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THE 
 
 HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 A TALE OF CASHEL. 
 
 BY 
 
 MRS. J. SADLIER, 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 ••THE BLARES AND FLANAGANS,” “NEW LIGHTS,” “BESSY CONWAY,*' 
 “ELINOR PRESTON,” “CONFEDERATE CHIEFTAINS,* * 
 
 “ OLD AND NEW,” ETC. ETC. ETC. 
 
 DUBLIN: 
 
 M. H. GILL & SON, Ltd., 
 
 SO UPPER O’CONNELL STREET. 
 
Printed and Bound 
 in Ireland by :: :: 
 M. H. Gill &* Son t 
 :: :: Ltd . ;; 
 
 jo Upper O’Connell 
 Street :: :: Dublin 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAP. PAGE 
 
 I. HALLOW-EVE IN BRYAN’S COTTAGE, , . . 5 
 
 II. HALLOW-EVE AT ESMOND HALL, . , . , 18 
 
 III. SHAUN THE PIPER, . . . 3 . . 31 
 
 IV. BRYAN’S STATIONS, 44 
 
 V. MARY HENNESSY HAS A VISIT, AND BRYAN ANOTHER, . 57 
 
 VI. A DAY AT ESMOND HALL, . . . . ,70 
 
 VII. MURDER AND MYSTERY, ..... 83 
 
 VIII. THE EVENTS OF A NIGHT, ..... 96 
 
 IX. UNCLE HARRY HAS AN ADVENTURE, . . .109 
 
 X. A MORNING ON THE ROCK, . . , .122 
 
 XI. THE RIDE HOME, ...... 136 
 
 XII. A WAKE AND WHAT BEFEL THEREAT, . . .150 
 
 XIII. A SUNDAY EVENING AT ESMOND HALL, . . . 163 
 
 XIV. MISS MARKHAM’S STORY, ..... 176 
 
 XV. MIDSUMMER-EVE ON THE ROCK OF CASHEL, . . 191 
 
 XVI. SUNSET ON THE ROCK, AND PHIL MORAN’S STORY, . 204 
 
 XVII. INNER LIFE IN EFFINGHAM CASTLE, . . . 219 
 
 3 
 
4 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAP. PAGE 
 
 XVIII. KATE COSTELLOE, ...... 231 
 
 XIX. AN APPARITION AT ROSE LODGE, . . . .244 
 
 XX. WHO KILLED MR. ESMOND, .... 260 
 
 XXI. PHIL MORAN TRIES HIS LUCK, .... 275 
 
 XXII. THE COUNTESS OF EFFINGHAM, .... 287 
 
 XXIII. MORE VISITORS TO THE ROCK— THE CONJURER, . , 299 
 
 XXIV. THE CLOSE OF THIS EVENTFUL HISTORY, . , ,313 
 
THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 4 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 HALLOW-EVE IN BRYAN’S COTTAGE. 
 
 A raw, cold evening was that of the last day of October, in the 
 year 18 — , a short time after the memorable “Year of Emanci- 
 pation ” — as the twenty-ninth year of this century is distinct- 
 ively called amongst the Catholic people of Ireland. The 
 crops were all gathered in from the rich level fields around the 
 city of Cashel — the last potato-heap was covered out of doors, 
 and the last load of that valuable esculent garnered in for 
 present consumption in the farmer’s household. The rich 
 man’s barns and haggards were full, and so were his byres, 
 while even the poorest cottier had his slender stock of potatoes 
 and turf stored away — his sole provision for the coming winter. 
 The ancient city of Cashel, shorn of its former splendour, and 
 dwindled down, in the vicissitudes of time, to the dimensions 
 of a moderately-sized country town, lay dull and indistinct at 
 the foot of the old Rock which sheltered it from the increasing 
 violence of the wind that came sweeping from the north over 
 the far-spreading plain. And the Rock itself loomed in soli 
 tary grandeur over the silent town, crowned with the solemn 
 mementoes of departed glory, the ruins of many a stately edifice 
 of other days, whose shattered walls were traced in broken and 
 irregular lines against the grey lowering sky. The piles of 
 masonry, so varied and distinct one from the other in the light 
 of day, were merged in one dark solid mass as the evening mist 
 
 5 
 
6 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 gathered thick and heavy around them on their rocky perch. 
 But still, like a spectral head, rose over all the weird pillar-tower, 
 lone “ chronicle of Time/’ keeping ward ever, through the garish 
 day and the still night-watches, over the buried dead who sleep 
 around and the ruins of ancient art — 
 
 The proud halls of the mighty and the calm homes of the just. 
 
 The lights in the city came out one by one, twinkling like 
 stars through the gathering gloom. So, too, in the group of 
 mud cabins that cower immediately beneath the great Rock, in 
 unsightly contrast with the mouldering monuments of human 
 grandeur towering above. Each in succession gave its faint 
 glimmering light to the dull wintry eve, but still the Rock 
 remained shrouded in darkness ; the royal palace of Munster’s 
 kings and the lordly dwelling where princely ecclesiastics ruled 
 of old are dark and silent now as the graves that contain the 
 ashes of their lords ; nor light nor sound comes forth from the 
 ancient abbey that stands close by, all alike wrapped in the 
 solemn mystery of the past, typified by the deepening gloom of 
 the hour and the silence of death that reigns for ever in the 
 lonely place. 
 
 The last tint of daylight was vanishing from earth and sky 
 when the door of the smallest and poorest of the cabins at the 
 foot of the Rock was opened with a quick, eager motion, and a 
 woman might be seen in the aperture, her small figure dimly 
 revealed by the light of a resin candle, which flickered through 
 the smoky atmosphere of the miserable hut. Throwing the 
 skirt of her blue drugget gown over her head, she made one 
 step beyond the threshold, then stopped as if checked by a 
 strong and sudden impulse. She cast a half-frightened, half- 
 anxious look at the frowning vyalls above, and then a longer and 
 more earnest one at the iron gate leading up the steep ascent 
 to the ruins, muttering drearily^ to herself, “ Isn’t it a quare 
 night for any Christian to be up there — of all places in the 
 world? Sure, I know well nothing good can come of it, and 
 many’s the time I tould him so, the witless crathur ! ” 
 
 As she stood in an attitude of fixed attention, with eye and 
 ear strained to the uttermost, there came from the neighbouring 
 town certain loud noises like the banging of doors rapidly and 
 often repeated. Shouts of laughter and merry voices came 
 
HALLOW-EVE LN BE VAN’S COTTAGE . 7 
 
 loud and distinct to the ear of the lonely watcher. A change 
 came over her withered features as she listened, and a smile of 
 strange meaning, half sorrow, half mockery, wreathed her thin 
 pale lip, and shone in her dulled eyes. 
 
 “ Ay, sure, it’s Hol’eve night ! ” she muttered, “ an’ the fun 
 is beginnin’ already ! The boys an’ the girls are abroad in the 
 streets playin’ their Hol’eve thricks. They’re pullin’ their 
 cabbage-stalks now in the dark, to see whether their sweet- 
 hearts ’ill be crooked or straight ; an’ they’re standin’ outside 
 the doors wid their mouths full of water listenin’ for the first 
 name that’s spoken within. An’ some of the girls are washin’ 
 their shifts, I’ll go bail, at the south-runnin’ water below ; an’ 
 it’s them will spread the fine supper, when the rest o’ the house 
 is all asleep, to see who’ll come in to eat it, an’ to turn the shift 
 that’s a-dryin’ by the fireside. Vo ! vo ! vo ! it’s little they 
 think of the throubles that may be in store for them ! It’s 
 little I thought of them, aither, when I was like them ! An’ 
 many’s the thrick I played of a Hol’eve night, — an’ didn’t I see 
 — och, didn’t I — didn’t I — oh, wirra ! wasn’t my stalk always the 
 straightest and purtiest h It was — it was — but what came of 
 \t 1 — 0 Lord ! what came of it i ” 
 
 Forgetting apparently her interest in the Eock, whatever it 
 might be at that hour, she wrung her hands, and, bursting into 
 a passionate flood of tears, retreated into her dismal dwelling, 
 and hastily closed the door, still repeating to herself in the 
 same wild way, “ What came of it all ? what came of it all 1 
 Ah ! ” she suddenly added, with a startled glance around the 
 smoky hut, “ what better could come of it ? Didn’t I rake the 
 haystack in the DiviVs name the very last Hol’eve before — 
 before ” — She did not finish the sentence, but, squatting down 
 by the smouldering fire on the hearth, she clasped her hands 
 in front of her knees, and her head sank on her chest in an 
 attitude of helpless, hopeless, incurable woe. 
 
 The woman was first aroused from her lethargy by the 
 raising of the door -latch, and then she started up with the 
 energy and vivacity of youth to accost an old man, much older 
 than herself, although she too was, or appeared to be, in close 
 proximity to the vale of years. 
 
 “ Wisha, Bryan Cullenan !” said she, “ what sort of a man 
 are you, at all, that you’d think of stayin’ up there among the 
 
8 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 dead afther the stars are in the sky of a Hol’eve night There 
 isn't man or woman in Tipperary that 'id do it except your four 
 hones ! ” 
 
 Excited as she was, she did not forget the old man’s comfort, 
 such as it was. She was down on the hearth blowing the turf 
 fire with her apron, and, seeing it begin to emit a cheerful blaze, 
 she drew over to the hearth a small and very rickety table, 
 barely large enough for two cups and saucers, two plates, a 
 third cup containing some coarse brown sugar, a diminutive 
 milk pitcher minus the handle, and a plate containing a 
 tempting pile of the ever-welcome potato-cake cut in triangular 
 slices, being the four parts of a small circular cake, each piece 
 slit in two and carefully buttered. A small white loaf, a much 
 greater delicacy, stood also on the table. This was “ the big 
 supper ” of Hallo w-eve, and the old man’s dim eyes brightened 
 as he watched the preparations, for tea and white bread were 
 luxuries seldom seen in that poor dwelling. 
 
 Slowly old Bryan took his seat on a low stool by the fire, 
 and, leaning over it, spread forth his hands to catch the welcome 
 heat. He seemed to have forgotten the abrupt question which 
 had greeted his entrance, but it was not so, for when the 
 woman began to repeat it in a sharper tone, he raised his head, 
 and, looking at her with a somewhat sagacious smile, said, 
 “ You think I’m losin’ my hearin’, Cauth, aroon ! but I’m not, 
 thanks be to God ! I heard what you said, mavrone, but I 
 wonder at you to say it. Sure, you know well enough that 
 every night is the same up there,” — pointing upwards with 
 his thumb. “Do you think them that are abroad on Hol’eve 
 night has power to go next or near the holy walls and the 
 blessed graves on the Rock of Cashel ? Ha ! ha ! ha ! ” he 
 laughed or rather chuckled in a faint wheezing voice, “ I’d like 
 to see them showin’ their noses where so many saints lie 
 waitin’ for the last trumpet — it wouldn’t be for the good of their 
 health if they did, and they know that well. Fairies, indeed, 
 on the Rock of Cashel ! Ha ! ha ! there’s sperits enough there, I’m 
 thinkin’, to keep the place to themselves ! ” 
 
 “ Christ save us ! ” said Cauth, setting down the little black 
 crockery teapot on the table with a haste that came near up- 
 setting all, — “ Christ save us ! ” and she crossed herself with a 
 visible shudder, “ can’t you let the sperits alone ? ” 
 
HALLOW-EVE IN BRYAN'S COTTAGE. 
 
 9 
 
 “ What harm am I doin' them, aroon ? ” asked Bryan 
 innocently. 
 
 “ Who says you're doin' them harm ? " cried Cauth tartly. 
 “ But don’t be talkin' about them ! You're enough to frighten 
 one out of their wits, so you are ! Sit over now an' take your 
 supper." 
 
 “ I will, avourneen, an' God bless you ! But what makes you 
 so feard of the sperits, Cauth ? Did you ever see one ? " 
 
 “ See one ? " and Cauth shuddered again. “ If I did it isn't 
 alive I'd be now. Can't you talk of something else, you con- 
 thrary ould man you ? " 
 
 “What will I talk of, then?" said Bryan, with a sort of 
 solemn humour that contrasted oddly with the churchyard 
 gravity of his look and manner. “ What will I talk of. 
 Cauth?" 
 
 “ I was askin' a while agone what kept you so late on the 
 Rock the night ? " 
 
 Although Cauth said this, it was evidently more to change 
 the topic than from any interest in the probable answer. Her 
 eyes were fixed gloomily and vacantly on the blazing turf 
 before her, and her thin lips kept moving as though she were 
 communing with herself. 
 
 But Bryan was never the quickest of perception, so he 
 heeded not the other's abstraction, but answered in good 
 faith — 
 
 “ I was workin' ever since I went up this mornin' at the 
 Archbishop's tomb in the choir above. There was some bits of 
 the beautiful carving gone off the front of it this time back, an', 
 as luck would have it, I found some of them among the rubbish. 
 So I was fittin' them in here an' there, an' " — 
 
 “An' you're a great fool for your pains!" broke in Cauth, 
 starting suddenly from her reverie with the air of one who 
 would fain get rid of her own thoughts. “ Now what good does 
 it do for you to be spendin' your time up there from mornin' 
 till night, an' sometimes from night till mornin’, in that fearsome 
 ould rookery, where there's nothing but stones and bones and 
 grey walls ? " 
 
 “Woman! ” said Bryan, with a sudden assumption of dignity 
 and a solemnity of tone that awed Cauth into wondering 
 silence, — “ woman J what’s that you say ? Who are you that 
 
10 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK . 
 
 dares to speak so lightly of God’s holy place, an’ the consecrated 
 walls, an’ the bones that will come together an’ rise in glory at 
 the Day of J udgment ? — why wouldn’t I look after them, for if 
 I don’t who will ? ” 
 
 “ Well you said it, Bryan Cullenan ! ” murmured Cautli, her 
 head drooping on her chest, and her hands clasped convulsively 
 as they rested on her knees, — “ well you said it — who am I? — 
 ay, who am 1 ? There’s times when I hardly know myself.” 
 
