 
silently out of the room. 

Without pausing in the hall she ran 
swiftly up the stairs, and locking herself in 
her room, sank silently into a chair which 
stood by the window, and gazed out upon 
the great green woodlands which surrounded 
the castle. 

' 1 wonder who I am ?' she murmured 
dreamily, tapping her fingers on her fair 
cheek. ' Had I ever father or mother, or 
did I grow, like Topsy in the tale ? I 
know I am a dependent : Lord Rigby has 
taken care to remind me of that fact almost 
every day of my life. As if I were ever 
likely to forget it ! as if I ever put a piece 
of bread in my mouth without thinking, 
"That is the bread of charity, that was 
bought, and is given, very grudgingly too, 
by a cold-blooded English lord !" The 



UP AT THE CASTLE. 135 

hypocrite ! to come to me at the eleventh 
hour and ask for affection. I have none ! 
If I had, if I was possessed of a heart like 
any other human being, I should not marry 
George Aldyn ! I have no heart ! he never 
spoke a truer word than that P 

And yet, if the truth must be told, there 
had been times when she herself had 
yearned for affection ; when she had stood 
trembling before that cold, fretful, formal 
man, praying that he might stoop to kiss 
her ; when she had held those icy fingers 
between her little hands, sobbing passion- 
ately; when her little heart had almost 
burst to see the cold looks which were cast 
down upon her. But her heart had been 
chilled since then. The icy temperature 
of her home had effectually frozen the 
fountains of love that had once bubbled 
up within her. 



1 36 MADGE D UNRA VEN. 

i I wonder what claim I have upon him ?* 
she continued ; * he is not the man to feed 
and clothe me, and give me several thou- 
sand pounds of a fortune to boot, if I had 
not some claim. Can he be my father ? 
Impossible! Well, 111 have it all out of 
him before I marry f 

Here the sound of the dinner-bell cut 
her meditations short. She rose, and 
without once looking in the mirror, passed 
down the stairs. 




CHAPTER VI. 

AMONG GREEN LANES. 

SHE next afternoon, as Madge was 
returning from the convent, she 
found the stile, where she had 
been accustomed to rest, occupied. George 
Aldyn sat there. He looked at her calmly, 
as she advanced, and held a white handker- 
chief on high. 

'A flag of truce,' he called out, as 
soon as she came within hearing ; ' will 
you meet me half-way, Madge ? or do 



138 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 



you hold off and declare war to the 
knife? 

Madge came quietly forward and held 
out her hand. 

4 Why have you come to meet me again 
to-day ?* she asked. 

4 Not for any stray compliments there 
might be floating about,' he returned ; * for 
I never find any in your neighbourhood, 
Madge.' 

4 I would not compliment you even if I 
thought of it : you have had too much 
flattery already.' 

4 How Ao you know ? 

4 Because you are so conceited/ 

4 / conceited ! preposterous ! Explain !' 

4 Indeed I shall not ; you are too fond of 
talking about yourself; it is the only topic 
that interests you. Besides, I shall not 
linger talking to-day, the sky is growing 



AMONG GREEN LANES. 139 

so dark, it may rain before I reach 
home.' 

So saying, she turned away, and her 
companion rose from his seat and strolled 
along by her side. 

'Confess you were angry last night, 
Madge/ he said. 

i I was not f 

'Then why did you banish me so 
peremptorily, and refuse me permission to 
see you home ?' 

' Because there was no necessity for you 
to come when I had only a few yards to 
walk. It is stupid to think I cannot go 
about by myself. Why, in Ballymoy I 
used to roam miles across the mountains, 
and never get sight of a soul/ 

' My dear child,' replied the young man, 
mimicking broadly his fathers voice and 
manner, 'this is not Ballymoy. In England, 



140 MADGE D UNRA VEN. 

young ladies in your position are not sup- 
posed to roam about gloveless and without 
protectors/ 

Madge stole a look at him, but said 
nothing then. When she did speak, it was 
only to express a wish that she were at 
that moment in her Irish home. 

'Why, Madge, I thought you liked 
England ?' he said, suddenly abandoning 
his blast, sarcastic tone. 

'So I do. I was not thinking of the 
place, but the people/ 
. ' Complimentary : do you know that I 
am one of them ?' 

As the conversation was in danger of 
becoming personal again, Madge made no 
reply. She was in no mood that night 
either to take or give compliments, and 
the badinage of this conceited young man 
annoyed her more than usual. Perhaps he 




AMONG GREEN LANES. 141 

saw this, for when he spoke again he had 
assumed a more serious air. 

' Don't you get on with the people, 
Madge ?' he asked. 

'No, I don't think we do ; at least, we 
do not understand their ways. The life 
here is very different to that we led at 

* 

home, and it will take a time before we get 
well used to it. It is very dull for Conn 
and my uncle, having no one to take a 
glass of grog with them of an evening, and 
the kitchen is always empty besides.' 
' Would you have it full, Madge ?' 
' Yes, it was always full at home. The 
boys would drop in of an evening for a 
dance, and my uncle and Conn and I used 
sometimes to go out and dance too ; but 
now people seldom cross our threshold, 
and if they do, some harm is sure to come 
of it. Why, only last night, after I left 



142 MADGE D UNRA VEN. 



you, I found a poor beggar-woman at the 
kitchen-door. I told her to go in ; Biddy- 
gave her some tea, and Conn sent her 
sixpence. An hour after she was gone, 
Biddy missed the best table-cloth that had 
been lying rolled up on the dresser, as well 
as the knife and fork and spoon which 
were on the table when she took her tea.' 

' You don't mean to say that you allowed 
a wandering beggar-woman to be alone in 
your kitchen ?' 

'Yes, she was alone. It was while 
Biddy was in the parlour making tea for us 
that she went away with the things.' 

After this announcement George Aldyn 
was affected with a prolonged fit of laughter. 

'Verdict of "served you right!" ' he 
exclaimed, as soon as he could speak. 

' What do you mean ?' 

' That, with such temptation before her, 



AMONG GREEN LANES. 143 

you had no right to expect that she would 

act in any other way.' 

' No right ? why, she had as much as 

ever she could eat, and a sixpence besides : 

why did she steal ?' 

' Doubtless, at first, because nobody gave 

to her, then it grew into a confirmed habit, 
and now, I suppose, she can no more help 
stealing than the sun can help shining. 
Depend upon it, Madge, if you begin 
harbouring beggars and letting them walk 
into your house without so much as " By 
your leave," you will soon find it empty P 
' Surely they are not all like that !' 
' Probably no, but the chances are, yes. 
There's no greater scamp walking the 
earth than your English tramp. It may 
be all very well in Ireland to practise 
indiscriminate hospitality and all that sort 
of thing, but depend upon it, it won't do 



1 44 MADGE D UNRA VEN. 

here. Shut your doors against the whole 
race, and you'll be safe.' 

' Shut a beggar out ? I could never do 
that. Besides, that would be the way to 
make him steal.' 

'Not at all : say rather it would keep 
him from the temptation of committing a 
crime/ 

Madge made no reply, and for a time 
the two walked on in silence. Even now 
she could not make out whether her com- 
panion was jesting or in earnest ; whether 
he really felt and meant all the cold and 
calculating things which he said, or whether 
he had in his own breast some extenuating 
pity for the faults of his poor countrymen. 
She would have liked him better, she said 
to herself, if he had defended them, in- 
stead of which he was harder upon them 
than she — she who might reasonably be 



AMONG GREEN LANES. U5 

supposed to have little sympathy with 
people of the Saxon race. 

She did not understand that the life 
which they led in Ireland could not be 
practised here. Ever since she could re- 
member, Shranamonragh Castle had been 
a refuge for the starving and destitute ; 
any wandering beggar could rest his weary 
feet at their threshold, or entering in, allay 
the pangs of hunger and cold. Why 
should they not do so still ? From the 
first, her uncle had seen no reason why, 
in changing his abode, he should alter his 
mode of life. What did it matter whether 
he was surrounded by the poverty-stricken 
bogs of Ballymoy or the succulent soil of 
England ? Charity and good-fellowship 
were the same, he thought, all the world 
over, and he saw no reason why he should 
renounce these simply because he had cast 

vol. i. 10 



146 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 

his lines among people of a chiller, prouder, 
blood. 

But very soon Madge began to observe 
that their own mode of life marked them 
out as glaring exceptions to an old- 
established rule — that English and Irish 
manners were two very different things, in 
fact. An Englishman's house was his 
' castle :' beggars were never harboured 
about his door, nor were shivering outcasts 
allowed to take refuge by his kitchen fire. 
Those were things which were quite incon- 
sistent with English prejudices. 

Not even the rector broke through the 
rule ; and now here was his son, even at 
the age of three-and-twenty, denouncing 
the very principles of Christianity which 
in less th&n another year he would stand in 
the pulpit and uphold. 

Charity and benevolence seemed to be 



AMONG GREEN LANES. 147 

unknown in Armstead ; it was all a scramble 
for self. When a man was once possessed 
of a comfortable homestead, he saw no 
reason why he should impoverish himself 
by sharing it with homeless outcasts, who 
might have been in the same happy posi- 
tion had fickle fate not willed it otherwise. 

All this Madge had not yet learned ; it 
was only beginning to dawn upon her, but 
already it checked her keen enjoyment of 
the natural beauties which spread enchant- 
ingly everywhere around. 

The sun had nearly sunk to rest ; 
ominous shadows darkened the landscape ; 
a chilly wind swept across the skies, drift- 
ing up from the west banks of cloud 
heavily surcharged with rain. The trees 
seemed to rustle their branches and groan 
beneath some heavy invisible load. In 
the valley before them lay the village, like 

10 — i 



H8 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 

a bird with folded wings, and the church 
spire pointed like a finger to a bar of 
sable broken clouds which gathered just 
above. 

It was as if a heavy weight hung above 
the earth. Woods and waters seemed 
agitated ; cattle ran madly about the fields 
or stood beneath the trees, lowing softly ; 
the sheep, pent up in their folds, huddled 
close together and bleated ; even the birds, 
with ruffled feathers and folded wings, 
crept into the thickest part of the hedges 
and branches, as if for shelter. 

For a time Madge had forgotten the 
approaching storm : she noted the signs 
now, and quickened her steps. 

' I shall not reach home before the rain 
comes on,' she said. 

George Aldyn took her hand and drew 
it on his arm. 



AMOA/G GREEN LANES. 149 

' We will turn down this road, Madge, 
and then one short cut across the fields will 
bring us to your door/ 

The road was narrow, just broad enough 
for the tree branches to touch overhead; 
a tall hedge shut them in on either side, 
pressing so closely upon them that Madge 
had sometimes to push away the pro- 
truding foliage with her hand. She clung 
close to her companion's arm. 

' I do not like to hear you talk like that/ 
she said presently. 

' Like what, Madge ?' 

' Like you did just now. Surely on 
such a night as this is going to be, you 
would not turn a beggar from your door/ 

The young man laughed lightly. 

' How earnest you are, Madge ! Do 
you want to solve the problem of life and 
regenerate the world ? because if you do, 



150 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 



you'll simply be a martyr — a little speck 
swallowed up in the great abyss of human 
woes. Christian charity is all very well 
theoretically, but practically it won't do ; 
let every man take care of himself, and the 
devil take the hindmost !' 

' That is a very bad principle !' 

1 Perhaps ; but those who practise it get 
on, as we see every day of our lives. Con- 
tract an affection, it will only become an 
additional source of pain ; and you your- 
self discovered only last night how charity 
is rewarded.' 