 It might be that the old man was accustomed to these fits of 
 abstraction and abrupt changes of manner in the one companion 
 of his solitary life, for he answered soothingly, as though he 
 spoke to a little wayward child, “ Well, never mind, Cauth, 
 never mind. I’m so much of my time all alone on the Kock 
 above, with only shadows round about me, that I ’most forget 
 how to speak to flesh and blood like myself. But why don’t 
 you take your supper, Cauth ? ” 
 
 “I’m not hungry,” was the curt reply. 
 
 “ But you know it’s Hol’eve night, Cauth, an’ you can’t but eat 
 something, if it was only for company-sake, an’ in honour of the 
 night. Why, the fairies you were talking of a while ago ” — 
 “No, I wasn’t talkin’ of them — will you whisht now, Bryan? 
 or you’ll get yourself into trouble this blessed night. Fair may 
 they come and fair may they go ! sure, myself wouldn’t make so 
 free as to mention their name good or bad. But as for eatin 
 — I couldn’t do it, Bryan, I couldn’t — my heart is too full 
 thinkin’ of the days that’ll never come back, an’ — an’ ” — She 
 stopped, reached out her hand, and, taking the cup of tea that 
 stood untasted on the table, gulped it down with feverish 
 avidity ; then, pressing her eyelids very close together, she forced 
 back the tears that were gathering in her eyes, and started to 
 her feet, exclaiming — 
 
 “Well! there now, haven’t I the poor memory of my own? 
 Sure, I’ve something better than tay for you, Bryan ! ” 
 
 Going to a little alcove in a corner of the hut, Cauth drew 
 out, with an air of great importance, a black bottle, which she 
 placed on the table with a dreary attempt at a smile, saying at 
 the same time, “ If you’re done with them things, Bryan, I’ll 
 take them away.” 
 
 Bryan nodded assent, with his eyes fixed inquisitively on the 
 bottle. 
 
HALLOW-EVE IM BRYAN’S COTTAGE. 11 
 
 n What’s in it, Cauth 1 ” he at length inquired. 
 
 “ Some of the best potheen in Tipperary, Bryan, an’ you’re 
 to drink the master’s health in it this good Hol’eve night. 
 Them’s the orders. An’ see here, Bryan ! ” — taking a small 
 paper package from the cupboard, — “ here’s lump sugar, no less; 
 for the young mistress said, with a sweet smile on her face, that 
 old Bryan — meaning you, av coorse — must have his punch the 
 night as good as the master himself. The Lord’s blessin’ on 
 her every day she rises ! ” 
 
 “Wisha, amen, Cauth, amen, from my heart out!” said the 
 old man, with a fervour little to be expected from him, a gleam 
 of joy brightening his aged eyes at the thought that, poor and 
 old and lonely as he was, there was one amongst the rich and 
 the young and the happy that did not forget him amid all the 
 luxurious festivity of her own stately mansion. Oh, how glad 
 the rich can make the poor ! 
 
 “ Was she here the day, Cauth ? ” said Bryan, more cheer- 
 fully than his wont. 
 
 “ No, but she sent for me this mornin’, an’ gave me as much 
 tay and sugar as ’ill do us every day for a month, an’ this bottle 
 for you, Bryan, on account of it’s bein’ the night it is, an’ the 
 lump sugar to sweeten the punch. An’ see here — maybe you 
 don’t call them Hol’eve apples?” as she drew forth a tiny 
 basket of the finest Russetins — or, as she called them, “ rusty 
 coats,” time out of mind the favourite Hallow-eve apple in 
 Ireland. 
 
 “ Isn’t God good to us, Cauth ? ” said the old man, drawing 
 his stool once more to the fire, with the cup of punch in his 
 hand (Bryan’s cottage contained nor glass nor goblet), Cauth 
 opposite with another cup containing a small quantity of the 
 same exhilarating beverage — it was seldom either indulged, or 
 cared to indulge, in the dangerous luxury for which mankind 
 is indebted to John Barleycorn. “ Isn’t God good to us, Cauth, 
 to send us such a friend as the young mistress ? An’ see what a 
 fine load of turf we have by us — enough to put us over Christ- 
 mas, anyhow. It’s Dan O’Connell we may thank for that, an’ 
 a trifle I’ve by me ever since for a sore foot. Ah, then, did I 
 ever tell you, Cauth, of the day I showed him over the Rock?” 
 
 Cauth answered in the negative, expressing- a wish at the 
 same time to hear all about it. Turning to a pile of turf, in the 
 
12 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 corner behind her, she replenished the fire, and with a well- 
 worn heather besom swept up the ashes from the hearth. 
 
 “You mind the day, Cauth?” — Cautli nodded assent, — “it 
 was one of the brightest and purtiest days that came in Sep- 
 tember, and I was hard at work scrapin’ the moss out of the 
 letters on King Cormac’s tomb, — you know where it is, Cauth, 
 just in between the wall of his own chapel, God rest his soul ! 
 an’ the cathedral, — well, I was workin’ away as hard as I could, 
 sayin’ a trifle of prayers, too, for the good king’s soul, though 
 thinkin’ to myself that it’s little need he had of them, most 
 like, when somebody says, just right behind me, 4 Hillo, 
 Bryan ! you’re at your old trade still, I see ! ’ an’ I started like, 
 an’ dropped the chisel out of my hand. When I turned about, 
 who should I see but the Counsellor himself, as large as life, 
 looking down at myself with that comical look of his that 
 would make the dead in their graves laugh if they could only 
 see it. He had two gentlemen with him, an’ I knew in a 
 minnit that one of them was Tom Steele, for I seen him with 
 him once afore. So I gets out from my crib as fast as I could, 
 an’ I takes off my hat an’ makes the best bow I was able, an’ 
 says I, 4 You’re welcome back to Cashel, Counsellor ! ’ 
 
 “ 4 Thank you kindly, Bryan,’ says he. ‘ I see you haven’t 
 forgotten me.’ 
 
 “ 4 Forgotten you 2’ says I back again. 4 Sure, that’s what no 
 one ever does that once gets an eyeful out of you.’ 
 
 44 With that the Counsellor laughed again, and the other 
 gentlemen laughed too; and says Dan to me, ‘Well, Bryan, 
 for a man that’s so much alone you keep the use of your tongue 
 to admiration. But come, can you spare time to show us 
 through the place? You know when I was here before I 
 hadn’t time to see half what was to be seen.— It was when I 
 came down to one of those murder trials in Clonmel,’ says he 
 to the strange gentleman, ‘and I was hurrying back at full 
 speed for a general meeting of the Association that was to come 
 off next evening ’ — But what’s the matter with you, Cauth ? ” 
 seeing that she laid down the cup and leaned back against the wall. 
 
 44 There’s nothing the matter with me,” said Cauth testily, 
 though her pale lips could scarce articulate the words. The 
 next moment she sat up as before, and motioned for Bryan to 
 go on with his narrative. 
 
HALLOW-EVE IN BRYAN'S COTTAGE. 13 
 
 “ Well, I will, Cauth, I will ; but I'm afeard you're not able 
 to sit up — you look as pale as a ghost." 
 
 “ Can't you go on with your story an' never mind me ? You 
 were saying the Counsellor asked if you could spare time to 
 take them through the ould place." 
 
 “Yis, an' of coorse I said I'd be hard run for time if I 
 couldn't take him over the Rock. * My work,' says I, ‘ can stand 
 — there's no one to hurry me, an' I've my life long to do it.' 
 
 “ ‘ Very true, Bryan,' says the Counsellor, as we turned into 
 the ould cathedral. 4 Do you know, Steele,' says he to Tom, 
 ‘ that this is our Irish Old Mortality*?' — let me see, was that the 
 word*? — yis, that was it, Old Mortality, — 4 This, 'says he, nodding 
 his head at myself, ‘this is our Irish Old Mortality.' With 
 that the gentlemen looked at me and smiled at one another, 
 an' though I didn’t know from Adam what Old Mortality 
 meant, I thought it couldn't be anything bad, or he wouldn't 
 say it, so I took off my hat again and made a very low bow. 
 ‘Your honour,' says I, ‘is very kind an' condescendin’ to speak 
 so well of a poor ould crathur like me.' 
 
 “ ‘ Not at all, Bryan, not at all,' says he. ‘ You're a great man, 
 and a useful man in your own way, and, moreover, you and I 
 are, to some extent, fellow-labourers.' Them were his very 
 words, Cauth, as I'm a livin' man this night. 
 
 “ * Why, dear bless me ! how can that be *? ' says I, lookin' 
 at him close to see if he was makin' fun of me or not. 
 
 “ ‘ Because,' says he, ‘ Bryan, you and I are both working for 
 the future of our country — we are both clearing away the 
 rubbish of ages — both working for the honour and glory of the 
 Old Land!"' 
 
 “ Wisha, Bryan, did the Counsellor say that*?" 
 
 “As true as you're sittin' there, Cauth, he said them words 1 
 an' don't you think but it made my heart jump with joy ? I 
 declare the tears came into my eyes so that I could hardly see 
 the way before me, an' I 'most forgot what I was about, till the 
 Counsellor says, with that fine hearty laugh of his, ‘ Why, Bryan 
 Cullenan, where are your wits gone? I think I must turn 
 guide myself. Where's this Myler M‘Grath's tomb is?' an' he 
 walked straight to it, an' began to explain the inscription on it 
 to the other gentlemen. I had no need to speak a word there, 
 for they all knew more about the Archbishop than I did 
 
14 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 myself. But they wanted to take a rise out of me , I could 
 see that, an’ so Tom Steele says to me in his big voice, 
 ‘Bryan,’ says he, ‘do you know that Myler M‘Grath was the 
 first Protestant Archbishop of Cashel ? ’ 
 
 “ ‘ I do, your honour,’ says I ; ‘ I knew it ever since I was 
 the height of your knee.’ 
 
 “ ‘ How does it happen, then, that you take such good care of 
 his tomb as I am told you do ? ’ 
 
 “ ‘ For a very good reason, your honour,’ says I, lookin’ him 
 straight in the face, ‘ because he recanted his errors before he 
 left this world, an’ had all the rites of the Church.’ 
 
 “ ‘Nonsense, man ! how can you be sure of that?’ 
 
 “ ‘ How can I be sure of it V says I. ‘ Your honour might as 
 well ask how can I be sure that the blessed sun will go back 
 the night to set where he set last night, behind the mountains 
 westward ? Only I’m sure, an’ double sure, that the Archbishop 
 died a good Catholic, do you think I’d sleep many’s the summer 
 night, as I do every year of my life, right here in the choir 
 beside his tomb 1 ’ 
 
 “ ‘ Bravo, Bryan, bravo ! ’ cried the Counsellor and the other 
 gentleman, clappin’ their hands, and laughin’ till you’d think 
 they’d split their sides. ‘ What do you think of that, friend 
 Tom ? Come, come, now ! look Bryan straight in the face an’ 
 tell him old Myler did right to “ conform ” to the religion pre- 
 scribed by the Virgin Queen, or wrong to return to Catholic 
 unity when he felt himself at the gates of death ? Speak now, 
 my man of Steel ! or ever hereafter hold your tongue ! ’ 
 
 “ ‘ Pshaw ! ’ says Tom, turnin’ on his heel an’ walkin’ away 
 down the aisle, ‘ let the old hypocrite lie where he is — be that 
 where it may ! It matters little now to us when he was right, 
 or when wrong ! ’ At this the others laughed again, an’ myself 
 was afeard they’d make him angry ; but they knew him better 
 than I did, for when the Counsellor called after him to come 
 back an’ look at one of the old monuments in the wall before 
 they’d leave the choir, he went back as cheerful as could be, 
 an’ looked just the same as if nothing at all had happened. So 
 I took them all round an’ showed them everything I could 
 think of, an’ by the time we got to the old tribute-stone near 
 the gate, with St. Patrick risin’ up from it on one side, an’ the 
 Crucifixion on the other, they were all purty well tired, I’m 
 
HALLOW-EVE IN LEVAN’S COTTAGE. 15 
 
 thinking and down they sat on some big stones that were lyin' 
 a one side on the grass, just where they had a fine view of the 
 whole, an' a beautiful sight it was, too. The sun was beginnin’ 
 to decline westward, an' the shadows of the grand ould walls 
 were all around us, with here and there the shape of a window 
 or a door of clear sunlight shinin' like yallow goold on the 
 green grass. Then the Counsellor pointed out to the others all 
 the fine elegant arches, both round and pointed, as he said, an' 
 the pillars within an' without, an' the beautiful mullions, as he 
 called the stone divisions where the windows used to be, an' he 
 spoke of the carvin' over the doors, an' told the meaning of 
 everything, just all as one, Cauth, as if he was at the buildin' of 
 it all; an' they talked a long while about the ould round 
 tower, an' what it was for, an’ one said one thing an' one 
 another, but the Counsellor said it was easy to see what it was 
 built for, an' that was to keep the rich vessels of silver an' goold 
 belongin' to the church in the ould war-times. ‘Don’t you 
 know,' says he, ‘ that there's an underground passage from the 
 church to the tower — well, doesn't that prove what I'm saying 
 to be true ? Where would be the use of constructing an under- 
 ground passage,' — that wasn't the word he said, Cauth, but I 
 disremember the other — I know it began with sub — something 
 or another — no matter, anyhow, I suppose it means the same as 
 underground, — ‘where would be the use,' says he, ‘of constructing 
 an underground passage to the tower through the solid rock, if 
 it wasn't for the purpose I have mentioned?' The others 
 seemed to give in to that, an' after discoorsin’ a while longer, 
 ihey stood up to go. They turned to take another look at the 
 Duld walls, an' sure enough I never seen them lookin' so grand 
 or so beautiful. The Counsellor's face would do you good to 
 see it, Cauth, as he watched the sunshine dancin' and glancin' 
 hither and thither among the broken arches, an’ the pillars, an' 
 things, an' says he then, takin’ out a fine elegant white silk 
 handkerchief out of his pocket, an' wipin' the tears from his eyes, 
 says he, as if partly to himself, ‘ And such is Ireland — grand and 
 venerable even in decay — Cashel is Ireland — Ireland is Cashel — 
 royal still, though their greatness be of the past. But their glory 
 shall not fade for ever. Look at the sunbeams on the old walls,' 
 says he, turnin' to the other gentlemen, — ‘ well, even so it is 
 with our native land ; the light of hope has never left her, and 
 
16 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 now the sun of prosperity begins to shine again on her mountain- 
 tops. And it will continue to shine — mark my words — when 
 the darkness of night has settled down for ever on haughty 
 England, her oppressor ! ’ Them were the words he said, Cauth ; 
 for I kept sayin’ them over and over to myself, by night an’ by 
 day, ever since, till I’ve got them by heart like a gossoon lamin’ 
 his task. There’s ne’er a time I look up at the ould walls over 
 my head, espaycially when the sun is shinin’, that I don’t think 
 of Dan O’Connell, an’ somehow or another his words keep 
 singin’ in my ears for all the world like one of Columbkill’s 
 prophecies. But the best of it all was what he said to myself 
 at his off-goin’. ‘ Bryan,’ says he, — ‘ Bryan Cullen an ! you have 
 a great name, — your namesake, King Cormac Cullenan, was 
 a good king and a great bishop in his day, — I’m proud to see 
 that you take such care of these noble ruins. It is a good work, 
 Bryan, and a pious work, too — and God will bless you for it, 
 and the Saints of Erin will shield you from all ill. Farewell, 
 Bryan ! if we never meet again on earth, put up a prayer now 
 and then for Dan O’Connell, while you tell your beads here 
 among the tombs of the holy dead.’ With that he slips a bright 
 goold guinea into my hand, to buy my winter’s turf, he said in 
 a whisper. The other gentlemen gave me a half-crown apiece, 
 so I made a good day’s work of it in regard to money ; but I 
 didn’t care for that half so much as I did for the honour of 
 showin’ Cashel to Counsellor O’Connell, an’ hearin’ all the fine 
 beautiful words he said about the ould place that my heart is 
 centred in. I forgot to tell you, Cauth, that he took another 
 grand rise out of Mr. Steele as they were just leavin’ the Rock. 
 I didn’t know till then that he was a Prodestan, which, indeed, 
 is a mighty odd thing to me, an’ him such a darlin’ fine gentle- 
 man, and a great friend of the people. 
 
 “ ‘ Tom,’ says the Counsellor — it’s the member for Clare, I 
 hear they cali him now, — ‘Tom,’ says he, pointin’ his finger 
 down at the great new church — the Bishop’s Church — in the 
 town below, — ‘Tom, do you know how that came to be built?’ 
 ‘No,’ says Tom, ‘I do not.’ ‘Well,’ says the Counsellor, 
 winkin’ at the other gentleman, — I never can remember what 
 name they gave him,- — ‘ it was built because the road up to the 
 Rock here was too steep for the Protestant Archbishop Agar to 
 drive his carriage up, and I suppose himself was too fat to walk 
 
HALLOW-EVE IN BRYAN'S COTTAGE. ll 
 
 it, though it is only a few perches, as you may perceive. So 
 he goes to work and puts up that grand building below there, 
 * or got the Government to put it up for him. The roof was taken 
 off this cathedral on the Rock to make lead water-pipes out of, 
 or something of the kind, and from that day to this it has been 
 going to ruin. See what it is to be fat, Tom ! — Archbishop 
 Agar’s fat cost this noble old building its roof.’ Mr. Steele got 
 very red in the face at that, and says he, ‘If I had my will of 
 that old chap, do you know what I’d do with him ? I’d put him 
 on bread and water the rest of his days, by way of penance, 
 then he’d soon be able to walk up here, and a little farther, too, 
 if need were — the old Vandal ! ’ says he, mighty angry ; and at 
 that the others laughed till the tears came into their eyes.” 
 
 Here Cauth started to her feet and looked wildly around, 
 putting back her long grey hair from off her ears to listen. 
 “Ha! ha!” she cried, “I hear them now! That’s John’s 
 voice ” — 
 
 “ What John ? Who do you mean ? ” said Bryan. “ I hear 
 nothin’, barrin’ the wind screechin’ round the ould walls on the 
 Rock above. Sit down, Cauth, sit down, — or maybe you ought 
 to go to bed. I’m afeard you’re not well.” 
 
 “ Don’t tell me,” said Cauth, with a vehement gesture; “if 
 that isn’t the caoine, I never heard it. I say it’s that and 
 nothin’ else — and there’s men’s voices in it, too ! 0 Lord ! will 
 
 I hear it for ever — for ever?” She buried her face in her 
 hands, and was silent. 
 
 Accustomed as Bryan was to the solitude of death and the 
 grim presence of dread mortality in its relics, there was some- 
 thing in Cauth’s voice and manner that made him shiver with 
 an undefined sense of fear. He did not dare to rouse her from 
 her lethargy, of whatever kind it was, but as soon as she raised 
 her head again, he renewed his request that she would go to 
 bed, which she did very soon after, without any allusion to 
 what had passed. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 HALLOW-EVE AT ESMOND HALL. 
 
 We will now take the liberty of introducing the reader to the 
 drawing-room of Esmond Hall on that same Hallow-eve night, 
 where the “ young mistress ” so gratefully and often mentioned 
 by Bryan and Cauth was entertaining with modest though 
 lively grace a numerous circle of visitors, all more or less con- 
 nected with the family. Nothing could be more cheerful than 
 the aspect of the spacious and lofty room, with its bright coal 
 fire, and its crystal chandelier shedding down a flood of warm 
 light on the gay company, the bright-hued velvet carpet, the 
 handsome modern furniture, rosewood and marble of the latest 
 Dublin style, the piano — one of Broadwood’s grand — with its 
 showy keyboard open to view, and near it a harp which 
 could be set down for no other — even without hearing its 
 silvery tones — than one of “ Erard’s best.” A beautiful dog of 
 the King Charles breed lay on the soft rug outside the fender, 
 his long silken ears of glossy black reflecting the bright glow 
 from the massive grate. 
 
 The crimson curtains w T ere closed over the tall windows, 
 hanging in heavy folds to the floor, and the lofty mirrors flashed 
 back the gay scene with its richly-varied hues, its light and 
 life and beauty. The “ wind of the winter night ” howling 
 without, served but to increase the luxurious sense of comfort 
 within, and its plaintive cadences and loud fierce swells were 
 little heeded by the company assembled in Mrs. Esmond’s 
 drawing-room. And yet some of the guests were grave and far 
 from young. One in particular — a stout, portly man, with 
 short neck, square shoulders, and large globular head — would 
 have given you the impression of a harsh, stern man as he 
 looked at you from under his protruding brows with a glance 
 
 18 
 
HALLO W-EVE AT ESMOND HALL 
 
 19 
 
 half inquisitive, half defiant. This personage, attired in top- 
 boots and knee-breeches of drab cassimere, with a bottle-green 
 frock coat, black velvet vest, and scrupulously white neck-tie, 
 occupied the seat of honour, a large Gothic arm-chair near the 
 fireplace, with cushions of crimson velvet. He was addressed by 
 both the lovely young hostess and her frank-looking, handsome 
 husband as “ Uncle Harry,” and his presence on that occasion 
 seemed somehow to be regarded as a very special favour. Then 
 there was his wife, a rather favourable specimen of the Irish 
 lady of the last generation ; though somewhat stiff and formal, 
 there was nothing forbidding in her long, thin features, and she 
 seemed to listen with complacency, if not with any great degree 
 of sympathy, to the joyous badinage of her younger relatives. 
 This lady was “ Aunt Martha.” 
 
 Then there were sundry cousins, male and female, comprising 
 a young attorney, a physician whose diploma was dated within 
 the year, and another of some ten or twelve years’ standing in the 
 good city of Cashel. The last-named gentleman, Dr. O’Grady, 
 had a fair-faced little wife in that goodly company, and the 
 former, Dr. Hennessy, a sister, some years younger than himself, 
 a gay, light-hearted brunette, whose saucy though good-natured 
 repartees contributed largely to the general amusement. Mary 
 Hennessy was a bright-eyed, handsome girl, with an inexhaust- 
 ible fund of good humour, and her presence was everywhere 
 greeted as heaven’s sunshine — warm, genial, and enlivening. 
 Two other young ladies were there, connections though not 
 relatives of the Esmonds, one of whom, Bella Le Poer, was a 
 distant relation of the elegant Lady Blessington, and the other, 
 Harriet Markham, a pale and very interesting girl, a recent 
 convert to Catholicity, belonging to an old but much-reduced 
 Queen’s County family. This young lady was engaged as 
 governess in the family of a certain noble lord whose princely 
 mansion rises but a short distance from Cashel, almost in the 
 shade of old Killough. There was, too, a vinegar-faced old 
 maid, the sister of Uncle Harry, familiarly called “Aunt Winn,” 
 whose natural acerbity of temper acted as a whetting-stone to 
 the lively humour of the youngsters, and gave them no small 
 entertainment. 
 
 Altogether it was a pleasantly-constituted party, each one 
 marked by strong peculiarity of one kind or another, the ages 
 
20 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 and characters and professions happily assorted, and, to crown 
 all, each known to the other in all their prominent traits of 
 character. 
 
 Tea had been served in the drawing-room, and as the 
 Hallow-eve sports were to come off before supper, the matter 
 now in hand was the order to be observed. After some good- 
 humoured discussion, the company all adjourned to the ball- 
 room, the smooth oaken floor of which better suited that 
 evening’s entertainment than the rich carpet of the drawing- 
 room. The youngsters were all in a state of excitement that 
 was in itself happiness. Though all far superior to the 
 superstitious belief of the peasantry in the fateful character of 
 Hallow-eve, or the possibility of obtaining on that particular 
 night a glimpse of life’s untrodden path, they all, as a matter 
 of course, assumed the greatest anxiety to “ try their luck” in 
 accordance with the spell that ruled the hour. Every face was 
 brimful of serio-comic importance, under which each contrived 
 to manifest a laughing incredulity, that reduced the power of 
 fairydom to a mere myth, and the Hallow-eve observances to 
 a pure frolic. 
 
 First came the melting of the lead in a grisset, and the 
 pouring thereof through the wards of a key by each unmarried 
 person in succession. This ceremony gave rise, as usual, to the 
 most unbounded merriment, on account of the ludicrous com- 
 binations presented by the charmed lead in the various shapes 
 it assumed falling into a shallow dish of water through the 
 ring aforesaid. Truth to tell, the shapes were of that nonde- 
 script kind which might be construed into anything, and in 
 that consisted the charm, for each one’s lot was, therefore, 
 predicted from the lead in the way most likely to promote the 
 general amusement. Thus, Mary Hennessy’s “ cast ” was inter 
 preted by all present into a tailor’s scissors, Bella Le Poer’s a 
 printing press, and Harriet Markham’s a ship’s rudder! It 
 is to be remarked that the Hallow-eve lead is much more given 
 to emblems of handicraft than any other,— it seldom meddles 
 with the professions, though once in a while, by way of variety, 
 perhaps a pen or a compass, perhaps a telescope, is discovered 
 amongst the motley forms into which it resolves itself in its 
 passage through the key. Much amusement was afforded the 
 young people on that particular night by the result of Aunt 
 
HALL OW EVE AT ESMOND HALL. 
 
 21 
 
 Winn’s experiment, which was declared, after a minute and 
 most careful investigation, to be a fiddle, indicating either a 
 dancing master or an itinerant performer on that favourite 
 instrument. 
 
 This announcement was received with unbounded applause* 
 and followed by the most uproarious mirth. 
 
 “Aunt Winn is going to have a fiddler! — good gracious! 
 good gracious ! ” cried Mary Hennessy ; “ then we shall do 
 nothing but dance all year round ! ” 
 
 “ Uncle Harry, do you hear that 1 ” said Bella, in the good- 
 natured expectation of bringing a smile to the face that even 
 then was grave. 
 
 “ I am not surprised,” was the answer ; “ I always thought 
 that Winn had a decided turn for music.” 
 