'The woman stole — you said yourself 
she could not help it. Should we make 
others suffer for what she did ?' 

He shrugged his shoulders. 

' Treat every man as a scamp till you 
know him to be an honest man ; keep your 
doors well secured ; bank your money ; go 



AMONG GREEN LANES. 151 

regularly to church ; look after your own 
interests in life, and you'll do/ 

A rustle in the hedge, a movement 
close to her feet, made Madge start. 
Turning quickly, she encountered a pair 
of eyes. 

Crouched upon the ground, close up 
beneath the hedge, was a man weary and 
travel-stained. His boots were dusty and 
very old, his clothes were rent and darned ; 
a bundle and a stick lay on the road beside 
him ; he was gnawing at a crust of dry 
bread. He returned the looks of Madge 
and George Aldyn with a sullen, half- 
insolent stare. 

' About what o'clock might it be ?' he 
asked, in a forced rather unnatural voice. 

1 A quarter to five/ returned George 
Aldyn, taking out a great gold hunting- 
watch and springing open the lid. ' What 



152 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 

are you doing here ?' he asked, snapping 
it to again and returning it to his pocket, 

4 A man can rest on the king s highway/ 
returned the other. ' I've been on the 
tramp since dawn. I'm making my way 
to Armstead/ 

' I would advise you to push on then ; 
this premature darkness means thunder 
and rain ; every honest man ought to be 
at home to-night !' 

' And what about the others ?' asked the 
man, with a sly sidelong look into the young 
man's face. 

' They ? Oh, I suppose the devil will 
take care of them !' 

He put his finger and thumb into his 
waistcoat pocket, drew out a shilling and 
tossed it to the man ; then he took posses- 
sion of Madge's hand again, and the two 
walked swiftly away. 



AMONG GREEN LANES. 153 

'Since you do not believe in charity 
why did you give the man that money ?' 
asked Madge. 

' Because I had no particular use for it, 
and he looked as if he would have. He 
hadn't the grace to thank me for it, how- 
ever ; and if I were to take him into the 
house and feed him, he would probably 
reward me by stealing anything that came 
in his way f 

He paused, opened a great white gate 
which at this point divided the hedge, and 
the two left the road and followed a narrow 
footpath across the field. In two minutes 
more Madge stood with her companion on 
the threshold of her home. They were 
none too soon. There was a moaning and 
rustling in the air ; a heavy torrent of rain 
fell upon wood and water ; a flash, vivid 
and dazzling, parted like a fiery brand the 



154 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 

gathered bank of cloud, a crash loud and 
deep followed. 

'Come in, come in! 1 said Madge, and 
George Aldyn, pushing her across the 
threshold, followed her into the house. 




CHAPTER VII. 



ENGLISH HOSPITALITY. 



|HE fiery tongue of light seemed 
to cut the heavens in two. It 
illuminated the roofs of church 
and dwelling, now dripping with the heavy 
downpour of rain ; it quivered across 
rivers, lakes, and fields ; it flashed its 
deadly flame into the eyes of a man, 
almost the only one abroad that night. 

The approaching storm had been noted, 
and the villagers had fled. Some had 



156 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 

sought refuge in their homes, others had 
withdrawn into cowsheds or such places as 
were safe and afforded shelter, while others 
had repaired to the inn, and were enjoying 
the cosy brightness of the parlour when 
the rain began to pour upon the roof. 

But the man, into whose eyes the light- 
ning flashed, crouched still beneath the 
hedge where Madge and George Aldyn 
had left him. He did not gnaw his crust 
now ; it was gone. The shilling which 
George had thrown him was safe in his 
pocket ; he had drawn his bundle and stick 
nearer to his side, but he did not attempt 
to move. 

' " All honest men ought to be at home 
to-night," ' he murmured, glancing in the 
direction which George and Madge had 
taken. ' You were right, my fine swell ; but 
I wonder how many rogues are safely 



ENGLISH HOSPITALITY. 157 

housed down there ? . . . Who could he be, 
I wonder ? Never saw his face before, to 
my knowledge ; there was something 
about him that seemed to call up to 
my mind that old rogue Aldyn the 
vicar. The cold-blooded, hard-hearted 
devil r 

The lightning flashed into his eyes, and 
almost blinded him ; the heavy rain fell 
like a torrent upon his threadbare coat; 
the thunder pealed loud above him. For 
a moment he veiled with his hand his 
dazzled half-blinded eyes, then, as the 
light quivered and faded, leaving the pro- 
spect dank and blackened by the heavy 
streams of rain, he thrust himself farther 
under the hedge, in the hope of finding 
shelter. But the heavy raindrops pene- 
trated the thick hedge and soaked his skin ; 
the dusty road was already thick with 



158 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 

brown mud ; every rustle of the boughs 
shook down an additional shower. Still, 
there was no better shelter nigh, and to 
make his way now towards the village 
would be madness. So he drew up his 
knees, crept closer beneath the rain-sodden 
hedge, while the water ran in a stream 
around him from the turned-down brim of 
his old felt hat. 

1 It's just like my luck/ he muttered. 
' The weather could keep fine for five or 
six weeks at a stretch when I was in quod, 
but because I'm out, thunder and rain 
comes on. It's not enough for a poor 
devil to be homeless and a beggar, but he 
must be beaten down with bad weather 
besides. It's a bad thing for a man to 
be poor in England ; he might just as well 
be a criminal, for that matter. It was 
because I hadn't a penny that the girl at 



ENGLISH HOSPITALITY. 159 

the farmhouse set the dogs at me this 
morning ; not because she saw my cropped 
head, and knew I'd just come out of 
gaol.' 

The heaviest rain had ceased, and the 
air seemed growing brighter. Several 
vivid flashes had followed the first, but 
now they too had faded, and the thunder 
could now be heard faintly crashing afar 
off. The air was cooler, it seemed cleansed 
and purified. A thin mist fell, veiling 
the earth in a mantle of gossamer. The 
man rolled up his frayed trousers, un- 
fastened a piece of rag which was tied 
round his right leg just above the ankle, 
and disclosed a jagged wound. 

'Curse the dog!' he muttered; 'the 
brute had sharp teeth and no mistake : the 
wound's deep.' 

The rag which he had removed was 



160 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 

saturated with dark blood ; he threw it 
aside. Then he tore a strip off" the hand- 
kerchief which held his small store, 
moistened it with the cool, fresh raindrops 
which still fell from the hedge, and bound 
it round his leg. Then he scrambled to his 
feet, and, taking his stick in one hand and 
his bundle in the other, limped slowly along* 
the road. 

1 Lord Almighty !' he muttered, ' I'm not 
the man I was. Three years of prison 
fare and prison work have told on me, and 
two nights in the open air don't seem to 
have done me much good. I wonder 
who'll give me a lodging to-night ? P'raps 
I'll have to sleep under one o' them damp 
hedges, unless I make my way to the 
castle yonder and get the protection of his 
lordship. Ha, ha, ha ! it would be quite a 
pleasant surprise for him, seem' me ! Don't 



ENGLISH HOSPITALITY. 161 

think he'd get over much sleep after it 
though. Ah well, I've got a shilling in 
my pocket to-night — thanks to my fine 
young swell, whoever he. be — and if the 
very worst happens and I have to camp 
out, why I can get a glass of grog to warm 
me/ 

Muttering thus, he limped slowly along 
the road towards Armstead. His tall, thin^ 
angular frame was beginning to shiver and 5 
shrink from the clammy touch of the 
garments which clung about him, and upon 
which still fell some glittering drops of rain. 
His cheeks were sunken, and his eyes 
stared leadenly from beneath his heavy, 
square brow ; he looked fitfully on either 
hand, but presently he concentrated his 
dull gaze upon the village. 

Although the storm had abated, prema- 
tura darkness had come on, and the falling 

VOL. I. II 



162 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 

rain glimmered in the air like starlit dew. 
Already he saw faint gleams of light issuing- 
from beneath the slated eaves of the 
houses and troubling the dreary prospect 
without. 

Before entering the village, the man sat 
down to rest himself again upon the road- 
side, and, pushing back his hat, drew the 
wet sleeve of his coat across his forehead. 

1 1 hope to God they won't refuse me 

shelter to-night/ he muttered, 'for I'm 

•well-nigh beat. I was always neighbourly 

with them, and never did them any harm. 

Fll give my last shilling for a stretch by 

some fire. I'm used to hard beds, but I'm 

« 

almost past bearing much now/ 

He rose once more to his feet, and, still 
leaning on his stick, with a slouching, 
limping gait, entered the village. 

No one seemed abroad ; the lanes and 



ENGLISH HOSPITALITY. 163 

narrow streets were almost as deserted 
as the wide-spreading fields: now and 
then a labourer appeared hastening home, 
his clothes drenched, his hat pulled low 
down upon his head, emitting a thin stream 
of water from the brim. He answered the 
"good-night" that was given him, and, 
without further parley, passed on. A small 
row of houses stood now on the man's 
right hand, poor two-storied buildings in- 
habited by the men who tilled Lord 
Rigby s land. Would he knock at one of 
the doors ? It seemed not ; he hesitated, 
and as he did so he heard a footstep 
behind him. The figure of a man ap- 
proached and paused on the door-step of 
one of the dwellings. Our traveller ad- 
dressed him. 

' Can you tell me where I might get a 
night's lodging, neighbour ?' 

II — 2 



164 At'ADGE DUNRAVEN. 

' Noa/ 

Ere he made the request, our traveller 
had a faint hope that the person addressed 
might probably have the humanity to offer 
him shelter for the night. But the reply 
was short, sharp and decisive, and quelled 
the hope at one word. 

There was a pause, during which the 
two men regarded each other. 

1 1 haven't a place to rest in, friend ; I'm 
cold and drenched to the skin.' 

1 Be you a beggar ?' 

A slight movement of the head gave 
assent. 

' I'm lame and almost dead beat. I've 
been on the tramp since dawn/ 

' And on the treadmill, too, I reckon/ 
returned the man. l Likely you'll find 
some old barn about that you can lay in ; 
you'd better be off out of this. Honest 




EJSlGLISH HOSPITALITY. 165 

folks don't like such as you to hang about 
their doors.' 

He lifted 'the latch, entered the house 
and closed the door behind him. In doing 
so he addressed some one inside. 

1 Be the boys in, Milly ? then I'll just 
shoot the bolt. There be queerish people 
hanging about the roads to-night, and 
tain't safe to leave the fastenings out. 
Just put the ketch in the winder and push 
to the shutters. That'll do ; wire safe 
anyhow.' 

If this speech was intended to reach the 
ears of the traveller it served its end. He 
stood for a moment, then limped on. 

Three doors from the one which the 
man had entered he paused again. An 
uncurtained window was before him ; he 
peeped in. He saw a bright, clean kitchen 
with sanded floor, and shining plates 



^ 



166 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 

smiling from the dresser against the wall. 
Beside a well- swept hearth sat a woman 
nur$ing a child ; several other little ones 
clustered around her, while a girl of more 
advanced years was moving about pre- 
paring supper. They were speaking : the 
ijian pressed his ear close against the 
window-pane and listened. 

1 Pest upon thy father for stopping out 
so late. Look out, Betty, and see if thou 
canst see him cominV 

The girl opened the door and looked 
out. She gave a start — a scream. 

' What is to do now ?' 

' Tis a beggar man, mother !' 

* A beggar at this hour ? Shut the 
door r 

But the beggar had his stick in the 

doorway, and the behest could not be 
obeyed. 