 “Bravo ! bravissimo ! ” cried the young men, clapping their 
 hands, while the fair girls around made the roof ring with 
 their light-hearted laughter. Even Aunt Martha, Uncle 
 Harry’s staid and sober helpmate, smiled condescendingly at 
 the odd conceit ; but Aunt Winn herself was highly offended, 
 and said she deserved no better for allowing herself to be made 
 a fool of. The very curls on either side of her high, narrow 
 forehead — they were barrel curls of fair rotundity — seemed to 
 swell in sympathetic indignation, and her long, thin nose 
 assumed an alarmingly sharp point, as she rose from her 
 seat and declared her intention of returning to the drawing- 
 room, as “ people there didn’t know how to conduct themselves.” 
 The angry spinster was, with no small difficulty, prevailed 
 on by the host and his gentle wife not to break up the party. 
 “For you know, Aunt Winn,” said Mrs. Esmond in her 
 sweetest tones, “ we could never think of remaining here, any 
 of us, and let you sit alone in the drawing-room, — on a night 
 like this, too,” she sportively added, “ when the fairies are all 
 on the alert to catch unwary mortals.” 
 
 “Nonsense, Henrietta,” said her husband gaily; “Aunt Winn 
 wants only a little coaxing. Come, come, my fair aunt ! I 
 will take you under protection for the rest of the evening,” and, 
 drawing her arm within his, he led her back to her seat with a 
 half smile on her face and a look of heroic determination on 
 his, as though meaning to convey to all concerned the strength 
 and firmness of his purpose. 
 
22 
 
 THE HERMIT OE THE ROCK. 
 
 A suppressed titter went round in acknowledgment of Harry’s 
 comic powers, and the lead having gone its rounds, another 
 ordeal was instituted for the trial of each one’s fate. Four 
 plates were set on a table, one of which contained clean, another 
 muddy water, the third some fresh clay, and the fourth a ring, 
 drawn from the taper finger of Mrs. Esmond. The ring, in 
 being handed to Dr. Hennessy, who arranged the plates, 
 dropped by accident into the clay, whereat Mrs. Dr. O’Grady 
 uttered an exclamation of horror. All eyes were immediately 
 turned upon her, and every one asked what was the matter. 
 
 “ Oh, nothing, — nothing at all,” said she in a faint, languid 
 tone, looking quite overcome at the same time ; “ but, dear me ! 
 Dr. Hennessy, how could you be so awkward ? You ought to 
 have known better ! I really can’t forgive you ! ” 
 
 “ Forgive me for what, madam ? I would willingly ask 
 your pardon if I only knew the head and front of my offending. 
 Will you have the goodness to enlighten me thereupon ? ” 
 
 “ Some other time I will, but not now. Mrs. Harry Esmond, 
 if I were you I would not have given the ring off my hand for 
 any such purpose, and ” — Here she stopped, and after glancing 
 at the fair hand and then at the ring, turned up her eyes and 
 raised her hands, with a gesture that said ever so plainly, 
 “ Well ! anything to equal that ! ” 
 
 It was now Mrs. Esmond’s turn to inquire somewhat earnestly, 
 “ What do you mean, Mrs. O’Grady ? ” 
 
 ‘ ‘ Mean ? Why, I mean that you did very wrong to give your 
 wedding-ring for such a purpose. Any other would have done 
 as well.” 
 
 “And pray, where’s the difference?” laughed Mrs. Esmond, 
 but her voice trembled a very little. “ What harm does it do 
 the ring ? ” 
 
 “ JSTo harm to the ring , child ; but — but — I wouldn’t have 
 done it, that’s all ! ” 
 
 This trifling episode was little heeded by any of the others, 
 and Harry, if he had noticed it, would doubtless have quizzed 
 Mrs. O’Grady unmercifully for her old-world notions, but some- 
 how the ill-timed remark of that sharp-sighted lady made an 
 impression on the mind of her to whom it was addressed, which 
 her reason strove in vain to combat. The impression w T as not 
 weakened by the succeeding incidents of that evening. 
 
HALLOW-EVE AT ESMOND HALL, 
 
 23 
 
 The sports went on. Each of the young people was, in turn, 
 led blindfolded to the table, and shouts of laughter greeted 
 their groping efforts to make for the clean water and the ring. 
 The clay, emblematic of death, and the muddy water of 
 marriage with a widow or widower, as the case might be, were, 
 as a matter of course, anxiously avoided. 
 
 Some did happen on the muddy water, and that was the 
 signal for increased merriment. The attorney was one of them, 
 Avhereupon the other young men clapped their hands and cried 
 simultaneously, “The widow Gartland — the widow Gartland!” 
 “By Jove !” added Harry Esmond, “you’re a lucky dog, after 
 all, Phil Moran.” 
 
 “That’s to be tried,” said Dr. O’Grady, with emphasis. 
 “ Money is not always luck, and there’s many a bitter curse on 
 that same money of old Gartland’s. I’d rather work my own 
 way in life and trust to Providence than start on a fortune 
 that was wrung from the heart’s blood of the poor.” 
 
 “That’s because you’re a fool,” said Uncle Harry senten- 
 tiously. “ Money is money, and what is more, money is power. 
 If I were a young fellow like Moran, with a fair chance of 
 success, I’d go in for Gartland’s houses and lands — and money 
 too — with a heart and a half. As for the curses ” — he smiled 
 scornfully — “ I’d take them by way of mortgage ! ” 
 
 Uncle Harry was a privileged person in the circle, and was 
 tolerated, on account of his age, in a latitude of tongue accorded 
 to no one else. The doctor contented himself, therefore, with 
 a smile of peculiar meaning ; whilst Moran laughed, and said it 
 was time enough to balance the pro and con of that question 
 when one had an interest in it, which, on his honour, was not 
 his case. 
 
 “ Mary ! Mary ! take care !” now burst from the eager circle 
 round the table, — Mary Hennessy was trying her fortune, and 
 her hand was hovering near the plate which contained the 
 fateful clay. Old and young gathered round, for Mary was 
 the favourite of all, — every eye followed the motions of her 
 fingers as though Fate indeed hung in the balance, — again and 
 again was the warning given, half jest, whole earnest, to take 
 care, yet still Mary’s hand, slow and wary, and moved away 
 for a moment, ivould return to the forbidden spot. All at once, 
 Harry Esmond extended his hand playfully, crying, “Nonsense, 
 
2r 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 Mary ! that’s not the plate for you!” but instead of drawing her 
 hand away, as he intended, it so happened that his and hers 
 both came down together on the damp, dark earth, and Mary’s 
 cry of terror, whether real or assumed, was echoed by Mrs. 
 Esmond. Harry was at her side in a moment, laughing at her 
 childish folly, and, shaking his finger at Mary Hennessy, who 
 was herself a shade paler than usual, he declared it was all her 
 fault, giving it, moreover, as his opinion that she had managed 
 to see under the bandage, and, with her usual love of mischief, 
 persisted in choosing the clay just to frighten them all. 
 
 “Upon my honour, Harry Esmond !” cried Mary, shaking 
 back her long curls and looking at him with a saucy smile, 
 “you are not improving in politeness since your marriage. To 
 accuse me — Mary Hennessy — of practising deceit in a matter, 
 positively, of life and death ! Come, come, now, I think we 
 have all had our turn at the plates.” 
 
 “All but Aunt Winn,” put in Moran slyly. 
 
 “ Aunt Winn wants no more turns — she thanks you,” was 
 the ancient maiden’s tart rejoinder, and she drew herself up t<r 
 her fullest rigidity. “Every one hasn’t your luck, Phil Moran, 
 in regard to the muddy water — or the rusty gold the doctor 
 was speaking of a while ago.” 
 
 This speech was loudly applauded, the more so as it made 
 the lawyer look a little sheepish ; and, much mollified by the 
 success of her well-aimed shaft, Aunt Winn smiled a vinegar 
 smile and nodded her head several times with great self- 
 complacency. 
 
 Perhaps gentle Mrs. Esmond was not sorry that supper was 
 announced at that particular moment, and she took Uncle 
 Harry’s offered arm with right goodwill ; while Harry, ever free 
 and easy, followed with that gentleman’s grave helpmate ; and 
 Moran went up with a dancing step to make his salaam to 
 Mary Hennessy, with whom he joined the order of march to 
 the tune of “The Rakes of Mallow,” humming at the same 
 time loud enough for all to hear — 
 
 “Beauing, belleing, dancing, drinking, 
 
 Lived the Rakes of Mallow.” 
 
 “ What a grave and reverend signor — -for a lawyer ! ” said 
 sprightly Mary Hennessy. “ Do you ever expect to wear the 
 ermine, or cover those locks of yours with wig judicial V 9 
 
HALLOW-EVE AT ESMOND HALL. 
 
 25 
 
 “ Undoubtedly, fair lady ! thicker heads than mine have 
 worn that venerable coiffure. Only you take the taming of 
 me,” he said, lowering his voice to a half whisper, “and you 
 shall see me grave enough for anything.” 
 
 “ Oh, you incorrigible scion of the law ! ” said Mary, with her 
 clear, musical laugh, “what a left-handed compliment you pay 
 me ! Let me only have the taming of you and you would be 
 grave enough for anything ! Angels and ministers of grace ! 
 heard any unfortunate damsel ever the like of that ? ” 
 
 “ Well, but — yes or no?” 
 
 “No, decidedly; I leave you to old Gartland’s gold, — the 
 Lord forgive me,” she added, with sudden seriousness, “for 
 naming the dead so lightly ! ” 
 
 “Who were you naming, then?” said her brother from 
 behind, as they entered the spacious dining-room where supper 
 awaited them. “Will Gartland, or who?” 
 
 “What a good guess you are, Maurice!” said his sister 
 evasively; “you should have been born in New England 
 instead of Old Ireland.” 
 
 Mary Hennessy raised her eyes as she said this, and en- 
 countered the stern gaze of Uncle Harry, who had just taken 
 his seat near the head of the table at the right hand of the 
 youthful lady of the mansion. She blushed consciously, without 
 knowing why, and the man of law, seeing the blush, and mis- 
 taking the cause, interpreted the same in his own favour. 
 
 A regular Hallow-eve supper graced the w r ell-spread board. 
 Some of the dainties there were common to rich and poor that 
 night, whilst others were only to be seen on the tables of the 
 rich, though proper to a festival celebrated in every homestead 
 from Cape Clear to Fair Head. Of the former class was the 
 indispensable dish of “ caulcannon,” the plates of oaten cake, 
 thin and white and crisp, and the tall crystal fruit stands 
 filled with magnificent apples, the orchard’s pride. To the 
 latter class belonged the Hallow-eve goose, cooked to its highest 
 perfection, and the rich variety of nuts, walnuts, filberts, 
 almonds, which the poor scarce knew even by name, with the 
 delicately-flavoured hazel-nut so common in Irish woods. This 
 is, after all, the Ilallow-eve nut joar excellence , for it alone 
 borrows a charm from the fated night, and indicates — or is sup- 
 posed to do so — the secret motions of lovers’ hearts when placed 
 
26 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK , 
 
 in couples on the hearth within burning reach of the heat from 
 the fire. The Hallow-eve nuts and the rosy-cheeked apples 
 wherein the curious damsel stuck her ten new pins — throwing 
 the tenth one away — to place it under her pillow, hoping to 
 dream of the fated one who was to tread life's path with her ! 
 — oh, who that grew to manhood or womanhood in “dear old 
 Ireland, gay old Ireland," land of love and of all things genial, 
 has not watched with eagerness the capricious movements 
 of those Hallow-eve nuts, as they sat side by side on the well- 
 swept hearth before the clear turf fire, representing two of the 
 company present, or, just as often, two who were absent ! — 
 what a host of bright illusions rise before the world-weary 
 heart as memory touches on those festive hours, with the harm- 
 less mirth, the gleeful sport, that youth alone can know in 
 perfection ! What troops of loved ones, dead or distant, rise 
 before the dreaming eye of Irish readers at thought of the 
 Hallow- eve sports! — some — oh, many! to be seen no more 
 on earth, — brightest and gayest and fondest, too, — others 
 whom time and the cold, harsh world have changed almost to 
 stone! We ask ourselves have these scenes all passed away? 
 are we, indeed, in a new world , with an ever-yawning gulf 
 between us and the past — the storied, poetical, old-world 
 past ? 
 
 Such thoughts as these were all unknown to the gay party 
 round the Esmond supper-table that Hallow-eve night, for the 
 sports and the joys of the past were still present with them — 
 even the oldest there had not outlived the joyous celebration of 
 “ the year's stepping-stones," as some one has quaintly called 
 the old festivals. 
 
 During supper the conversation turned again, by some 
 singular chance, on old Will Gartland, who had, in his day, 
 enjoyed the unenviable character of being the worst landlord 
 in the county, — or, at least, in the barony, — for, truth to tell, 
 few of the landlords of Tipperary County were, in that day, 
 remarkable as good ones. 
 
 For some cause known to himself — and, it might be, to some 
 of the others too — this disparagement of the departed spouse 
 of the rich widow was particularly distasteful to Uncle Harry. 
 Some contemptuous allusion having been made by Dr. Hen- 
 nessy to that defunct individual, whom he styled “ the oppressor 
 
HALLOW-EVE AT ESMOND HALL. 
 
 27 
 
 of the poor,” Uncle Harry filled his glass to the brim, and, 
 standing up, said with angry vehemence, turning his scowling 
 glance on Hennessy — 
 
 “ I drink to the memory of that much-calumniated man — he 
 was my friend and neighbour for nigh thirty years — we all 
 knew him, all shared his hospitality — I give, then, the memory 
 of William Gartland ! ” 
 
 He drained his glass to the bottom, but no one followed his 
 example — every glass save his own either stood un tasted or 
 was turned down empty. 
 
 “So none of you will drink my toast ?” said Uncle Harry, 
 with a heightened colour on his face. “Will not you, Harry 
 Esmond ? ” 
 
 “Excuse me, uncle,” replied the nephew, his handsome face 
 flushed with generous indignation \ “I had no respect for the 
 man when living, nor have I for his memory when dead. The 
 best thing you can do for one like him is to leave his memory 
 where his body lies — ‘unwept, unhonoured ’ — in the earth on 
 which his soul grovelled during life.” 
 
 “ Bravo, Esmond ! ” cried Hennessy and Moran, clapping 
 their hands, while Dr. O’Grady, less demonstrative, slapped the 
 table gently two or three times with his right hand by way of 
 approval, with a quiet “ Hear ! hear ! ” 
 
 “Upon my honour, gentlemen,” said Uncle Harry, with 
 difficulty restraining his passion, — “upon my honour, I take 
 this conduct of yours as very unkind — very disrespectful to the 
 zlead, and certainly not complimentary to the living, as far as 
 I’m concerned.” Then, as if hoping to soften the matter, he 
 added, “ Ladies, what say you ? ” 
 
 The ladies, as if by tacit consent, left the answer to Mary 
 Hennessy, who was not slow in giving her opinion. “For 
 once I entirely agree with the gentlemen. I’d as soon drink 
 old Chadwick’s 1 memory as old Gartland’s — sooner, indeed, of 
 the two, inasmuch as Gartland, being, or professing to be, a 
 Catholic, was the more inexcusable for his cruel oppression of 
 
 1 Mr. Chadwick, the agent of a large estate in Tipperary, was shot a 
 few years before in broad daylight, near the ruins of Holy Cross Abbey, 
 while superintending the erection of a police-barrack, which his own 
 heartless tyranny, and that of others in his position, alone rendered 
 necessary. 
 
28 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 his Catholic tenantry. I have myself seen too many of the 
 victims of his pound-of-flesh exactions not to hold his memory 
 in something very like abhorrence. I tell you, sir, the whole 
 world will one day cry out shame on the cruelty and injustice 
 of — some Irish landlords.” 
 
 “ You do not include all in your fierce anathema,” observed 
 Uncle Harry, with forced composure. 
 
 “ Certainly not, Mr. Esmond ! ” — she usually called him, like 
 the others, Uncle Harry, — “ God forbid I did — under this 
 roof/” and she looked with moistened eyes at the young 
 master of Esmond Hall, who was famous throughout the 
 county as one of the best landlords in it. 
 
 Harry blushed like a young maiden at this delicate allusion 
 to his well-known standing with the people, whilst his uncle 
 prepared to astonish the company by an out-and-out defiance. 
 
 “Well,” said he, after draining another glass, and setting 
 it down with most convincing energy, — “well, good people, 
 once for all, I tell you this — I despise the people too much 
 to regard what they say of me, and I’d just as soon have 
 their bad word as their good word any day in the year. I 
 know they look on their landlords as their natural enemies, 
 and, like cowards as they are, conspire in secret to injure them 
 all they can, even where they don’t go the length of murder 
 Now there’s myself, for instance, — you all know that I’m not a 
 bad landlord — never was — though I don’t say what I will be, 
 — well, you know how often my cows have been houghed, my 
 haggard burned, and various other outrages of a similar nature 
 perpetrated on my property. How can I speak well of my 
 tenantry What kindness do I owe them ? I tell you I hate 
 them — hate them all — man, woman, and child ! ” 
 
 “And maybe they don’t hate you /” said a deep, hoarse 
 voice not heard before at the table. It certainly came from 
 none of the guests, and all eyes were turned on the butler, the 
 only servant in the room, but he was pouring out a glass of 
 water for Mrs. Esmond, so it could not possibly be him. Still, 
 Uncle Harry was determined to try. 
 
 “ Do you hear, you fellow ? — I say, niece, what’s your 
 butler’s name ? — Pierce ! — exactly ! — I say, you Pierce ! did 
 you speak to me just now ? ” 
 
 “ Is it me spake to your honour 1 ” the butler replied, in such 
 
HALLOW-EVE AT ESMOND HALL. 
 
 29 
 
 a thin, weak voice that every one laughed heartily — it was so 
 totally unlike the voice heard but a moment before. “Do 
 you think I’d make so free as to spake to a gentleman unless he 
 spoke to me ? I’m a poor boy, and I don’t know much, sir, but 
 as little as I know, I know my place when the quality’s to the 
 fore. Bedad, I do, your honour ! ” 
 
 “ Where did the voice come from, then? Would you have 
 us believe, you rascal, that it came from the ceiling ? ” 
 
 “ Wisha, how can I tell where it came from?” was the 
 innocent and half-bashful answer, in a sort of whining tone 
 ihat was indescribably ludicrous when compared with the 
 stalwart proportions of the man. “ Sure, nobody wonders, your 
 honour, at anything they hear — or see, aither — on a Hol’eve 
 night.” 
 
 The rest of the company all laughed at this sally, but Uncle 
 Harry did not laugh. He seldom did laugh, and he was 
 nowise disposed for laughing then. He fixed his stern eyes 
 for a moment on the butler’s somewhat stolid features, and 
 somehow, as he looked, the expression of his own face changed 
 and his look became more earnest. At last he said through his 
 closed teeth, “If I had my horsewhip near me, my good 
 fellow, I’d find a back to lay it on, without going far from 
 where I sit ! ” 
 
 “ Uncle Harry,” said the host, in accordance with a sign from 
 his wife, “ we’re waiting for you to fill your glass — I’ve a toast 
 to give. Are you ready? I see you are. Well, here’s may we 
 all be alive and as merry as we are now next Hallow-eve night !” 
 The toast was drunk with all the honours, and it seemed to 
 restore the general good humour — even Uncle Harry so far 
 forgot his previous irritation as to sing, at his niece’s request, 
 “ One Bumper at Parting,” written by Moore, to the lively air 
 of “Moll Roe in the Morning.” Nobody ever sang that song, 
 Henrietta Esmond said, half so well as Uncle Harry ; and, as if 
 catching the inspiration of the gay, dashing music, her own 
 sweet voice mingled with his when he came to the beautiful 
 words — 
 
 “The sweetness that pleasure has in it 
 Is always so slow to come forth, 
 
 That never, alas ! till the minute 
 It dies do we know half its worth. 
 
30 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 But Time, like a pitiless master, 
 
 Cries ‘ Onward ! ’ and spurs the gay hours, 
 
 For never does Time travel faster 
 Than when his way lies among flowers.” 
 
 Then every one that could raise a note joined in the chorus, 
 and “ hearts were light, and eyes were bright,” as the company 
 left the table to finish the evening in the more refined amuse- 
 ments of the drawing-room. Meanwhile, the storm without 
 increased its fury, the leafless branches of the trees swung like 
 skeleton limbs in the fierce blast, and doors and windows 
 creaked in dismal consonance to the wild music of the winds 
 that came sweeping down from the stern old Eock, to rush in 
 unimpeded fury over the broad plains of Tipperary away to 
 the far Galtees and the distant hills of Clare. But little cared 
 the joyous party assembled in Esmond Hall, for as none of the 
 guests were to leave till morning light at least, what was the 
 storm to them, or the witches and fairies who that night 
 bestrode the blast? The louder the wind blew, the more 
 merrily “laugh, and song, and sparkling jest went round/ — 
 the host and hostess merriest of all the circle. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 SHAUN THE PIPER. 
 
 The next day being All Saints’ Day — Hollantide Day amongst 
 the Irish peasantry — was, of course a holyday, of obligation. 
 The tardy winter’s morning rose clear and cold. The high 
 wind of the previous night had dried up the clammy earth, and 
 towards morning a sharp frost began to whiten the bare brown 
 pastures and stubble-fields, giving the first positive indication 
 of the near approach of winter. The red light of the dawn 
 was just appearing over the Killough heights eastward when 
 old Bryan Cullenan might be seen wending his homeward way 
 from the chapel where he had just heard Mass, through one of 
 the narrow by-streets leading off from the main street of Cashel. 
 The old man was alone, as usual, and as he paced with slow and 
 uncertain steps the rough pavement of the old borough, his 
 head and shoulders bent slightly forward, and his hands crossed 
 at the wrists in the loose sleeves of his coarse and faded brown 
 coat, — of that make known in the rural parts of Ireland as a 
 w big-coat” — with a large cape, namely, and a small collar 
 turning over it, — his sharp and rather wasted features composed 
 and thoughtful, and his grey, sunken eyes fixed on the ground 
 as if in meditation, he looked the solitary man he was. The 
 men and women he met all accosted him with kindness and 
 respect, and the children as he passed smiled, and whispered to 
 each other, “There goes Bryan, the old man of the Rock!” 
 The urchins regarded him with a sort of feeling that was not 
 fear, but rather something more akin to reverence. The noisiest 
 and most mischievous of them all kept silent and demure while 
 Bryan was in sight, and it was a notable fact that no one living 
 remembered to have seen an ash-bag appended to the rear of 
 Bryan Cullenan on an Ash Wednesday. That exemption, 
 
32 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 which he shared with the priests, speaks volumes for the high 
 estimation in which the Hermit was held by the ragamuffins of 
 Cashel town, who, like all other ragamuffins in Irish towns, take 
 a malicious pleasure in carrying out the title of the day, by 
 ornamenting the coat-tails and other such rear appendages of 
 the passers-by with tiny paper bags filled with ashes. Which 
 one of our Irish readers can boast that during their Irish life 
 they went to chapel and got home again on an Ash Wednesday 
 without hearing from some one passing by the sly announce- 
 ment — then a startling one, too — “ You have got an ash-bag on 
 your back ” ? 
 
 Well, Bryan Cullenan enjoyed, as we have said, this very 
 important immunity, with others of a similar nature, from the 
 juvenile inhabitants of Cashel, which was the more remarkable 
 on account of the old man’s self-imposed office of expelling all 
 such intruders from the sacred precincts of his domain on the 
 Rock. Going home from Mass that Hollantide Day, Bryan was 
 moving along at a pace somewhat quicker than usual, with 
 that sliding gait peculiar to the aged, saying his prayers the 
 while for the repose of the souls who were that morning recom- 
 mended to the charitable remembrance of the congregation. 
 Amongst them was one which would single itself out in Bryan’s 
 mind from all the others, as if demanding special attention, and 
 though Bryan prayed fervently for all, he did, undoubtedly, 
 offer up an extra Pater and Ave for that soul in particular. It 
 was Kathleen Martha, the mother of a poor family whom all 
 the countryside knew to have been ejected off the lands of Harry 
 Esmond, senior, of Rose Lodge, some two or three weeks before. 
 The case of these Murthas made a great noise at the time, from 
 the exceedingly trying circumstances in which they were placed. 
 The father of the family, a thatcher by trade, had fallen off the 
 roof of a house he had been thatching, full three months before, 
 and had lain ever since in a helpless condition, one of his 
 thighs having been broken, and also his collar-bone. He was 
 a poor man, just barely supporting his family by his daily 
 labour, and having no time to cultivate a farm, he was obliged 
 to plant potatoes by “con-acre” in Mr. Esmond’s ground, and 
 to rent a small adjoining cottage from the same wealthy pro- 
 prietor. Well, it so happened that Tim Murtha’s long illness, 
 and the want of earning consequent thereon, had completely 
 
SHAUN THE PIPER. 
 
 33 
 
 ruined his poor family. His wife could not leave him to go 
 out to work, even if work were to be had, and the children — 
 three girls and one boy — were too young to be of any service ; 
 the doctor had to be paid, and that even could not have been done 
 were it not that the neighbouring farmers made up the amount 
 amongst themselves ; the potatoes, what remained of them, were 
 seized by Mr. Esmond’s bailiffs for the “ con-acre ” money, and 
 the pig that was fattening for the next fair in Cashel was sold 
 at auction, with a goat that used to give the children milk, and 
 a little kid, whose gambols often made them forget the hunger 
 that was wasting away their young life. All was gone, — 
 poverty was becoming starvation, and still, on his bed of pain, 
 lay the so-lately strong man, his heart torn with anguish at the 
 sight of his heart-broken wife and her thin, pale little ones 
 cowering over the smoky embers of some brambles which the 
 children had picked up around the fields. Nor food nor drink 
 did the cottage contain, except the can of cold water that sat 
 on a table where the “ dresser ” used to be, — the “ dresser” 
 itself was gone, with the pewter plates and dishes and wooden 
 vessels, which it had been poor Kathleen’s pride to keep “ like 
 new pins.” Only the shelter of the roof remained to the desti- 
 tute family, and that remained not long, for on the very day 
 that Tim Murtha crawled out of bed for the first time, Mr. 
 Esmond’s bailiffs came with certain members of “ the crowbar 
 brigade,” turned Tim out on the wide world, the helpless 
 father, the frail, drooping wife, and the wan, emaciated little 
 children, and levelled to the ground their poor but well-loved 
 dwelling, because “ his honour didn’t want such cabins so near 
 the big house,” and was glad of the opportunity to get rid of 
 one of them. 
 