ENGLISH HOSPITALITY. 167 

< I'm seekin' a night's lodging, mistress/ 
he said. ' I've been on the tramp since 
dawn, and I'm well-nigh beat. I'm soaked 
with the rain ; only let me lie beside your 
kitchen fire to-night, and I'll give you a 
shilling — the last shilling I've got — and I'll 
go away and beg my breakfast in the 
morning !' 

'This ain't a lodging-house/ returned 
the woman; 'be off, or I'll call up my 
good man — he's only upstairs washing his- 
self. Ezekiel ! Ezekiel P she called at the 
top of her voice. 

' Don't turn me away, mistress ; 'tis 
a cold wet night abroad. Only let me 
rest here to-night ; I'll go away before 
dawn.' 

' I'll be bound you will, and take what 
you can lay your hand on beside ! Be 
off— be off, I tell you ! Ezekiel ! Ezekiel !' 



■> 



166 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 

smiling from the dresser against the wall. 
Beside a well- swept hearth sat a woman 
nursing a child ; several other little ones 
clustered around her, while a girl of more 
advanced years was moving about pre- 
paring supper. They were speaking : the 
man pressed his ear close against the 
window-pane and listened. 

' Pest upon thy father for stopping out 
so late. Look out, Betty, and see if thou 
canst see him cominV 

The girl opened the door and looked 
out. She gave a start — a scream. 

* What is to do now ?' 

1 'Tis a beggar man, mother P 

' A beggar at this hour ? Shut the 
door r 

But the beggar had his stick in the 

doorway, and the behest could not be 
obeyed. 



ENGLISH HOSPITALITY. 167 

• I'm seekin' a night's lodging, mistress/ 
he said. ' IVe been on the tramp since 
dawn, and I'm well-nigh beat. I'm soaked 
with the rain ; only let me lie beside your 
kitchen fire to-night, and I'll give you a 
shilling — the last shilling I've got — and I'll 
go away and beg my breakfast in the 
morning P 

'This ain't a lodging-house/ returned 
the woman; 'be off, or' I'll call up my 
good man — he's only upstairs washing his- 
self. Ezekiel ! Ezekiel P she called at the 
top of her voice. 

1 Don't turn me away, mistress ; 'tis 
a cold wet night abroad. Only let me 
rest here to-night ; I'll go away before 
dawn/ 

' I'll be bound you will, and take what 
you can lay your hand on beside ! Be 
off— be off, I tell you ! Ezekiel ! Ezekiel P 




166 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 

smiling from the dresser against the wall. 
Beside a well- swept hearth sat a woman 
nursing a child ; several other little ones 
clustered around her, while a girl of more 
advanced years was moving about pre- 
paring supper. They were speaking : the 
man pressed his ear close against the 
window-pane and listened. 

' Pest upon thy father for stopping out 
so late. Look out, Betty, and see if thou 
canst see him cominV 

The girl opened the door and looked 
out. She gave a start — a scream. 

* What is to do now ?' 

* 'Tis a beggar man, mother !' 

' A beggar at this hour ? Shut the 
door F 

But the beggar had his stick in the 

doorway, and the behest could not be 
obeyed. 



ENGLISH HOSPITALITY. 16 



w 



< I'm seekin' a night's lodging, mistress,' 
he said. ' I've been on the tramp since 
dawn, and I'm well-nigh beat. I'm soaked 
with the rain ; only let me lie beside your 
kitchen fire to-night, and Til give you a 
shilling — the last shilling I've got — and I'll 
go away and beg my breakfast in the 
morning !' 

'This ain't a lodging-house/ returned 
the woman; 'be off, or I'll call up my 
good man — he's only upstairs washing his- 
self. Ezekiel ! Ezekiel P she called at the 
top of her voice. 

1 Don't turn me away, mistress ; 'tis 
a cold wet night abroad. Only let me 
rest here to-night ; I'll go away before 
dawn.' 

' I'll be bound you will, and take what 
you can lay your hand on beside ! Be 
off— be off, I tell you ! Ezekiel ! Ezekiel !' 




166 MADGE DVNRAVEN. 

smiling from the dresser against the wal 
Beside a well-swept hearth sat a woma 
nursing a child ; several other little one 
clustered around her, while a girl of mor 
advanced years was moving about pre 
paring supper. They were speaking : th 
nian pressed his ear close against th 
window-pane and listened. 

' Pest upon thy father for stopping ol 
so late. Look out, Betty, and see if tho 
canst see him cominV 

The girl opened the door and looke 
out. She gave a start — a scream. 

1 What is to do now ?' 

' 'Tis a beggar man, mother !' 

' A beggar at this hour ? Shut th 
door !' 

But the beggar had his stick in th 
doorway, and the behest could not b 
obeyed. 



ENGLISH HOSPITALITY. 167 

1 I'm seekin' a night's lodging, mistress/ 
he said. ' I've been on the tramp since 
dawn, and I'm well-nigh beat. I'm soaked 
with the rain ; only let me lie beside your 
kitchen fire to-night, and I'll give you a 
shilling — the last shilling I've got — and I'll 
go away and beg my breakfast in the 
morning P 

'This ain't a lodging-house/ returned 
the woman; 'be off, or I'll call up my 
good man — he's only upstairs washing his- 
self. Ezekiel ! Ezekiel P she called at the 
top of her voice. 

1 Don't turn me away, mistress ; 'tis 
a cold wet night abroad. Only let me 
rest here to-night ; I'll go away before 
dawn/ 

' I'll be bound you will, and take what 
you can lay your hand on beside ! Be 
off — be off, I tell you ! Ezekiel ! Ezekiel P 



166 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 

smiling from the dresser against the wall. 
Beside a well- swept hearth sat a woman 
nursing a child ; several other little ones 
clustered around her, while a girl of more 
advanced years was moving about pre- 
paring supper. They were speaking : the 
man pressed his ear close against the 
window-pane and listened. 

1 Pest upon thy father for stopping out 
so late. Look out, Betty, and see if thou 
canst see him cominV 

The girl opened the door and looked 
out. She gave a start — a scream. 

' What is to do now ?' 

* 'Tis a beggar man, mother !' 

' A beggar at this hour ? Shut the 
door T 

But the beggar had his stick in the 

doorway, and the behest could not be 
obeyed. 




ENGLISH HOSPITALITY. 16 



w 



'I'm seekin' a night's lodging, mistress/ 
he said. ' IVe been on the tramp since 
dawn, and I'm well-nigh beat. I'm soaked 
with the rain ; only let me lie beside your 
kitchen fire to-night, and Til give you a 
shilling — the last shilling I've got — and Til 
go away and beg my breakfast in the 
morning !' 

'This ain't a lodging-house/ returned 
the woman ; ' be off, or I'll call up my 
good man — he's only upstairs washing his- 
self. Ezekiel ! Ezekiel !' she called at the 
top of her voice. 

' Don't turn me away, mistress ; 'tis 
a cold wet night abroad. Only let me 
rest here to-night ; I'll go away before 
dawn.' 

' I'll be bound you will, and take what 
you can lay your hand on beside ! Be 
off— be off, I tell you ! Ezekiel ! Ezekiel !' 



166 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 

smiling from the dresser against the wall. 
Beside a well- swept hearth sat a woman 
nursing a child ; several other little ones 
clustered around her, while a girl of more 
advanced years was moving about pre- 
paring supper. They were speaking : the 
man pressed his ear close against the 
window-pane and listened. 

1 Pest upon thy father for stopping out 
so late. Look out, Betty, and see if thou 
canst see him cominV 

The girl opened the door and looked 
out She gave a start — a scream. 

* What is to do now ?' 

' 'Tis a beggar man, mother !' 

'A beggar at this hour? Shut the 
door T 

But the beggar had his stick in the 

doorway, and the behest could not be 
obeyed. 



ENGLISH HOSPITALITY. 16 



w 



1 I'm seekin' a night's lodging, mistress/ 
he said. ' I've been on the tramp since 
dawn, and I'm well-nigh beat. I'm soaked 
with the rain ; only let me lie beside your 
kitchen fire to-night, and I'll give you a 
shilling — the last shilling I've got — and I'll 
go away and beg my breakfast in the 
morning !' 

'This ain't a lodging-house,' returned 
the woman ; ' be off, or I'll call up my 
good man — he's only upstairs washing his- 
self. Ezekiel ! Ezekiel !' she called at the 
top of her voice. 

1 Don't turn me away, mistress ; 'tis 
a cold wet night abroad. Only let me 
rest here to-night ; I'll go away before 
dawn.' 

' I'll be bound you will, and take what 
you can lay your hand on beside ! Be 
off — be off, I tell you ! Ezekiel ! Ezekiel !' 



168 MADGE DUXRAVENi 

she shrieked again, while the little ones 
made a chorus. 

But the man was desperate ; the cold 
wild rain beating down upon him, the 
dreary stretch of country around, made 
him long for warmth and shelter. 

1 I'm no thief — I don't want to steal 
from you, so help me God ! I only want 
a night's lodging, and,' he added, like a 
man who is reduced to his utmost ex- 
tremity, ' I never did you any harm, 
mistress. Don't you know me ? — I'm 
Matthew Dalton !' 

The woman started, and stared in the 
direction whence the voice proceeded. 
Had the man proclaimed himself a 
murderer, she would not have started 
more. 

' Mat Dalton come here again T she ex- 
claimed. ' Him that led my poor boys 



ENGLISH HO S PITA LITY. 1 6 9 

into trouble, that well-nigh got 'em into 
gaol, come sneaking back to make more 
mischief, I'll be bound. Be off! be off! or 
I'll call them that'll make ye P 

The stick was removed, the door 
slammed to, the bolts fastened, the 
shutters shut, and the man stood again 
alone. J 

The rain had now almost ceased to fall, 
but daylight had faded into evening grey. 
Masses of broken cloud drifted tumul- 
tuously across the heavens. Now and 
then a star, slipping from the troubled 
masses of rain-charged vapour, shot silently 
down upon the earth. 

The man sat upon the doorstep and 
shivered, for the wind, creeping stealthily 
down the narrow lanes, pressed upon his 
shrinking frame clothes still heavy with the 
recent rain. One by one the lights began 



170 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 



to glimmer around him, sending forth their 
comforting rays into the comfortless nig-ht. 
The curtained windows glowed a deep 
crimson ; shadows moved hither and 
thither upon the blinds ; doors were 
locked and bolted ; all seemed comfortably 
housed — but one. He sat for a moment 
bewildered ; a sharp twinge of pain re- 
called him to himself. He rolled up his 
trouser again and undid the bandage from 
his leg ; the blood was flowing freely ; 
the sight of it almost made him faint. 

* It's the tramping and starvation that's 
done it/ he moaned. * If I sleep out to- 
night, it'll kill me, and what's a poor wretch 
to do? Devils! they'll all turn on me 
now, I see. When a man's down, kick 
him — that's what they say here! It 
seemed like coming home when I was on 
the tramp, but now every door is shut 



ENGLISH HOSPITALITY. 171 

against me ; and what have I done ? worked 
the treadmill for two years for giving a 
blow or two to a blackguard that tried to 
strangle me! Well, I can't go much 
farther to-night. I'll have a glass of grog 
at the inn, and then — a night under a wet 
hedge, and perhaps death in the morn- 

ing!' 

He bound up his leg again and hobbled 

on, leaning heavily on his stick ; for he was 

footsore, and his keen eyes began to stare 

like those of a famished wolf. He had had 

his punishment ; been hunted like any 

other animal. 'Surely it was over/ he 

said to himself as he drew near to the 

inn. 

He peeped in at the window ; the room 

was pretty well filled. Small farmers and 

farm labourers surrounded the table, 

drinking from pewter pots and discussing 



172 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 

the state of the crops between whiles, but 
— what was that ? The man started, his 
hands grew icy cold, his legs trembled 
under him. He had fixed his wild eyes 
upon one figure in the room ; a man who 
stood bolt upright facing the window. 
The very man upon whom his blows had 
fallen two years ago, the very man through 
whose malicious evidence he had spent two 
long years on the treadmill. Scott, the 
head gamekeeper on Lord Rigby's 
land. 

Instinctively the man shrank back, 
trembling in every limb ; starvation and 
persecution had done much for him, for 
at heart he was not a coward. In two 
minutes he had recovered himself; walking 
forward he crossed the threshold and 
entered the room. 

He slunk in, dropped on to the nearest 



ENGLISH HOSPITALITY. 173 

bench, and turned half away from the eyes 
of the company. A few looked straight at 
him ; others lifted their jugs to their lips 
and stared at him over the brim with a 
soulless bovine stare ; but the brim of his 
hat was turned down and partly concealed 
his features. He rapped on the table : 

' A pint of porter and some bread and 
cheese/ he said. ' Hasten, mistress, for 
I'm almost starved P 

He was conscious of a start among the 
company, and, although he could not see, 
he felt the fierce black eyes of the keeper 
burning upon him. What had he to fear ? 
Nothing. Were it not that he was starving, 
weary with travel and sick with cold, he 
would fearlessly have looked them all in 
the face. His infirmities made him shrink 
away cowed. 

' Matthew Dalton P 



174 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 



He started, shrank for a moment, then 
pushing up his hat, stared at the man with 
some of his old defiance in his look. 

'And if I am Matthew Dalton, what 
then r 

The keeper but wanted his suspicions 
confirmed. He strode across the room 
with clenched fist and set teeth ; it seemed 
as if he would have struck him, but he 
forbore, 

' Get out of this !' he said. But the man 
kept his seat and stared defiantly back. 
' Do you hear ?' 

' Yes, I hear. Lay a hand on me, my 
man, and youll be hauled to gaol this time. 
I'm a free man f 

The keeper clenched his teeth. 

' Til settle off my score yet. By God, I 
won't bear your mark for nothing !' 

A movement of his hand swept off the 



ENGLISH HOSPITALITY. 175 

others hat. Daltons eyes flashed fire, 
his square jaw set, he half raised his hand 
to strike the keeper ; a moment's reflec- 
tion, however, assured him it would be 
madness. Quivering with rage and ex- 
haustion, he shrank back. Hitherto the 
other occupants of the room had been 
silent : the sight of Dalton's bare head 
seemed to bring out the conversational 
powers of one, at least. 

'Why, I'm blowed if his head bean't 
shaved just as clean as the rind of a Dutch 
cheese f 

A general laugh followed. 

Were the men going to befriend their 
old comrade ? The wretched man looked 
helplessly around. One or two men he 
recognised as those who had narrowly 
escaped sharing his prison-bed. These 
men had been hob and nob with him 



176 MADGE DUNRAVE1T. 



before ; now, in answer to his looks of 
entreaty, they turned away. Might is 
right everywhere : to hold in with the 
strong seems the way of the world, and 
these men were no better than their neigh- 
bours. They knew they had once been 
friendly with the man, but that was in the 
wild days of their folly. Two years had 
passed since then, and while the victim of 
the village riots had been working the 
treadmill, the village had grown more 
peaceable, and his confederates had de- 
veloped into virtuous married men. 

4 Get out o' this, measter ; we don't har- 
bour no tramps here/ was the verdict 
uttered by several mouths. 

But with opposition such as this, the 
dogged nature of the man asserted itself. 

4 I've as good a right to sit here as any- 
one of you/ he said, and kept his seat. 



ENGLISH HOSPITALITY. 177 

The altercation sent a flush to his 
sunken cheek, but it did not stay the 
gnawing at his heart. Many hours had 
elapsed since he had tasted food, even so 
much as a dry crust of bread, and hunger 
was beginning to tell upon him. The girl 
returned with his bread and cheese and 
beer ; he seized the jug with eager, trem- 
bling hands, and half raised it to his lips : 
the next moment the jug lay on the floor, 
its contents staining the white sand. 

' Get out o* this ! d'ye hear ? — quick, or 
you'll repent it f 

The man did not glare defiantly now, 
hunger had tamed him : he held out his 
trembling hands as if to shield himself, 
and whimpered like a child : 

' Let me eat the bread, and I'll go. I've 
only had a dry crust these four-and-twenty 
hours, and I'm spent with hunger. I don't 

VOL. i. 12 



178 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 

want to stop here — I'll sleep in the 
fields ; but I can't starve, mates — I can't 
starve I' 

As well might he have spoken to the 
dead. The vindictive face of the keeper 
fell darkly upon him. He appealed to the 
men. 

1 Look here, mates, if the gaol-bird 
won't go, turn him out — that's the way. 
Now, then, be off! be off!' 

The man saw that further remonstrance 
was useless ; but in his desperation he 
clenched his fist and set his teeth, glaring 
at his old comrades with wild, hungry eyes 
like a hunted animal at bay. 

'By God, I'll remember this! Beasts! 
to kick a poor devil when he's down. 
You know I'm starving : I don't want you 
to give me bread, but you won't even let 
me eat. Our day of reckoning '11 come, 




ENGLISH HOSPITALITY. 179 

Master Keeper ; as sure as there's a God 
in heaven, you shall pay for this !' 

The men had risen from their seats, and 
pressed upon him : the keeper held him as 
if he would choke the words in his throat. 
The man staggered to his feet, seized his 
stick and bundle ; the next moment he lay 
flat upon his face before the closed door of 
the inn. 



12- 




CHAPTER VIII. 

THE DUNRAVENS TO THE RESCUE. 

20R a time he lay dazed and half 
stunned ; then he lifted his 
head, and, gathering himself 
together, gradually rose from the ground. 
He sat down upon the doorstep and 
pulled off his boots. They were full of 
holes, and pressed hard upon his tender 
feet. 

H e stuffed the articles forming his bundle 
into his pockets, tore the handkerchief in 



THE DUN RAVENS TO THE RESCUE. 181 



two, and bound one half around either foot 
before he resumed his shoes again. That 
was better; he limped horribly, for his 
feet were blistered ; still, he could manage 
to crawl along. The blood from the 
wound in his leg was now soaking through 
his trouser; he had no rag to stanch it, 
and it must flow. 

The hunger was the worst ; with the 
loss of blood and want of food he was be- 
ginning to feel quite faint. And he had 
not a crust left. His shilling was like so 
much dross ; they would not even sell him 
bread. To seek food again would be use- 
less : every door was locked against him, 
and his like, to-night. 

Where to go ? what to do ? — he did not 
ask himself the questions. All around 
him were comfortable homesteads, every 
door of which was closed against him. 



182 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 

Beyond, again, stretched fields and woods, 
wet, it is true, with the rain, but affording 
solitude and protection. Nay, he could 
not even enter those, for if he slept, and 
were found there, he would be driven off 
with wild imprecations as a tramp, and 
probably sent back to gaol as a trespasser. 
There was the king's highway, that was 
all. The hard road, and probably, the wet 
hedge to cover him. 

It was growing towards the end of July, 
but the night was long and clear. The 
darkness of the storm had now quite worn 
away ; every cloud had drifted past, and 
the church spire pointed now to a vault of 
evening-grey which stretched for miles 
around. Beyond the peak of a distant hill 
rose the moon, silver-bright and crystal- 
clear, sailing softly on her cloudless course, 
and pouring her white rays in a flood 



THE DUNRAVENS TO THE RESCUE. 183 



upon the village roofs and rain-sodden 
fields. 

Everything was clearly distinguishable 
for miles around : the cows in the 
meadows, the sheep in the folds, and the 
man, more homeless and destitute than 
they, dragging his weary blistered feet 
along the road. 

He had left the inn far behind him, and 
stood now upon the main thoroughfare 
which led through Armstead. He had 
thought to turn aside, to seek the protec- 
tion of a by-lane, and die, if necessary, in a 
ditch, but alone. Yet now he felt that his 
feet would go no farther, and he sank 
down to rest. The gnawing at his heart 
grew worse ; he felt his leg, it was 
drenched with blood ; a faintness over- 
came him, he leaned his head against the 
hedge which ran along the roadside, and 



184 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 

closed his eyes. Sleep came to him at 
last. 

An hour passed, he was sleeping fitfully ; 
but it seemed that overmuch of this bless- 
ing, which was given even to the beasts 
of the field, was to be denied to him. A 
shout, long and loud, pealed through the 
air : he awoke, and started up in terror ; a 
loud uproarious peal of laughter roused his 
slumbering faculties, then came a few lines 
of a song. 

The wretched man began to tremble in 
every limb ; the inn had emptied its par- 
lours, and the bacchanalians were close 
upon him. Quite a crowd of figures, reel- 
ing, stumbling, and plunging : to run before 
them would be madness ; he crept close 
into the hedge, hoping to remain unseen 
as they passed by. 

And so indeed he might ; the ale had 



THE DUNRA VENS TO THE RESCUE. 185 

affected their vision as well as their legs. 
But there was one amongst them whose 
perception was keener than the rest. The 
men came in a crowd along the road ; 
some of them had already passed the 
wretched, shivering creature, when sud- 
denly he felt that a pair of eyes had found 
him. 

They were those of the keeper. He, 
too, had imbibed more than was good 
for him ; his passions seemed even less 
under his control than they had been be- 
fore. He gave a kick at the figure 
crouching by the moonlit road. 

1 Move on ! we don't harbour tramps 
about our village.* 

The drunken men staggered back and 
stared at the wretched creature. 

1 Ha, ha, ha ! why, if it bean't the gaol- 
bird r 



186 MADGE BUNRAVEN. 

4 The bed's over-hard for him ; help 
him on, mates/ said the keeper. 

' Let me alone, let me alone F cried the 
man ; ' I haven't got a place to rest my 
bones in ; I can't move on !' 

A wild burst of laughter followed ; a 
great stone whizzed passed his cheek, and 
went right through the hedge behind him. 
He scrambled to his feet, and limped a few 
paces away ; the drunken clowns laughed 
again, and, urged on by the keeper, 
pressed forward and drove the trembling 
wretch along. 

His wild, ragged appearance and cries 
for mercy seemed only to rouse their 
brutality, and they still hooted him on. 
Some one threw another stone, it missed 
again ; but a shower of missiles followed, 
and he was struck several sharp blows. 

1 Devils P he shrieked, ' let me alone P 



THE DUNRA VENS TO THE RESCUE. 187 

His skeleton hands clenched again, his 
teeth gnashed, and his wild eyes glared 
with rage. 

In his desperation he faced his pursuers, 
and called again for mercy. 

' Hold off, I say ! I never harmed one 
of you ;' then, fixing his burning eyes upon 
the keeper, he cried : 'Hell seize you for 
this ! As sure as I live through this night, 
I'll hang {or you f 

Another stone, coming from he knew 
not where, struck him on the shoulder. 