 Prayers and tears and expostulations were all in vain — Tim 
 Murtha knew that well, so he neither wept nor prayed, but 
 sat, with his terror-stricken family clinging around him, on a 
 large flat stone which Kathleen’s feeble arm had helped him to 
 reach, watching with stony eyes the work of demolition that 
 left them all houseless on a chill October day. He thought 
 with a swelling heart of the time when his own hands built 
 that little cottage to bring Kathleen home to — a bonny bride. 
 He thought of the light heart that was in his breast then, and 
 the bright hopes that danced before his eyes like fairy visions. 
 
 3 
 
34 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 Scarce ten years had passed since then, and lo ! the bright hopes 
 were fled, — hunger and cold had their grasp on his heart, and, 
 worse still, on the hearts of Kathleen and her children, — and 
 the walls that had witnessed their humble joys, and the years 
 of comfort his honest toil had earned, were now ruthlessly 
 battered down before his eyes and erased from the face of the 
 earth. What other thoughts came into the tortured mind of 
 Tim Murtha, to the tune of the crashing walls and the falling 
 rafters of his home, God — and the Devil — only knew. That 
 night the forlorn family were sheltered under the roof of a kind 
 neighbour, himself a poor cottier too, and next day a few of 
 “ the boys ” came together and threw up a shed against the 
 side of the old Rock amongst the huts where Bryan had his 
 home. 
 
 Not quite three weeks had passed since the Murthas were 
 evicted from their old homestead, and now Kathleen was dead, 
 and gone to rest. Many a visit old Bryan had paid to their 
 dreary place of refuge during those long tedious weeks, and, 
 truth to tell, two bright half-crowns had passed, at as many 
 succeeding visits, from his pocket to that of Tim Murtha. 
 That was a crown of “ the Counsellor’s guinea,” but what of 
 that'j — “if it helped to keep the life in the poor things, it 
 couldn’t be better spent.” Oh, how Bryan rejoiced then that 
 he had divided his share with those who were more in need 
 than himself ! 
 
 But still he kept thinking of the solemn words of the priest 
 who said Mass that morning : “ And , brethren , I recommend to 
 your prayers , in a special manner , the sold of Kathleen 
 Murtha .” 
 
 “Ah!” said Bryan to himself, “there’s where God’s holy 
 Church differs from the world. The poor are her care, and the 
 more despised they are by the rich and the proud of this world, 
 the dearer they are to the heart of that good Mother — if they 
 only lived as Christians. Well, that’s one comfort, anyhow ! ” 
 he said, as he reached his own door, which was opened by 
 Cauth with great alacrity, that singular specimen of womankind 
 having been anxiously awaiting his coming. 
 
 “ An’ what is that ? ” said Cauth, as she stooped to blow up 
 her smouldering fire ; “ what’s the comfort now 2 ” 
 
 (t Why, just this, Cauth,” said the old man, taking his seat 
 
SHAUN THE PIPER . 
 
 35 
 
 by the welcome fire that was now beginning to blaze up cheerily, 
 “that the poor have one friend that never deserts them — a 
 powerful friend, too — aid that is Religion ! If it wasn’t for 
 Religion, an’ the good, kind priest that brings her smile with 
 him to the hovels of the poor, how could you, or I, live at all 
 — or poor Kathleen Murtha, that’s gone home now 1 What 
 would become of the poor, Cauth, if it wasn’t for Religion, and 
 the hopes she keeps alive in their hearts ? ” 
 
 Bryan, from his solitary habits and his almost uninterrupted 
 communion with the spirits of the dead, in the relics of their 
 mortal bodies and the mouldering works of their hands, had 
 acquired a certain solemnity in the expression of his thoughts 
 which at times amounted to dignity. His speech was, moreover, 
 thickly strewn with metaphor, and assumed now and then quite a 
 poetical character. This was only, however, when the old man 
 spoke in Irish, which he generally did with Cauth ; but even his 
 English was rather choice, from his frequent communication 
 with the gentlefolks from abroad who visited the ruins on the 
 Rock. His grave and sometimes even lofty thoughts Cauth could 
 not, of course, understand, but his style of talking, when he did 
 talk freely, commanded her entire admiration, and caused her 
 to look upon the aged Hermit as something far beyond the 
 common run of people. Be it known to the reader that Bryan 
 and Cauth did not stand to each other in the relation of hus- 
 band and wife, as might be supposed ; they were strangers to 
 each other only a year or two before, when Bryan, at the 
 recommendation of Mrs. Esmond, and with her kind assistance, 
 commenced housekeeping, with Cauth as femme de charge , for 
 before that time poor Bryan had not a roof he could call his 
 own, and spent most of his nights as well as his days amongst 
 the lone mansions of the dead on his beloved Rock, coming 
 down only to hear Mass on Sundays and holydays, and to 
 receive from the willing hand of charity the little sustenance 
 which he required. It was only when the inclemency of the 
 weather drove him for shelter to the plain below that he ever 
 asked a night’s lodging. He used to say himself, when any one 
 expressed surprise at his remaining over night on the Rock, 
 that he had the grandest sleeping-room in all Ireland, and that 
 was “in the king’s own house.” But it was not in the old 
 palace of the Munster kings that Bryan Cullenan oftenest 
 
36 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK 
 
 sought repose ; he preferred the choir of the old cathedral, just 
 by the tomb of Myler M‘Grath, or the shade of the deep 
 Saxon arch that separates the nave from the choir in Cormac’s 
 chapel. 
 
 As for Cauth, old Bryan knew no more about her than just 
 what he saw. Who she was, or what she was, she carefully 
 kept to herself ; and Bryan, being nowise addicted to curiosity, 
 seldom thought of what there was peculiar about her manner, 
 unless when some wild expression, to him unaccountable, set 
 him thinking of the probable cause of her odd ways, and the 
 strange fits of moody thought that would come upon her at 
 times without any apparent cause. 
 
 Her humour was somewhat caustic that Hollantide Day, and 
 she snapped at Bryan like a cross cur when he alluded so feel- 
 ingly to Kathleen Murtha’s deserted state. 
 
 “ She wasn’t trustin’ to the priest, anyhow,” said she, stopping 
 a moment with the skillet 1 in her hand, from which she was 
 pouring out on a wooden trencher the stirabout 2 intended for 
 Bryan’s breakfast — her own share being left in the pot. 
 
 “ An’ sure I know that well, Cauth,” said Bryan, with much 
 feeling ; “ sure I know who made her bed an’ kep’ her clane an’ 
 comfortable ever since she came about the Rock — Oyeh ! one 
 ’most as poor as herself,” he added as if to himself. 
 
 “ ’Deed, then, it’s little I could do for her,” made answer 
 Cauth ; “ but there was them that could an’ did give her com- 
 fort — may they never know the want of it themselves, I pray 
 God!” 
 
 “ An’ who were they, Cauth? ” 
 
 “ That’s a saycret, Bryan,” said Cauth, a little softened; “but 
 — but — I think you might guess.” 
 
 Bryan looked up from his stirabout at the shrewd, keen- 
 looking face of Cauth, and his old eyes twinkled. “ I think I 
 do, Cauth, I think I do.” 
 
 “Well, if you do, keep it to yourself, for if it came to the 
 ears of some people — you know who I mane — it ’id make bad 
 blood betwixt them all — so the darlin’ says herself, an’ she’s 
 fearful of havin’ anybody’s ill-will, espaycially when it's in the 
 family.” 
 
 1 An iron pot of the smallest size is so called in Ireland. 
 
 2 Oatmeal porridge. 
 
SHAUN THE PIPER. 
 
 37 
 
 “ Ail more’s the pity, Cauth, that it is in the family ! I 
 declare that man’s a disgrace to all belongin’ to him.” 
 
 “ Ay, an’ if it wasn’t for them he’d a got his oats long ago ! ” 
 said Cauth, with bitter emphasis. 
 
 “ Whisht, whisht, Cauth ! don’t say that ! ” cried Bryan 
 quickly, and he glanced around as if fearful that some one 
 might possibly be within hearing. 
 
 “ But I will say it, Bryan ! ” said Cauth doggedly ; “ an’ I say, 
 too, that there’s many a one has got settled with before now 
 that wasn’t any better entitled to it.” 
 
 Bryan dropped his spoon and looked up again ; his pale, 
 wrinkled face was flushed, and a light was shining in his aged 
 eyes that Cauth had never seen there before. 
 
 “ Woman ! ” said he in a grave, solemn tone, “ who has made 
 you the judge of that man’s, or any other man’s, evil doings ? 
 There’s One above that’ll judge us all.” 
 
 As if a blow had stunned her, Cauth dropped heavily on the 
 stool beside her, and buried her face in her outspread hands, 
 murmuring in a half-audible voice, “Who am I? Ay, sure 
 enough, who am I to judge any one ? Oh, wirra ! it’s myself 
 can tell that ! ” 
 
 Bryan, alarmed as he always was by Cauth ’s strange solilo- 
 quies, began to express his sorrow for what he had said, 
 assuring her that he didn’t mean to hurt her feelings. “ But 
 then, Cauth, I couldn’t listen to the words you said and hold 
 my peace. No, Cauth, I could not, I could not ; for murder is 
 murder, be it as it may, an’ the Lord in heaven says, ‘You shall 
 do no murder.’ ” 
 
 At this Cauth started to her feet, and flung back the long 
 grey hair that had fallen from under her close linen cap. “ An’ 
 who has done murder, Bryan Cullenan? — who has shed blood? 
 You needn’t look at me with them ould fiery eyes of yours — 
 as if there was blood on my hand — see there ! see there ! ” and 
 she stretched both her hands towards him, but suddenly drew 
 them back and sank again on her seat, with a low, plaintive 
 moan and a shudder. 
 
 “ Christ save us ! ” ejaculated Bryan in an undertone ; “I 
 b’lieve it’s losin’ her senses the woman is ! I’d best get out of 
 her sight, I’m thinkin’.” 
 
 Unnoticed by Cauth, he reached for his hat, where it hung on 
 
38 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 a peg, and, softly opening the door, left the cottage. He was 
 taking his way, as usual, towards the Eock, and had already 
 reached the gate leading into the hallowed enclosure, when the 
 cheerful sound of the bagpipes struck upon his ear, and the old 
 man paused with his hand on the latch to await the approach of 
 the wandering minstrel, in whom he recognised an old friend. 
 Surrounded by a troop of ragged urchins, for whose special 
 entertainment he evidently blew his chanter at that particular 
 moment, the piper, a little old man of threescore-five or there- 
 abouts, moved along with the slow pace peculiar to his tribe, 
 gladdening the hearts of his juvenile audience — and most likely 
 his own to — with “The Keel of Tullochgorum.” Ever and 
 anon his course was impeded by the rushing and crushing of the 
 young tatterdemalions who formed his guard of honour, each 
 one trying to make his way nearer to the great centre of attrac- 
 tion ; little scrupulous, moreover, as to the means emploj^ed, so 
 that “ kicks and cuffs were more plenty than ha’pence, ” as the 
 piper good-humouredly observed. But still he played on, the 
 crowd increasing by little and little as the cortege passed along, 
 the merry heart of the old man growing lighter and lighter, and 
 his music cheerier, as the acclamations of his noisy escort grew 
 more and more uproarious. Now and then the music ^would 
 suddenly cease, and the piper’s voice make itself heard in tones 
 of remonstrance rather than rebuke. 
 
 “Ah, then, childer, how can I play if you don’t keep off my 
 elbow ? See that, now ! — bad cess to me but you’ll break my 
 pipes, so you will ! Well, now, I tell you this, if you don’t 
 keep off o’ me I’ll not play another tune, and that’s the end of 
 it, now ! ” 
 
 But it was not the end of it, as the young rogues well knew 
 by old experience ; for the piper’s face belied his words, and 
 the more he protested against playing any more, the faster and 
 merrier went the pipes, amid the joyous shouts of the rosy 
 urchins, who went frisking like kids to the sound of the music. 
 
 It required more than a passing glance to make a stranger 
 sensible of the fact that the merry face of the piper wanted the 
 light of the eyes, for the organs themselves, clear, full, and 
 blue, gave no other indications of the visual darkness than a 
 tremulous motion of the lids which might possibly have pro- 
 ceeded from some other cause. But then there was a little dog, 
 
SHAUN THE PIPER. 
 
 39 
 
 a wiry, hard-favoured terrier, which trotted along a pace or two 
 in advance of the piper, to whom it was evidently bound by affec- 
 tion still more than by the cord, one end of which encircled the 
 neck of the animal, whilst the other was fastened to the button- 
 hole of its master’s old frieze coat by a piece of stick run through 
 inside the garment ; patiently and gently the dog moved on, 
 suiting its pace with wonderful sagacity to that of its master, 
 and maintaining a sort of official gravity that was proof against 
 every trial, the effect, doubtless, of long familiarity with the 
 noisy plaudits that usually followed the performance to which 
 he probably considered himself a party. It was clear, then, 
 that the piper was blind, and it was also clear that his privation 
 sat lightly upon him, even with the weight of his sixty odd 
 years and his houseless, homeless poverty. Shaun the piper 
 was, indeed, one of the happiest men in all Ireland, for, like the 
 Claddagh boatman in the ballad — 
 
 His heart was true, his wants were few, 
 
 and his pipes made him welcome wherever he went to a night’s 
 lodging and the best fare the peasant’s cot or the farmer’s house 
 afforded. Even his dog — misnamed Frisk— was as welcome a 
 visitor as himself, especially to the junior members of the 
 humble households where he oftenest sought rest and shelter. 
 Shaun, like most persons suffering under a like privation, had 
 a wonderfully keen sense of hearing, and could tell people by 
 their voices just as others do by their faces. He also knew 
 with unerring precision every foot of ground in Tipperary, and 
 could make his way, with Frisk alone, through many parts of 
 Limerick, Clare, and Waterford. He had even crossed the 
 Knockmeledown mountains, and extended his “tramp” into 
 Cork ; but somehow Frisk’s sagacity failed him there, and the 
 pipes never seemed to sound the same, and Shaun made up his 
 mind that he and Frisk had better keep to “ the old art,” so 
 they never crossed the wild mountains again. 
 