1 We don't want no tramps ; move on P 

Wild faces pressed upon him ; seized 
with a sudden panic, he screamed aloud, 
and fled. Whither he knew not : the pro- 
spect seemed swimming before him, he 
heard the footsteps of those behind 
staggering on his track. Showers of 
stones were shed around him : some struck 



188 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 

him, others fell harmless at his feet. Some 
superhuman hand upheld him, but he felt 
that he must soon fall. 

In his wild terror he stared around him. 
He was nearing a house which stood on a 
lawn a few yards from the road. The 
small white gate which led to it was 
open ; it seemed to offer protection ; he 
rushed in. 

1 God help me !' he shrieked, holding out 
his hands as if to keep his pursuers at bay. 
'Don't let them kill me! don't let them 
stone me ! Help ! help ! help P 

His voice shrieked, trembled, and died. 
It sounded across meadows, hills, and 
woods ; it ascended to the sky. 

For a moment the ruffians paused out- 
side the gate ; then, with the blind impulse 
of drunken brutality, they rushed again 
upon the man. 



THE DUNRA YENS TO THE RESCUE. 189 



Just as they did so, another voice, 
answering his cry, called out in terror : 

' Oh, uncle ! Conn, Conn, come here !' 

Immediately the house-door flew open, a 
figure with white hair, looking wild and 
fantastic in the moonlight, ran swiftly 
across the lawn, seized up the stick which 
the hunted man had let fall upon the grass, 
and leapt right into the midst of the crowd. 
Once there, he laid about him with verit- 
able fury, while the men, utterly staggered 
by the sudden attack, uttered frantic yells 
of wonder. 

'Out with ye, out with ye!' he cried, 
using in his excitement a strong Irish 
brogue ; 'or I'll bate your brains to a jelly. 
Take tJiat, and that I I'll lave my mark 
on every mother's son P 

The blows which descended as he spoke 
proved that his threats were not idle words. 



190 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 

The crowd retreated in helpless terror, and 
in two minutes the lawn was almost cleared. 
Suddenly the keeper, his ill-favoured face 
rendered even more forbidding by un- 
governable anger, came up quietly behind 
the old man and raised his clenched fist as 
if to strike him down. Before he could do 
so, however, he received a blow which 
felled him to the ground. 

'HurrooT cried a voice from the threshold 
of the house ; ' down wid him, Master 
Conn.' 

Rising to his feet, the infuriated keeper 
found himself face to face with his assailant. 

' It's you, is it ?' he hissed, as he recog- 
nised Conn. Then he seemed preparing 
for a spring, but glancing around he saw 
the lawn deserted, and Mr. Dunraven 
standing at the gate wildly waving his 
stick. 



THE DUNRAVENS TO THE RESCUE. 191 

' Unless you want a good hiding you'd 
better get out of this/ said Conn, quietly ; 
1 but perhaps you've had enough.' 

1 Hurroo for Ireland !' cried the voice of 
Andy Brady. 

With a strong effort the keeper controlled 
his passion, and turned to go away. 

1 It's like you to harbour gaol-birds/ he 
said ; ' youve the best of it this time, but I 
shan't forget.' 

Conn only laughed and turned to his 
father, who came up laughing and wiping 
his brow with his pocket-handkerchief. 
With many angry murmurs and oaths, the 
crowd outside the gate, now joined by the 
keeper, moved slowly away. 

' Faith, 'twas as good as a fair !' said 
Andy Brady, gazing with looks of undis- 
guised admiration at the figures of Mr. 
Dunraven and his son. ' If the mashter 



192 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 

could now and then get a few turns at the 
stick, Mistress Bridget, 'twould remind him 
of old times, God bless him ! and do him 
a power o' good.' 

' Troth, an* I think you're right, Andy/ 
answered Biddy quietly, smiling. * It's 
but a poor, dull life he's had to lead since 
he came over here, and not one that's fit 
for a merry gentleman like himself. It's 
my opinion he'll never be the gentleman 
he was till we leave England altogether 
and settle down again in Ballymoy.' 




CHAPTER IX. 

COMFORTABLE QUARTERS. 

MEANTIME they had almost 
forgotten the man. 

Madge was the first to re- 
member, and then the whole party gathered 
in a semicircle about him. He sat upon 
the grass, his thin hands clasped around 
his legs, his chin resting upon his knees, 
his whole body quivering and shaking 
as if with cold. When the little party 
collected around him, he turned to them 
vol. L 13 



194 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 

a face ghastly and terrified. Ere any 
one could address him, he spoke eagerly,, 
as if to justify himself before his judges, 
rubbing his hand meanwhile across a cut 
in his temple which one of the stones had 
made. 

' I never did them any harm, d — n 
them !' he said ; ' but they hunted me 
because I'm weak and sick. Don't you 
turn me out/ he cried, with sudden energy ; 
' I've slept under a hedge many a time 
before, but I couldn't do it to-night ; I 
should die P 

' I don't mean to turn you out, my 
man/ said Mr. Dunraven, kindly. * Thank 
God, we've got a roof to shelter you ; 
come in !' 

The man scrambled to his feet, stag- 
gered, and fell against the gate. 

'They've taken pretty nigh all the 



COMFORTABLE QUARTERS. 195 

strength out of me/ he exclaimed, with a 
low, hysterical laugh. 'Ah, yes, I'm 
almost done !' 

'Why, you're not able to walk to the 
house,' said Conn ; ' lean on me !' He 
wound his strong arms around the man's 
body and assisted him into the dwell- 
ing. 

Although it was summer-time, a bright 
fire burnt in the grate, for the evening had 
been damp and chilly. The ruddy glow 
which played cheerfully upon the oaken 
doors, and sent forth lights and shadows 
to the very threshold of the house, seemed 
to act as a lure to the wretched man'su 
feet. Still leaning upon Conn, he entered 
the room and sank down shivering upoa 
the hearth. 

4 Bring hot water and glasses, Biddy, 
quick r commanded Mr. Dunraven ; for as 

13—2 



196 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 

the warmth of the fire touched the gar- 
ments of the man, the steam which arose 
from them enveloped him in a mantle of 
mist. A glass of hot whisky-and-water 
was put into his hand ; he stared at the 
giver, then drank it off in one draught, 
and began to eat the bread which was given 
to him. His cheek flushed, his eye began 
to brighten ; he looked at each face in turn, 
then gloomily turned away. 

1 Do you live in this village ?' asked 
Conn, leaning forward, resting his elbow 
on his knee, and looking carelessly at the 
man. 

' No — yes — I didXwz. here — once!' 
' You've got relations here, then ?' 
The man started violently; glanced 
keenly into Conn's face, and then sank 
down sullenly in his place again. 
< I didn't say I had !' 



COMFORTABLE QUARTERS. 197 



' George Aldyn said he was a beggar,' 
whispered Madge. * I passed him on the 
road this afternoon.' 

Mr. Dunraven still sat looking steadily 
at the man ; he did not well know what to 
make of him. Of one thing only he felt 
certain : if the man were homeless, he 
would never turn him away. 

1 I thought you said you had no home ?' 
queried Mr. Dunraven. 

' No more I have, God help me !' he 
cried, with sudden energy ; < if you turn me 
off I shall have to sleep in the fields. 
I've been on the tramp for three days ; 
I've had to sleep in barns and cow-houses, 
and I'm done up with rheumatism. I used 
to be a strong man once, but this work is 
finishing me off I' 

1 Well/ said Mr. Dunraven, ' you've got 
a good roof to shelter you to-night, any- 



198 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 

how ; and the sooner you're into bed the 
better, for you're shivering, I see, and 
you're soaked to the skin. Madge darling, 
go and tell Biddy to make up a bed 
by the kitchen fire — 'twill be warmer 
there than anywhere else ; and if he has 
anything to tell, it will keep till the morn- 
ingr 

Madge immediately withdrew to the 
kitchen, where she helped Biddy to pre- 
pare a bed for the outcast. When all 
was ready, and Conn had assisted him to 
the kitchen, Andy produced a bowl of 
warm water and washed his blistered feet, 
while Biddy herself carefully wiped the 
blood-stains from his face. Five minutes 
later he lay in the bed wrapped in a heavy 
slumber. 

Then, as it was past ten o'clock, and in 
order that the man might not be disturbed, 



COMFORTABLE QUARTERS. 199 

the two servants went to bed, Biddy 
giving into Madge's hands the drenched 
coat and waistcoat to hang before the 
parlour fire when they should all have gone 
to rest. Mr. Dunraven and his children 
returned to the parlour. He and his son 
took an easy-chair each, while Madge sat 
down between them and put her hand on 
her uncle's knee. 

1 You say you saw him before, 
Madge ?' 

1 Yes, uncle, when I was walking home 
from school with George Aldyn. George 
gave him a shilling, and said ' 

< What ?' 

'That that was the only way to be 
charitable here — that men of that class, if 
you took them into your house, always 
repaid you by robbing you !' 

i I am afraid George Aldyn makes his 



200 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 

theories suit his inclination, Madge,' said 
Mr. Dunraven. 

Conn shrugged his shoulders and 
sneered : 

* George Aldyn is a conceited fool/ he 
said ; ' the fellow affects fine gentlemanly 
airs, and has no more manliness about him 
than a puppy dog ! Don't quote what he 
says as gospel, Madge.' 

Conn rose, and both he and his father 
took their bed candles. Madge wished 
them good-night ; when they were gone 
she put more coal on the fire, and spread 
out before it the soaking rags which had 
been taken from the man : then she took 
up her candle and passed out of the room. 
Her foot was on the first step of the stair ,* 
she paused, drew back, passed quickly 
along the passage and pushed open the 
kitchen door. A lighted candle stood on 



COMFORTABLE QUARTERS. 201 

the table, and Conn himself was leaning 
over the stranger's bed. As she entered 
he looked up. 

'What do you want, Madge ?' ■'■ he 
asked. 

' Nothing ; I just came to see if all was 
right. I thought you were in your room/ 

1 So I was ; but something seemed to 
draw me down here again, and I came, 
just like you, for nothing. Poor fellow, he 
is sleeping quietly enough now ! come and 
look, Madge I' 

Madge stepped lightly across the floor, 
knelt softly at the bedside, clasped the 
hand which Conn put around her neck, and 

looked pityingly into the sleeper's face — 
gaunt and thin and pallid, with the red cut 
in the forehead, a thin thread of blood, 
which had oozed afresh from the wound, 
now dry upon his cheek. 



202 MADGE D UNRA VEN. 

'Poor man!' she sighed, involuntarily- 
creeping nearer to her cousin, and pressing 
her warm, soft cheek against his shoulder. 
'Oh, Conn dear, I hope you'll never be 
wretched like that !' 

' I might some day ; no man knows 
what's before him.' 

Madge shivered. 

' Don't say so, Conn ; it makes me feel 
as if it might come true! I wish you 
would promise to give up your old wild 
ways, Conn, for sometimes I think they'll 
bring you into trouble. The people here 
regard things as crimes that we thought 
nothing of at home.' 

Conn laughed. 

'Oh, I'm all right, Madge. I haven't 
cast a fly for a month, I've never handled 
a gun since I came here, and the last row 
I had was — yesterday, when that brute 



COMFORTABLE QUARTERS. 203 

of a keeper threatened to shoot 
Foam.' 

The man stirred and moaned, the voices 
were disturbing him ; so the kneeling 
figures at once rose, and, leaving the 
kitchen, went quietly up to bed. 

As soon as Madge was alone in her 
room, she knelt by her bedside and prayed, 
not only for the wretched outcast man, but 
for her cousin Conn ; for in looking into 
the man's unconscious face that night, she 
had seemed to read, not only of the woes 
through which he had been made to pass, 
but of the cloud of trials which was even 
then gathering above her and hers. 

She passed the night in restless, fitful 
slumber, which was now and then harassed 
by strange dreams. Through all her 
visions the face of the man gleamed pale 
and spectral; when she awakened it was 



204 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 

still before her. She dressed hastily, went 
downstairs, and there learned that the man 
was gone. 

He had crept away in the early morning 
before any one was astir, and had left no 
trace behind him. :.But, although he was 
gone, Madge felt that the dark shadow 
which he had brought had not altogether 
disappeared. 



fc l$V~>%' ;: .U'--"" 


^K**7w2l?^^iSM 







CHAPTER X. 



jHILE the outcast was creeping 
like a criminal through the 
lonely fields of Armstead, 
choosing instinctively the most sequestered 
way, and afraid to raise his face to the sky 
which smiled above him, Rosamond Leigh 
stood upon the steps of Rigby Castle, 
blinking her bright eyes in the sunlight, 
and opening her delicate nostrils to in- 
hale the soft summer breeze. 



206 MADGE DUNRA VEN. 

— — — ^— ^^— ^— i 

She was dressed for walking, and she 
held a volume beneath her arm, but .she 
seemed in no hurry to depart. A step 
crunching the gravel attracted her atten- 
tion ; she ran nimbly down the steps and 
nodded carelessly to the new-comer. 

'Good-morning, Scott.' 

'Good-morning, miss. Is his lordship 
in? 

c No ; he went to town last night. Do 
you want him ?' 

' Well, I did want him, miss/ 

'Is it anything particular ? because I 
shall be writing to him, and can tell 
him.' 

' Well, 'tis not so particular as that. 
'Twas only about a bad character that 
came back into the village last night, 
and one that'll cause a deal o' mischief 
afore he's done. There was a regular row, 



ROSAMOND. 207 



miss. The people wouldn't have nothing 
to say to him, and rightly too ; and we 
should have been rid of him clean, but 
them Irish folks must needs interfere and 
take him in.' 

The girl laughed merrily. 
' "Them Irish folk" seem to be putting 
their fingers into everybody's pie and 
causing a revolution in the village. It's 
quite refreshing.' 

' You wouldn't ha' thought so, miss, if 
you'd been there last night' 

To this the girl deigned no reply. Still 
laughing low to herself, she set off, and left 
the keeper standing alone. 

She walked across two great meadows, 
sweeping down the grass with her dress 
and trampling under foot the tall orchids 
and sweet-scented clover ; then, regardless 
of the great white boards which warned 



208 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 

less privileged people away, she entered a 
green plantation. 

There was a sense of coolness here 
which was gratifying and enticing. Sun- 
light and shadow trembled and changed 
before her ; from time to time her footsteps, 
crackling the fallen twigs and rustling the 
leaves, startled some living thing: now a 
rabbit would creep tremblingly across her 
path and disappear among the ferns and 
long tufts of grass, which afforded it safe 
shelter ; birds fluttered among the boughs, 
sometimes almost brushing her cheek as 
they passed by ; but the pheasants, sitting 
amidst the long grass, would stretch out 
their necks to look at her or perch fear- 
lessly on the boughs which rocked just 
above her head. Presently the wood came 
to an end, and she found herself again in 
the open meadow, standing near the source 



ROSAMOND. 209 



of a swift, deep river, which rolled down 
from the mountains beyond. Grass and 
corn lined its banks, and here and there a 
dwarf birch or willow tree stretched heavy- 
foliaged boughs across the pools, darken- 
ing the water with black shadows. 

Still in a listless, half-dreamy mood, the 
girl continued her way along the banks of 
the stream, pausing now and then to look 
at the village which lay dim in the dis- 
tance, to watch the trout lazily breaking 
the oily surface of the pools, or the great 
water-rat crawling along the banks and 
plunging into the darkness of some deep* 
hole. Between her and heaven the lark- 
sang, poised high in air, and by her side 
innumerable birds twittered and chirped, 
making the air merry with their glad- 
ness. 

The landscape changed ; cornfields and 
tol. i. 14 



210 MADGE DUJSi RAVEN. 

orchards, fruitful meadows and stretches of 
corn, no longer flashed back the golden 
brightness of sun and sky ; the road became 
hard and difficult to tread. Patches of 
grey-stone sparely covered with grass, 
which had reddened with the summers' 
suns and whitened with the winters' snow 
and withered ; ranges of hills with stony 
summits mingling with the white masses of 
summer cloud ; streams winding like silver 
threads through the fruitful valley just 
Jbelow. 

Again her path was blocked. A patch 
of covert fringed for a quarter of a mile 
the rippling river ; then, branching out, 
covered a portion of the hillside* 
Rosamond paused ; then she sat down 
on the grass, leaned her back against the 
trunk of a tree, opened her book and 
began to read. But reading was not 



ROSAMOND. 211 



much in this young lady's line. After 
she had turned a few pages her attention 
began to wander from the book to the 
scene around her. 

' Heigh-ho !' she murmured, yawning, 
and toying with the leaves of her book ; 
* how quiet it is here ! I almost wish I 
had gone down to the village, after all. I 
might have had a chance of witnessing 
some Irish "shindy," which would be pre- 
ferable to the solitude I have to bear !' 

She took some biscuits out of her pocket 
and began to nibble them, leaning forward 
as she did so, and impatiently pulling up 
the grass with her roving hand. Some 
green linnets which had watched her from 
the boughs now began to gather around 
her, picking up the crumbs which she 
sowed like seed ; she broke up the re- 
maining biscuits in her hand and cast the 

14 — 2 



212 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 

fragments forth ; she watched the birds 
greedily clear them away ; then she re- 
turned to her book again. She had not 
read long when her attention was again 
distracted by a sound of footsteps and 
voices close behind her and ever coming 
nearer. A moment after, two men in hot 
discussion emerged from the shelter of the 
wood. 

She recognised them both at a glance. 
One was Scott, Lord Rigbys head keeper, 
the other was the young Irishman whom 
she had seen just once before. Conn held 
in his hand a fishing-rod which the keeper 
was evidently bent upon getting possession 
of. He put his hand upon it, but Conn 
held all the tighter. 

1 Give up that rod !' 

Conn laughed with irritating good- 
humour. 



ROSAMOND. 213 



' Take it if you can, but you won't find 
it so easy.' 

The man cast on him a look of sullen 
dislike. 

' Damn you ! you won't laugh like that 
when you're in the dock! Give me the 
rod, or I tell you I'll take it by force.' 

Conn's face darkened ominously. 

c Look here, Master Keeper, keep a civil 
tongue in your head or we shall quarrel. 
If you mean to make it a trial of 
strength, I don't think you'll get the best 
of it.' 

* Give me the rod !' 

1 I'll see you d d first !' 

With one powerful tug Conn freed the 
rod from the man's hand ; the keeper 
staggered back, then, recovering himself, 
with his face flaming with fury, he clenched 
his fist as if to strike. 



2H MADGE DUN RAVEN. 



Neither of the men had noticed Rosa- 
mond, but she had attentively watched 
them ; and now, as the altercation 
threatened to become serious, she rose 
and stepped forward, putting her body right 
between the two. 

• Scott, what is all this about ?' 

The keeper staggered back as if he had 
been shot, while Conn stared at her as at 
some supernatural vision. The keeper 
was the first to speak. 

< The man's been poaching, miss. He 
won't listen to my warnings, and I must 
do my duty/ 

* Judging from what I saw, you do your 
duty in a very unseemly manner, I think. 
Is it consistent with your duty to strike a. 
gentleman ?' 

1 1 never struck him/ 

' No, for I happened to come between 



ROSAMOND. 215 



you. You have to thank me for saving 
you from imprisonment !' 

' The gentleman has no business to be 
here. He knows as well as I do that the 
river's preserved, and that's why he comes 
to the loneliest part to fish/ 

• Pshaw ! don't make a mountain out of 
a molehill/ said Conn, who had by this 
time recovered his equanimity. ' Why, I 
haven't a single fish ; and, if it comes to 
that, you don't know that I was fishing at 
all!' 

' That's a lie — I saw you cast the 
line !' 

Conn gave a long low whistle, threw up 
his head and laughed ; then he saw that 
the girl's eyes were fixed intently upon his 
face. The moment their eyes met she 
withdrew hers, and, moving a few steps 
away, spoke quietly to the keeper. 



216 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 

1 You must say no more about this, 
Scott — Lord Rigby would not be pleased. 
The gentleman is a nephew of Mr. 
Aldyn !' 

The keeper stared aghast. True, he had 
known this before, but in his rage and 
pride of office he had quite forgotten the 
rector's influence. 

'Well, miss, it don't matter to me; only 
I am head keeper here, and responsible for 
poachers.' 

1 Of course, of course ; but this is an 
exceptional case. There,' she added aloud, 
1 that is all settled. You may go with an 
easy mind, Scott ; and,' she added, smiling 
archly and gazing full into Conn's wonder- 
ing eyes, 'if you have no objection to 
walking with me, I will show you the best 
way off the estate/ 

* Thank you,' said Conn, frankly, ' but I 



ROSAMOND. 217 



think I need not trouble you. I know the 
way pretty well, and can find it alone/ 

Her cheek flushed slightly; she drew 
herself up haughtily, and replied curtly : 

* As you please !' 

Something in her looks, more than her 
words, arrested Conn's attention, and he at 
once perceived the unintentional rudeness 
in his blunt reply. He dropped his rod 
on the grass, and was by her side in a 
moment. 

' I hope I haven't been rude !' 

'Rude? not in the least; what makes 
you think so, pray ? f 

• Well, to tell the truth, I thought you 
looked as if I had. I'm not up to compli- 
ments and that sort of thing. I'm better 
at casting a fly, or running with the 
hounds/ 

1 Neither of which accomplishments you 



218 MADGE DUN RAVEN. 



must practise here, or you will get into 
trouble. You seem to have a great facility 
for that, Mr. Dunraven !' 

Conn stared. 

1 You know me ?' 

She laughedjlightly and pleasantly. 

'The marvel would be if I did not. 
Why, everybody knows everybody else 
here ; we should have nothing at all to 
interest us were we not to talk a little 
scandal about our neighbours/ 

' I don't know who you are !' 

She laughed, a bright, merry, silvery 
laugh, and with a haughty, half-coquettish 
and wholly captivating glance, fixed her 
eyes for a moment on his. 

' Is that a challenge ? If so, I shall not 
accept it. It will give you something to 
think about ; that is, if your thoughts ever 
return to me at all/ 



ROSAMOND. 219 



The keeper had gone his way and they 
had gone theirs. By this time they had 
reached the verge of the wood which 
fringed the stream. Rosamond, gathering 
her dress close about her, was about to 
enter between the stems of the trees, but 
Conn put his hand out to detain her. 

' Stop a bit ; it won't be very pleasant for 
you going through there. Is there no 
other way ?' 

1 Not unless we add some five miles to 
our walk and go right round the wood.' 

' Humph, that won't do. Can't we cross 
the river ?' 

' Hardly; at least, /could not ; but there 
is a tolerably shallow spot up there between 
the two pools where you might cross/ 

' And leave you to go on by yourself ? 
That will never do. Suppose I carry you 
over ?' 



220 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 

1 Carry me ? and let me fall, perhaps P 

'Not at all! I'm used to that sort of 
thing. It wouldn't be the first time I had 
carried a colleen across a brook.* 

4 A colleen — what's that ?' 

Conn's face flushed, as he replied rather 
awkwardly : 

1 Why, a girl — I mean a young lady !' 

Her face fell. All the smiles faded from 
her lips, all the arch brightness from her 
eyes. 