 But we have left our friend Bryan standing too long at the 
 gate, especially as the weather was cold and the iron latch felt 
 like ice under his hand. A grim smile puckered his visage as 
 he watched the triumphal approach of the minstrel, who 
 suddenly stopped short in the middle of a bar and turned his 
 sightless eyes towards the Rock. 
 
40 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 “Childer,” said he, “we ought to be near the gate now. I 
 wondher is ould Bryan Cullenan alive yet ? ” 
 
 “ Oyeh ! it’s himself that is. Sure, he'll never die.” 
 
 “Alive? Why wouldn’t he? Sure, he’s a ghost himself, if 
 there’s one on the Rock.” 
 
 “Whisht, you sprissawn ! there he is at the gate.” 
 
 Here the crowd of chattering gaffers fell back right and left 
 to make way for Bryan, who came forward with outstretched 
 hand to greet his old acquaintance. 
 
 “ You’re welcome back to Cashel, Shaun ! ” he said in Irish. 
 “ I needn’t ask how you are, for your face tells that story, and 
 your foot is a’most as light as it was five-and-twenty years 
 agone, when you danced the Foxhunter’s Jig for the quality the 
 night of the ould master’s wedding. Frisk, my poor fellow, 
 I’m proud to see you again ! ” 
 
 Frisk acknowledged the compliment by wagging his tail 
 demurely. 
 
 “ Wisha, Bryney the Rock, is this yourself?” was the piper’s 
 hearty response, as he eagerly seized and warmly shook the old 
 man’s hand. “ I was just a-thinkin’ to myself that if you were 
 still above ground I’d soon hear your voice. Well, I declare 
 I’m glad to see you ! ” 
 
 He forgot that he didn’t see him, but the mischievous elves 
 around, all eyes and ears, quickly detected the slip of the 
 tongue. 
 
 “ Oh, murdher ! do you hear what he says ? — he’s glad to see 
 him ! ” This was the signal for a roar of juvenile laughter, that 
 drew a half-angry rebuke from Shaun and a whole-angry one 
 from Bryan, both of which only tended to increase the merri- 
 ment of the waggish crew. 
 
 “ Put up your pipes, Shaun,” said Bryan, “ and come in and 
 have some breakfast. I’ve a little place of my own now.” 
 
 “ Do you tell me so, Bryan ? And where is it, agra ? ” 
 
 “ Only a step or two back from here. Come, now ! be off 
 home with you, childer ! Shaun will play no more this 
 bout.” 
 
 This unwelcome news had to be repeated by Shaun himself 
 before it was received as true, and even then the youngsters 
 were not got rid of till the door of Bryan’s cottage hid the 
 piper, his pipes and dog, from their eager sight. 
 
SHAUN THE TITER. 
 
 41 
 
 “ That was a pleasant night you were speakin’ of, Bryan,” 
 iaid Shaun as they entered. “But 1 didn’t know that you 
 were there.” 
 
 “ ’Deed an’ I was, then, — wasn’t the whole country there ? 
 An’ full an’ plenty there was for every one. A darlin’ fine 
 young gentleman the ould master was then, — the heavens be 
 his bed this day ! for it’s himself was always a good friend to 
 the poor, an’ liked well to see them about him.” 
 
 “ Pity all the Esmonds weren’t like him ! ” said the piper, 
 with a sudden change of manner. 
 
 “ His son is as good as ever he was,” said Bryan, as he took 
 the pipes and placed the piper on a stool near the fire. 
 
 “But his brother isn’t,” returned Shaun, with a degree of 
 excitement altogether unusual. “If there’s vengeance in 
 heaven it’ll come down on him, as sure as his name is Harry 
 Esmond ! ” 
 
 “ Pooh, pooh, Shaun ! don’t be so hard on the ould gentle- 
 man ! — don’t now, and God bless you ! for I don’t like to hear 
 anything bad laid out for one of his name. They’re a good 
 stock, you know yourself.” 
 
 “I do well, Bryan, an’ that’s the very raison why ould 
 Harry shouldn’t act as he does. A body doesn’t wonder at the 
 upstarts that’s takin’ the place of the rale quality to be hard on 
 the ould tenants, an’ trate God’s poor like dogs, but I tell you, 
 Bryan, it’s against nature for an Esmond to make a brute of 
 himself.” 
 
 “A brute, Shaun ! — oh vo ! vo ! what’s cornin’ over you?” 
 
 “ I say he is a brute, Bryan, take it as you will ! If he 
 wasn’t, he wouldn’t turn the piper from his door, and kick the 
 piper's dog.” This last came out with such strong emphasis 
 that it was clearly the greater offence of the two. 
 
 “An’ did ould Mr. Esmond do that?” questioned Bryan 
 anxiously. 
 
 “ He did Bryan, as I’m a sinner ! An’ if I was to die on the 
 roadside of hunger — myself an’ Erisk — I wouldn’t cross his 
 threshold again. Never fear but the grass ’ill grow green 
 enough on that same threshold, maybe afore you or I goes 
 home yet.” 
 
 “Cauth,” said Bryan, for the first time addressing the old 
 woman, who sat a silent listener in the chimney corner, — “Cauth, 
 
42 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK, 
 
 have you anything for Shaun to eat and drink ? — -the best you 
 have isn’t half good enough for him.” 
 
 “ Cauth ?” repeated Shaun, catching at this first intimation 
 of another being present, — “an’ who is Cauth, if it’s a fair 
 question ? ” 
 
 Bryan would have been puzzled to answer, but Cauth 
 relieved him of the task. “ One that knows you well, Shaun, 
 an’ danced many’s the time to your music years and years 
 agone, near the foot of Slievenamon, eastward.” There was an 
 evident attempt at disguising the voice, but it could not deceive 
 Shaun. He started, turned his head quickly towards the 
 speaker, and said in a voice very different from his usual tone — 
 
 “ Slievenamon? No, no — not there ! The Lord save us all ! 
 what brings you here — all the way from ” — 
 
 “Sit over an’ take some breakfast,” said Cauth quickly; 
 “ there’s a cup of tay that’ll do your ould heart good, an’ some 
 white bread from the big house. God’s blessin’ on the giver, 
 an’ that’s young Mrs. Esmond herself ! Come, Frisk, good dog ! 
 here’s some could stirabout for you , an’ milk too, my poor 
 fellow.” 
 
 “The milk isn’t as plenty with you now, my woman, as it 
 used to be,” said Shaun in a low voice, as Bryan placed him at 
 the little table. A change had come over the buoyant spirit 
 that even the snows of age could not chill, and Shaun was 
 many degrees paler than when he entered the cottage, while 
 the happy smile had vanished from his face. Words seemed 
 hovering on his lips which he did not care to speak, and 
 troubled memories were evidently at work in his usually 
 tranquil mind. 
 
 Cauth, too, appeared ill at ease, watching the piper’s face 
 with a keen, scrutinising glance, and shrinking fearfully as often 
 as he opened his lips to speak. Bryan noticed all this, and 
 when Shaun, having finished his scant breakfast, observed 
 that it was time for him to be moving, the^ old man rose 
 with alacrity, saying that lie ought to be on the Rock long 
 ago, there was always so much to be done there and only him 
 to do it. 
 
 As the two old men left the cottage together, Cauth followed 
 them to the door. “ So you’re goin’, Shaun, without as much 
 as sayin’ ‘ God be with you ! ’ ” 
 
SHAUN THE PIPER. 
 
 43 
 
 “ I declare an’ so I was, ” said he, turning back his head. 
 “ Well, God be with you ! ” but he did not offer his hand. 
 
 “ Will you keep my saycret ? ” whispered Cauth ; “for God’s 
 sake do ! ” 
 
 " I will — God pity you ! ” And Shaun was gone. 
 
I 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 bryan’s stations. 
 
 It was not to scrape the moss from the tombs and headstones, 
 or to replace the precious fragments rent by time and the piti- 
 less elements from the ancient sculptures, that Bryan Cullenan 
 wended his way to the ruins on the Rock that cold November 
 day. He did not forget that it was the Feast of All Saints, 
 and therefore a holyday of obligation ; but somehow he never 
 felt perfectly at home anywhere else, and had always a misty 
 notion that when he was not there he ought to be, and was 
 pretty certain of being wanted. It is true the Rock had few 
 visitors at that season, but still some there might be, and who 
 so well as Bryan could tell them all about the old place, and 
 the great sights that used to be seen there in the old, old 
 times 1 Then, if nobody chanced to come, Bryan was never at 
 a loss for employment, for he told his beads over and over for 
 all sorts of pious intentions ; and when he was not telling his 
 beads, why, then his thoughts were his best companions — to 
 borrow a phrase of his own, quoted in turn from an old story 
 with which all of us were familiar in days of childhood. In 
 the solitude of the ruins, which to many would have been 
 insupportable, Bryan found his peace and happiness ; on work- 
 ing days, working as though his subsistence depended on it, 
 from early morning till late night, beguiling his self-imposed 
 task the while with prayer or meditation, or mayhap the 
 crooning of an ancient hymn, generally in the old Celtic tongue 
 that best befitted the solemn ruins dating from Celtic ages. 
 
 The calls of nature were seldom pressing on old Bryan, whose 
 attenuated frame required but little sustenance, and even that 
 little he could dispense with for the better part of the twenty- 
 four hours without much inconvenience to himself. This was 
 partly the effect of long habit, and partly of forgetfulness, in 
 
 41 
 
BRYAN'S STATIONS. 
 
 45 
 
 the strange preponderance of the spiritual over the corporal in 
 his nature during his solitary hours on the Rock. Once or 
 twice it happened that he had been disturbed in some quaint 
 old-world reverie by the officious kindness of Cauth coming up 
 to summon him to his morning or noonday meal (it was only 
 in broad daylight that Cauth would venture to set foot on the 
 Rock), so he charged the old woman never to trouble him 
 again on any account “ in regard to the eatin’ or drinkin’, for 
 when he was hungry he’d go down himself.” Cauth was fain 
 to submit, for the old man had such a way with him, as she 
 said to herself, that nobody cared to contradict him. “It’s 
 doatin’ the crathur is,” was her final conclusion on that, as on 
 many other occasions ; “ an’ I suppose there’s nothin’ for it but 
 to let him have .his way.” So Bryan ever after had his way as 
 far as his solitary life on the Rock was concerned. 
 
 The hours of that holyday passed away all unnoticed by 
 Bryan. According to his custom on such days, he made what 
 he called his “stations,” beginning at the image of St. Patrick 
 on the great stone by the gate, and ending at the spot where 
 the high altar of the cathedral once rose in all the grandeur of 
 archiepiscopal pomp. Bryan had marked out for himself in the 
 circuit of the holy places fourteen stations, corresponding with 
 the Stations of the Cross, following, as he was fain to hope, 
 the course by which the Sacred Host was carried in procession 
 in the grand old times when the archbishops of Cashel were 
 kings of Munster, and princes carried the canopy that covered 
 the King of kings. 
 
 Long time the old man paused and prayed in the beautiful 
 choir of Cormac’s Chapel, where the altar stood of old — again 
 at the tomb of the holy founder, close by the chapel wall — then 
 on to the Chapel of the Apostles, roofless and bare, yet still 
 decorated with the sculptured images of the Twelve Apostles. 
 There, tradition says, stood, ages since, “a fair statue of a 
 bishop,” whom ancient chronicles point out as David MacKelly, 
 Archbishop of Cashel, who died in the middle of the thirteenth 
 century, “ and was buried in the little Chapel of the Apostles.” 
 From there passed Bryan to the old abbey, whose once noble 
 church was a goodly resting-place for the Blessed Sacrament 
 in those grand processions of old time, when mitred abbots and 
 cowled monks graced the choir stalls, and the stately cloisters 
 
46 
 
 THE HER Mil OF THE ROCK 
 
 echoed to the fall of many feet. Hero was a place to pause 
 and meditate — here where so many holy monks and sainted 
 abbots slept the sleep of peace. 
 