' Oh !' she said indifferently. 

Conn was puzzled ; he could not under- 
stand her : at one moment she was smiling 
upon him ; the next, for no perceptible 
reason, she froze to ice. He only felt that 
these strange fluctuations of temper, this 
brightening and darkening of her lovely 
features, acted more powerfully upon him 
than any tender glances could possibly 



ROSAMOND. 221 



have done. Conn had always been very- 
loyal to women, even to the peasant girls 
at Ballymoy, so, despite the fickle behaviour 
of the girl, he stood his ground. 

' Let me carry you over,' he said, coming 
nearer to her side, and gazing down into 
her face, suffused in sunlight and bathed 
now in smiles. Then, as she gave no 
denial, he raised her in his powerful arms 
and transplanted her to the other side of 
the brook. When she was set down on 
dry land again, Rosamond bowed very 
graciously and held forth her hand. 

1 Good-bye/ she said ; ' I shall never be 
able to forgive myself for getting you such 
a wetting !' 

Her little hand reposed peacefully in 
Conns palm. 

'Good-bye,' he returned, making no 
attempt to let the slender fingers go. ' Do 
you often walk by the river ?' 



222 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 

Rosamond gave a little start, which was 
quite imperceptible to her companion. 

4 Pretty often/ she replied, with well- 
assumed innocence ; ' there are so few 
pleasant walks in Armstead, and I am so 
much alone. But while I am answering 
your questions you are catching cold/ she 
said ; ' au revoir! 

And with a little wave of her hand, and 
a bright glance over her shoulder, she 
hastened away. 

For a time Conn stood watching the 
girl's slight figure as it faded amid the 
green foliage of the fields and became dim 
in the distance ; then, turning his head, he 
was startled to find that another pair of 
eyes had been watching it too. Not a 
hundred yards from where he stood, his 
body concealed behind a hedge which 
divided the meadows, his white face 



ROSAMOND. 223 



eagerly raised above the foliage, and his 
wild eyes fixed upon the retreating figure 
of the girl, was none other indeed than the 
wretched beggar who had been hunted 
about the village only the night before. 

' Hullo T said Conn, ' what are you doing 
here, my man ?' 

The man started, and slunk away. 

' I'm taking a rest/ he said sullenly, 
almost defiantly. 

' Ah, you re making your way out of the 
village, I suppose/ said Conn ; ' well, here's 
something to help you along/ 

He pressed some silver into the man's 
hand, and shouldering his fishing-rod, 
walked swiftly away. 




CHAPTER XI. 

: WANDERED BY THE BROOK-SIDE.' 

JOR many hours after the two had 
parted in the meadows Conn 
thought little of his meeting with 
Rosamond Leigh. All the evening he had 
to pull up arrears of work, and by ten 
o'clock the next morning his horse was 
brought round to the door. He had to 
collect some rents in a village lying some 
twelve miles beyond Armstead, and he 
had promised to be home for dinner at 



BY THE BROOK-SIDE. 225 

four. It was dull for Madge and his father 

when he was not at home ; especially for 

Madge, since she could not go down to the 

inn as his father could and sometimes did, 

and drink a glass or two with the farmers. 

Madge liked the three to sit together 

during the evening, and talk of the old 

times that had fled, and the bright ones 

that were to come. 

So Conn rode away full of spirits, 

waving his hand to Madge who stood at 

the door, and never once letting his 

thoughts wander to Rosamond. By two 

o'clock he had his work done, and was 

trotting on the road home. He had come 

to within four miles of Armstead and had 

let his horse go into a slow trot, when he 

heard the clatter of hoofs behind him, and 

the next moment another horse ploughed 

up the dust by his side. 

vol. i. 15 



226 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 

• Good-afternoon, Mr. Dunraven/ said a 
clear voice he knew well, and, amazed at 
the sudden apparition, Conn pulled off his 
hat in silence. ' Don't let me detain you 
if you are in a hurry/ added Miss Leigh, 
bringing her horse as she spoke to a slow 
walk, and evidently expecting Conn to follow 
her example. * The roads are almost too 
dusty for riding, are they not ? she said, 
when the two horses were walking com- 
fortably side by side. ' I do not wonder 
that you prefer fishing up among the 
meadows. Ah, that reminds me/ she 
added, ' you have Lord Rigbys permission 
to fish the river three days a week, if you 
care to/ 

' I have f said Conn, amazed. 

' Yes/ 

Rosamond watched him quietly from 
beneath the brim of her beaver hat ; still, 



BY THE BROOK-SIDE. 227 



she was unprepared for the question which 
came : 

' Do you know Lord Rigby ?' 

Rosamond bowed. 

1 And do you happen to know who got 
the permission for me ?' 

' If I do ?' 

' I hope you'll tell me ; I like to know 
my friends.' 

Rosamond smiled and was silent. But 
Conn was pertinacious, and asked again, 
until she said : 

'Well then, since you must know, I 
asked his lordship myself!' 

Conn leaned forward in his saddle and 
looked direct into her eyes. 

' Thanks/ he said ; ' it was kind of you ; 
but why did you take so much trouble for 
me?' 

' It was no trouble/ she said, laughing, 

15—2 



12* MADGE DUXRATEX. 

and making her horse prance proudly; 
" tou attach too much importance to small 
matters. It was more for myself than anyone 
else, I am afrakL for when I am reading, I 
hate to be di s tu rbed by hot-headed young 
gentlemen who will poach.* 

Conn laughed and blushed as awkwardly 
as if he were a boy. He forgot all about 
the dinner at home, which had already 
been waiting for him an hour. The re- 
maining two miles of the road seemed to 
him the shortest of the whole journey, 
yet when he came within sight of Arm- 
stead he heard the church clock chime 
six. 

' I shall be home just in good time for 
dinner/ thought Rosamond, as she wished 
Conn good-bye, put her horse into a canter, 
and disappeared. 

All that evening Conn was silent and 



BY THE BROOK-SIDE. 229 

preoccupied, for, despite himself, his 
thoughts would wander to Rosamond. 
Was he flattered ? Probably. Many a 
less unsophisticated man than himself 
might have been both flattered and pleased 
at interest being shown in him by so 
winning a girl. For she was evidently no 
ordinary young lady, no wild rose which 
might be found blooming upon any Eng- 
lish hedgerow ; there was such a proud 
distinction in her bearing, such a refine- 
ment of beauty about her face! and in 
thinking over the interview of that day, 
Conn believed that there had been a 
genuine show of interest and sympathy 
in her beautiful eyes as they had rested 
upon his. 

The next day, when he took his rod to 
avail himself of Lord Rigby's offer, he 
Jthought considerably more of Rosamond 



230 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 

than he did of the fish. Should he meet 
her there ? it was not improbable ; she was 
evidently fond of wandering by the water- 
side, for it was there he first beheld her. 
First — why that was only two days ago ! 
Two days ! and yet how everything about 
him seemed changed since then. Already 
he felt like another being ; a feverish sort 
of delight had taken possession of him, 
given a buoyancy to his spirit, and an 
elasticity to his tread. Had permission to 
fish been accorded him a week before, 
when he had never seen Rosamond, he 
would have asked Madge to go with him, 
as she had nearly always done at home ; 
for in her quiet way Madge was almost as 
fond of field sports as Conn himself. She 
liked to try the pools while he was 
resting, to gaff his salmon when he got 
one ; and above all, she loved to be with 



BY THE BROOK-SIDE. 231 

him. Conn knew this as well as any one ; 
still, curiously enough, he did not ask her 
to go. 

What astonished Madge more than all, 
was that Conn should choose a day when 
the earth lay basking in the sunshine, with- 
out a shadow anywhere. But he had 
speculations and expectations in his mind 
of which Madge knew nothing. 

When he reached the river and saw the 
pools lying calm beneath the glare of the 
sun, reflecting his own face when he bent 
above them, and mirroring the overhang- 
ing banks, he was by no means disap- 
pointed ; his face did not fall until he had 
looked around for Rosamond, and could 
not see a soul. There was the place 
where he had first beheld her ; there was 
the grass which had been pressed by her 
foot when she had stepped between him 



232 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 



and the angry keeper, and — yes — there 
were some of the flowers which, on that 
occasion, had evidently fallen from her 
book. Conn picked them up, pressed 
forget - me - nots — delicate, fragile things 
like she herself, and pregnant with the 
sweet perfume which had issued from her 
dress when he had held her in his arms. 
He put them in his waistcoat-pocket, and 
as he did so his fingers almost trembled. 
It was absurd to think of fishing that day ; 
the surface of the water was like a mirror. 
So Conn did not untie his rod, but walked 
slowly along the banks of the stream look- 
ing about for his new friend. 

Thus he came to the spot where he had 
carried her across. 

A small white object lay on the grass at 
his feet ; he picked it up ; it was a hand- 
kerchief, the one which Rosamond had 



i 



BY 7 HE BROOK-SIDE. 233 

dropped when he had lifted her from the 
ground. Oh yes, it must be hers, Conn 
thought ; no other person would possess a 
thing half so frail, so unsubstantial When 
he held it up to the light, it seemed no 
thicker than a cobweb, and it was adorned 
with delicate lace, and richly scented. He 
had heard of the nobility, the grace and 
refinement of English girls, but he had 
never imagined anything so pretty and 
refined as she. What a noble, beautiful 
soul she must have, with such a face! 
There was no treachery or falsehood there, 
not even a shadow of meanness or deceit ! 

But why had she not come ? thought 
Conn, looking round. Could he have 
misunderstood the look in her beautiful 
eyes ? had she no more friendly feelings 
for him than for any other stranger who 
might happen to cross her path ? Probably 



234 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 

not, and yet the lingering doubt made him 
fretful and ill at ease. He continued 
pacing the banks of the stream until it 
grew quite dark, then, sick with hopes 
ungratified, he went away. 

Several days passed thus, and easy, 
good-natured Conn grew fretful and irri- 
table. Had he enjoyed Rosamond's 
presence daily, it is probable he might 
have thought less of her than of his sport ; 
as it was, his thoughts were constantly 
occupied with her alone, and he began to 
think with dread that she might never 
come again. But in this he was wrong. 
She had not got him permission to fish, for 
nothing. 

One evening, as Conn was tying up his 
rod and walking with quick, impatient 
strides along the bank of the stream, he 
came upon a figure sitting upon the grass, 



BY THE BROOK-SIDE. 235 

with her head resting against the trunk of 
a tree, and her eyes meditatively regarding 
the twilight stars, which shed a dim grey 
light upon her. In a moment Conn recog- 
nised her, and as he did so his heart gave 
a bound, his pulses began to throb, and his 
feet clove to the ground. 

Rosamond did not, or would not, see 
him at first; but presently some sound 
attracted her, and she turned slightly, 
looked over her shoulder, and their eyes 
met. 

' Ah, Mr. Dunraven,' she said ; ' is it you ? 
I thought I should have the meadows to 
myself at this hour, or, at least, that I 
should have to share them only with fairy- 
folk. You are an enthusiastic fisherman 
to stay so late !' 

By this time Conn stood before her, 
holding her warm white hand. 



236 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 

4 1 don't care half so much for the 
fishing,' he said, 4 as ' 

• What ? I hate half sentences !' 

4 Meeting you !' 

Rosamond laughed. 

4 It's well seen you are an Irishman,' 
she said ; * but you must not flatter me — it 
would be dangerous 1 

4 1 never do flatter !' 

4 Worse and worse!' said Rosamond. 
* Help me to my feet, please. I am chilly, 
and must be getting home.' 

4 Do you live far from here ?' asked 
Conn, as they walked away side by side. 

4 Not very far,' returned the girl ; 4 why 
do you ask ?' 

4 Curiosity, I suppose. I don't even 
know your name !' 

She laughed. 

4 1 am not at all sure of it myself!' 



BY THE BROOK-SIDE. 237 

' What ! you don't mean to say that you 
don't know your own name ?' 

' I only know what I am told.' 

4 Well, that's the way with all of us.' 

'Not at all : you can verify your 
suspicions. You have your parents.' 

' And have not you ?' 

Rosamond shook her head ; her face had 
grown wonderfully sad, and her beautiful 
lips began to quiver. 

' I never saw either of my parents : I do 
not even know who they were. It is certain 
there is not one person in the world now 
who cares two straws whether I am alive 
or dead f 

' Don't say that,' said Conn, heartily ; 
' everybody has some one in the world to 
care for them.' 

'That is a fallacy!' returned the girl, 
hysterically, and turning away her head 



238 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 



that he might not see that tears were 
gathering in her eyes. 'You know very 
little of English society if you think that. 
We are cold and heartless, and have no 
feeling for any one but our own. If I had 
known my mother, doubtless she might 
have loved me ; all creatures, human or 
otherwise, have a love of offspring implanted 
in them, but that is no merit of theirs.' 

' I shouldn't think one would find it very 
hard to love you/ said Conn, coming to a 
standstill beside her. 

They had reached the plantation, and 
the bend of the river where Conn had 
formerly carried her over, and could go no 
farther. Rosamond laughed nervously 
again, and continued to keep her face 
averted. She was half ashamed of her 
emotion, yet she had no power to re- 
strain it, and perhaps she had no wish 



BY THE BROOE-SIDE. 239 



so to do. Her nature was made up of 
strange contradictions which puzzled even 
herself, and these fits of depression which 
occasionally came over her were perhaps 
more incomprehensible to her than to 
most. The few words which she had 
had with Lord Rigby before leaving the 
castle that night had made her hysterical, 
and caused her to bemoan a life which she 
did not altogether regret. Had a change 
been offered to her she would not have 
accepted it ; so far she was tolerably well 
satisfied with her lot, but an inordinate 
self-love as well as a craving for admiration 
prompted her to call forth the tender light 
which she had already seen once or twice 
in Conn's eyes. 

'Do you hear that?' she said, as the 
voice of the nightingale came faintly 
from the heart of the wood. ' I often 



240 MADGE DUNRAVEN. 



think I should like to live in a wood like 
that F 

' Alone ?' 

' Yes, quite alone. I am sick of society ; 
it is such a hollow mockery and a sham. 
You will soon get sick of it too, I am sure, 
and be glad enough to go back to your 
Irish home.' 

Conn sighed, but said nothing. There 
had been a time when his whole thought, 
his whole wish, had been to get back the 
old acres and return to his home ; but now 
— already all the old associations seemed 
gradually becoming obliterated from his 
mind — and why ? because he had accident- 
ally been thrown in the way of a girl who 
would not even tell him who she was. 

'Good-bye,' said Rosamond, breaking 
the silence, and Conn started as from a 
dream. 



BY THE BROOK-SIDE. 241 

'We've got to cross the stream yet/ 
said Conn, taking her up in his arms. 

' Good-bye again,' she said, holding 
forth her hand to him when she was on 
the other side ; ' you must hasten home 
now, for you are wet.' 

Conn held her hand in his. 

' Just tell me your name !' 

' Really, I cannot .... well, it is Rosa- 
mond.' 

' Rosamond !' repeated Conn, tremulously ; 
* and may / call you Rosamond ?' 

' Yes, if you care to.' 

Her hand which lay in his was ungloved : 
as he repeated her name, Conn inadvert- 
ently pressed it, and squeezed .the flesh 
against a diamond ring which she wore 
upon her third finger. There was only 
the slightest twinge of pain, but Rosamond 
almost angrily snatched her hand away, for 

VOL. i. 1 6 



242 MADGE DUMRAVEJY. 



the accident, trifling as it was, reminded 
her that she was the promised wife of 
George Aldyn. Yes, that ring had been 
placed upon her finger when the marriage 
had been arranged three years ago. 

' Is anything the matter ?' asked Conn, 
amazed at the change which had come 
over her. 

' Not much,' returned Rosamond, now 
scarcely at her ease ; ' you have powerful 
hands, that is all, and you have pressed 
my ring against my finger !' 

Conn was going to examine her hand, 
but she quickly pulled on her glove and 
walked away, leaving Conn utterly per- 
plexed, and wondering whether the whole 
interview had been more than a dream. 

END OF VOL. I. 



BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD, SURREY. 



BY THE SAME AUTHOR, 
Cheap Edition^ price 6s. cloth and 2s. boards. 

'THE DARK COLLEEN.' 

SOME OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 

' The author of "The Queen of Connaught " has again given to the world 
an interesting and romantic tale. . . . Very original is the charm of the 
early days of poor Morna's romance, the rugged grandeur of her home, the 
picturesque habits and primitive ceremonies, the tenderness and ferocity of 
her melancholy Celtic kindred.' — Athenceum. 

* Lively and spirited, abounding with fresh conceptions and picturesque 
situations. No more striking locale could have been chosen than Eagle 
Island — a semi- savage islet on the west coast of Ireland, with its primitive 
manners and customs, and its strange race of half-Celtic, half-Spanish 
inhabitants. ' — Globe. 

' The originality of the story is complete. Its charm lies in the picture of 
a free and unfamiliar life. . . . Poor Morna's return to Eagle Island, tired, 
forsaken, and heartily sick of the unknown world that had seemed so 
charming, makes a touching scene. . . . Certain states of emotion — as, for 
example, the sorrow of Morna, and her bewilderment when she finds that 
Bisson has ceased to love her ; certain aspects of nature in seas and moun- 
tains — are very delicately and carefully rendered. The mixed character of 
Louander, the mate, with his love, which would fain be honourable* 
awakening a certain gentleness in a hardened disposition, is also a clever 
study.' — Pall Mall Gazette. 

' Unquestionably a book of mark. ... In her word-pictures and still-life 
scenes the author is all that could be desired. . . . Morna is a very fascinating 
conception, and drawn with great truth and tenderness of feeling.' — Graphic. 

' We have scarcely a fault to find. ... It may and should be read. . . . 
Morna's savage purity, and, at the same time, her depths of passion, are most 
admirably drawn. The book is an excellent piece of work. ' — Academy. 

' This fresh and unconventional romance, whose charm is in its vivid 
delineations of the weird inhabitants of Eagle Island, and of the varying 
aspects of this lone spot in the ocean, according to whether the Atlantic 
peacefully laps its shores or dashes with the fury of the tempest on its rocks/ 
— Illustrated London News. 

' We may possibly find in its author a worthy successor, though in a some- 
what different line, to those great bygone delineators of Irish life and cha- 
racter whose names have become household words. . . . Considered merely 
as a telling story, " The Dark Colleen " is admirable. The pictures of the 
simple peasant life upon Eagle Island, with its alternate toil and merry- 
making, its dangers and its pleasures, give a delightful impression of the 
inhabitants of the solitary spot. . . . These the author has pourtrayed in a 
manner which is obviously the result of knowledge and actual observation, 
and is worthy of all praise.' — Morning Post. 

' A novel which possesses the rare and valuable quality of novelty. . . • 
The scenery will be strange to most readers, and in many passages the 
aspects of Nature are very cleverly described. Moreover, the book is a study 
of a very curious and interesting state of society. . . . The life is that of 
people as unsophisticated and as much their own rulers as the dwellers in 
the woodland villages in George Sand's " Maltres Sonneurs.". . . . A novel 
which no novel reader should miss, and which people who generally shun 
novels may go out of their way to enjoy.'— Saturday Review. 

-A.T .AX1I1 BDOKSELLEBS'. 



BY THE SAME AUTHOR, 
Cheap Edition, price 6s. cloth and is. boards. 

THE QUEEN OF CONNAUGHT. 

SOME OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 

' ' Since Lever and Carleton passed away, we have had little of Irish life in 
fiction, and that little has lacked character and power. This new writer 
gives promise of filling the vacant place. . . . This novel contains an unusual 
mixture of plot and sensation, faithful character, study and powerful descrip- 
tion. A book to be welcomed and read with delight in these times for its 
freshness of conception, its racy,' rattling humour, and its ridiculousness— 
sometimes so oddly dashed with deep thought — all of which combine to attest 
an exceptional power on the part of the author. ' — British Quarterly Review. 

* Extremely singular, and quite unlike any other tale that has ever 
appeared ; and it has about it a strange fascination. In reading it, one seems 
to be transported into some strange land of poetry and romance. . . . 
Indeed, the "Queen of Connaught" is a series of very skilfully executed 

S'ctures, which present a wonderful appearance of reality. Poor Kathleen 
ids out when dying how mistaken her life has been, and she does not desire 
to begin it again. She dies in the arms of the faithful husband whom till 
lately she had never understood, and whose goodness she has ever doubted, 
but whose love has followed her to the end, and will long survive her. A 
most touching story indeed, full of pathos and full of humour, is this "Queen 
of Connaught" '—Morning Post. 

'A story that combines considerable inventiveness and plot-power with racy 
study of character and fresh picturesque description. . . . Our readers will 
not fail to be struck by the intimate knowledge of Irish ways and customs, the 
subtle instinct for the finer distinguishing traits in Irish character ; and they 
will no doubt appreciate also the sense at once of the humour of Irish life, 
and of the delicacy, the sentiment, and the rough defiance and dare-devilry 
that are so oddly intermingled in it. . . . Dramatic force is noticeable 
throughout, no less than true descriptive knack. . . . Alike to those who 
seek striking incident ajnd picture, and those who seek more solid teaching, the 
' ' Queen of Connaught " may very safely be recommended. ' — Nonconformist. 

* A very new subject is treated in this story with great freshness and vivacity. 
The tale may be said to be a study of the Irish character and temperament; 
impartial and thoughtful in its intention, and cleverly executed, though the 
author's contempt for the class of characters chiefly described is visible 
enough. . . . Nothing can be happier or more graphic than the author's 
description of the kind of society which frequents O'Mara Castle as soon as 
Kathleen restores the glories of its ancient hospitality. The humours of the 
society that flock there, from Timothy Linney, the stately old man who 
displaces the master of the house from his own chair because he has taken a 
fancy to it, to Biddy C ran by, the poor crazy woman who starves herself, in 
both senses of the word, to feed and clothe her children, are painted with a 
picturesque breadth and loveliness that adds sensibly to one's knowledge of 
human nature itself. . . . It is a most charming study of a subject full of 
colour, light and shadow, and one that rises steadily in interest up to the 
close. The third volume is decidedly the best of the three, and the scene 
which comes nearly up to the ideal point in power, is the critical scene of the 
book, where Kathleen, drenched by the storm, and alone, faces the conspi- 
rators against her husband's life, in the dreary solitude of their mountain 
hiding-place. . . . Situations of less intensity are often painted with con- 
summate skill. ... All are etched with a most faithful and skilful hand. 
. . . This tale is full of life, skill, and insight.' — Spectator. 

JiTD ,AT»Ti BOQISHFTT ,T ."FURS'.