 Last of all was the cathedral, with its long line of buried 
 archbishops, many of whom are still known by name to the 
 people and their memory fondly cherished. There was Angus, 
 the holy prince, whose conversion from paganism by St. 
 Patrick himself is still the theme of the winter’s tale by the 
 cottage hearth, on account of the marvellous faith of the royal 
 convert, what time he suffered the point of Patrick’s iron-shod 
 staff to penetrate his foot without a murmur or a groan, deem- 
 ing it part of the baptismal rite. There was Cormac Mac 
 Cullenan, the holy prince-bishop, who rebuilt St. Patrick’s old 
 church and erected that chapel which still bears his name, a 
 miracle of ancient art. There was Archbishop O’Hene, of 
 whom chronicles tell that he was “ the fountain of religion in 
 the western parts of Europe ; ” and there was Archbishop 
 O’Dunan, known to his own and after ages as “ the most pious 
 man in the Western world there was Archbishop Maurice, to 
 whose learning and wisdom even the Welshman, Cambrensis, 
 bears witness, albeit that he spoke his mind rather freely to 
 that worthy on one memorable occasion, when, Giraldus having 
 taunted the Irish with having no martyrs, the prelate replied : 
 “Though our country be looked upon as barbarous, unculti- 
 vated, and cruel, yet they always have paid reverence and 
 honour to ecclesiastics, and never could stretch out their 
 hands against the saints of God. But now there is come a 
 people who know how, and are accustomed to make martyrs. 
 Henceforth Ireland, like all other countries, shall have hers.” 
 (Well you said it, Maurice of Cashel, many a martyr Ireland 
 has had since !) There was Archbishop O’Heney, Legate- 
 Apostolic in Ireland, and author of the Life of St. Cuthbert of 
 Lindisfarne , whom he proves to have been an Irish saint ; 1 
 there was Richard O’Hedian, one of the greatest prelates that 
 ever swayed the crozier of Cashel, the restorer and renovator of 
 all the buildings on the Rock, the founder of the hall for the 
 vicars-choral ; the St. Laurence O’Toole of Cashel, the prelate 
 
 1 It is worthy of remark that Benedict XIV., in his decree regarding the 
 offices of Irish Saints, also mentions St. Cuthbert as one of the national 
 Saints of Ireland, 
 
BRYAN'S STATIONS . 
 
 47 
 
 who was impeached by John Gese, the Protestant Bishop of 
 Waterford and Lismore, in thirty articles, the principal of 
 which were : “ That he made very much of the Irish and loved 
 none of the English and furthermore, “That he gave no 
 benefice to any Englishman, and advised other bishops to the 
 like practice.” Bryan Cullenan could not have enumerated the 
 great archbishop’s claims to the admiration of posterity, but he 
 knew him, by tradition, as one who stood up manfully for the 
 old race ; with all Munster he loved and reverenced his name, 
 and the place of his sepulture in the old cathedral was one of 
 the Hermit’s favourite shrines. The tomb of Myler M‘Grath, 
 though from its position in the deep choir it often sheltered the 
 old man’s rest in the warm nights of summer, was yet not one 
 of his stations ; for even if the apostate prelate did recant his 
 errors on his bed of death, he was still “Queen Bess’s bishop” 
 to all the county round, and no man or woman in' Ormond wide 
 ever breathed a blessing on his name. The stain of apostasy 
 was not to be effaced from the memory of an archbishop by the 
 private recantation of public errors persisted in for years. Ho, 
 no ! — prayers might be said for the repose of that late repentant 
 soul, and many a one Bryan did say with that intention, but no 
 prayers were offered up by him or others at the tomb where 
 “the first Protestant Archbishop of Cashel” had mouldered 
 into dust. 
 
 These tombs, with the old altar sites, were Bryan Cullenan’s 
 stations, but these were not all the Christian heroes whose 
 memory gilds the ruined fanes of Cashel. Some of the greatest 
 and holiest of the archbishops gave up their souls to God far 
 away from the Sacred Rock, and ever as Bryan knelt before 
 the forsaken spot where of old they ministered at the altar, he 
 would murmur to himself, “An’ sure they’re not all here, the 
 more’s the pity ! Isn’t there Archbishop O’Hurley, the holy 
 martyr, that suffered death and torture for the faith, that was 
 buried in saycret somewheres near Dublin'? 1 Ay, an’ many 
 another holy bishop that died in France and Spain in the time 
 of the troubles ! Well, it’s a folly to talk ! England has a deal 
 
 1 The martyrdom of Dermot O’Hurley, Archbishop of Cashel, in the 
 reign of Elizabeth, was accompanied by circumstances of the most revolt- 
 ing cruelty. He was bound to a stake, his arms and legs covered over 
 with pitch, salt, oil, and sulphur ; fire was then applied so slowly that 
 
48 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 to answer for, an’ it’s the black reckonin’ she’ll have to pay 
 when her day of reckonin’ comes ! ” 
 
 “But, ochone ! ” Bryan would sigh, as he sat himself down 
 on the projecting base of a noble column in the aisle, after 
 finishing his stations, and fixed his sorrowful gaze on the 
 shattered walls of the choir, where the winter wind was making 
 sad music as it swept in eddies through the breaches time had 
 made, — “ ochone ! it’s a hard thing to think that England wasn’t 
 the worst after all. Wasn’t Murrogh of the Burnings worse than 
 any Sassenach of them all ? an’ him of the rale ould stock, too, 
 with Brian’s own blood in his veins ! Och, wirra, wirra ! to 
 think of him havin’ twenty priests dragged from behind the 
 holy althar, where they were hidin’, and butchered like sheep 
 there right in front of it — not to speak of the three thousand 
 people he burned up in the town below ! Well, well ! if 
 there’s justice in heaven, Murrogh O’Brien, you have a low 
 place in the pit of hell ! Still,” recollecting himself, “ they say 
 he was sorry for it all before he died — an’ turned Catholic, too. 
 Well, maybe he did, — God’s grace can soften the hardest 
 heart, we all know, — but if Murrogh of the Burnings died a good 
 Christian, it was a meracle an’ nothin’ else. I declare to my 
 heart if lie's in heaven I’d as lieve not see him — I’d sooner have 
 somebody else convaynient to me there — God forgive me ! ” 
 Then Bryan would endeavour to bring himself to more 
 Christian sentiments with regard to Murrogh, but do as he 
 would he never could school his lips or his rebellious heart to 
 pray for his soul’s repose. “If it be true that he died a 
 Catholic,” said Bryan to himself, “ then he gets his share of the 
 Church’s prayers, an’ can do without mine — well for him ! for 
 I’m afeard if he had no others, he wouldn’t get many from me 
 — barrin’ I jist was sartin sure that he had no one else to pray 
 for him. A body couldn’t be too hard that way to any poor 
 soul that stood in need of their prayers. Oh, musha ! the Lord 
 have mercy on all that’s puttin’ their punishment over them, 
 either in the other world or this ! An’ sure, that reminds me, 
 the morrow is All Souls’ Day, an’ I must make the stations for 
 
 the holy prelate was kept several hours in torture. He was then placed 
 on the rack, and still persisting in his refusal to acknowledge the 
 supremacy of Elizabeth in spiritual matters, was taken to St. Stephen’s 
 Green and there strangled. 
 
BRYAN'S STATIONS. 
 
 49 
 
 them. I’ll warrant there’ll be plenty o’ them about me here the 
 night — the poor sorrowful crathurs ! Please God, I must be 
 down for first Mass in the mornin’, an’ to make my little 
 offerings with the rest.” 
 
 So passed the day— the evening fell, 
 
 the early evening of dull November, yet Bryan was still at his 
 dreary post, though the drizzling rain coming chill on the blast 
 had driven him hours before to the safe shelter of Cormac’s 
 Chapel, the stone roof of which was proof alike to wind and 
 rain. As the shadows deepened around him, where he sat 
 under the deep arch of the portal, and the stony faces on the 
 corbels looked grimmer and quainter through the mist, and the 
 pillars of the blind arches within the building, but dimly seen 
 from the entrance even in broad day, receded, as it were, from 
 Bryan’s view into the darkness that enveloped the nave and 
 choir, the old man felt an awe creeping over him that still was 
 not fear. It was the vigil of the dead, and with the shadows 
 came the spirits, as Bryan firmly believed. But they were not 
 spirits that Bryan feared — they were only “ poor wandering 
 crathurs lookin’ for help,” and what help Bryan could give them 
 he cheerfully gave, in accordance with the spirit of the Church 
 whose solemn commemoration of All Souls in the Propitiatory 
 Sacrifice was next day to gladden the suffering spirits of the 
 middle state — be their place of punishment where it might. 
 To any other than Bryan Cullenan the sense of solitude and of 
 supernatural presence would have been overwhelming, but to 
 Bryan it was far otherwise — silence and solitude were his dream 
 of life, and his intimate communion with the dead, and entire 
 devotion to their memory, raised him far beyond the vulgar 
 fear of the supernatural which superstition loves to cherish. 
 
 “ Ha ! ha ! ha ! ” laughed Bryan low to himself, “ to think 
 of that foolish Cauth tellin’ me not on any account to stay on 
 the Bock this evenin’ after nightfall ! — as if I’d be afeard of them 
 anywhere, or as if they’d do me any mischief ! Aren’t they about 
 us everywhere as thick as the grass in the fields, an’ still no- 
 body sees them, the crathurs, or hears them aither, — it’s little 
 they throuble us, after all. Why, then, now what can that be ? 
 There’s no livin’ bein’ barrin’ myself that ’id be on the Eock at 
 this hour. It must be something else.” 
 
 4 
 
50 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 Rising from his seat, Bryan stepped out, regardless of the rain, 
 and strained his ear to listen. The sound was, at first, a low 
 moaning, and Bryan whispered softly to himself, “ That’s some 
 poor wanderin’ sperit, anyhow. There’s heavy trouble on it, I’ll 
 go bail. ” 
 
 All at once a soft, plaintive voice was heard singing in Irish 
 a ditty well known in Munster, and these were the words in 
 English — 
 
 “ I could wander through the streets hand-in-hand with my 
 true love, 
 
 I would sail the salt sea with no fortune hut your love ; 
 
 My nearest and my dearest I’d leave them for ever, 
 
 And you’d raise me from death if you said ‘ We’ll ne’er 
 sever ! ’ ” 
 
 “Well, that’s a quare ghost!” said Bryan, moving a little 
 farther in the direction of the voice. “ I believe it’s in the tower 
 it is.” 
 
 He moved cautiously along by the end of the great church, — 
 the round tower standing at the angle of one arm of the transept 
 as Cormae’s Chapel nestles in the shade of the other, — but had 
 not gone many steps when he again stood still, for the mournful 
 caoine was rising fitfully on the breeze, and the clapping of 
 hands was heard, and sighs and moans that seemed to come 
 from a breaking heart. 
 
 “ Christ save us ! ” ejaculated Bryan, and he crossed him- 
 self devoutly, “it must be the Banshee ! Maybe it’s a warnin’ 
 for myself ; sure enough, the Banshee follows the Cullenans ! 
 Oh vo ! vo ! isn’t that a sorrowful cry ? ” He was yet speaking, 
 when the invisible singer broke again into a wild strain of music 
 and sang, still in Irish — 
 
 “Gladly, 0 my blighted flower, 
 
 Sweet apple of my bosom’s tree, 
 
 Would I now 
 
 Stretch me in your dark death-bower, 
 
 Beside your corpse, and lovingly 
 Kiss your brow. 
 
 But we’ll meet ere many a day, 
 
 Nevermore to part, 
 
 For even now I feel the clay 
 Gath’ring round my heart. ” 1 
 
 Mangan’s Translation. 
 
BRYAN'S STATIONS. 
 
 51 
 
 “ Ah ! ” said Bryan to himself, “ I know now who it is — it’s 
 neither ghost nor Banshee, but Mad Mabel. Poor thing ! poor 
 thing ! where is she, at all ? ” 
 
 It must be owned that Bryan’s step was somewhat quicker 
 after making this discovery than it was when he expected to 
 see the Banshee ; he speedily turned the angle of the transept 
 wall, and there, crouching at the foot of the old pillar-tower, was 
 a female figure, only to be distinguished from the dark objects 
 around by the light colour of her garments. Neither the dark- 
 ness nor the rain appeared to disturb the unhappy being who 
 had chosen a place so lone and drear for her wild and mournful 
 minstrelsy. 
 
 “ Wisha, Mabel, my poor girl ! ” said Bryan, tenderly raising 
 her from the wet ground, “ what on earth brought you here such 
 a night as this ? ” 
 
 “ Husht ! husht ! ” she replied in a cautious whisper, putting 
 her mouth close to Bryan’s ear. “ They told me he was here, 
 hidin’, you know, hidin’. Isn’t this Holy Cross ? ” 
 
 “No, no, Mabel; this is Cashel— the Rock of Cashel, you 
 know ; ” and, encircling her frail form with his arm, he hurried 
 towards the gate, anxious to get her housed with Cauth in his 
 own cottage. 
 
 “ Cashel ? ” she repeated in a whisper ; then, as if the name 
 awoke an echo in her darkened mind, she sang a snatch of an old 
 song, to the air of “The Girl I Left Behind Me ” — 
 
 ‘No more — no more in Cashel town 
 I’ll sell my health a-raking, 
 
 Nor on days of fairs rove up and down, 
 
 Nor join the merry-making. 
 
 “Whisht ! there’s the Peelers — they’ll hear you ! — and listen 
 hither, honest man ! — if they do, they’ll hang you — they hang 
 everybody ! ” 
 
 Then all at once she broke out again with — 
 
 “The Bansha Peelers were out one night 
 On duty on patrolling, 0 ! 
 
 They met a goat upon the road, 
 
 And took her to be a stroller, 0 ! 
 
 “Good man, why don’t you sing? — he used to sing, you 
 know ! But did you hear that he was dead ? ” She peered 
 
52 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 into Bryan’s face through the darkness, then, pushing him away 
 with a force that made him stagger, she cried, with a disdainful 
 laugh — 
 
 “Get away with you, now! you’re ould, an’ he’s young — 
 will you not be botherin’ me with your palaver ? Oh, wisha ! I 
 never hear his voice now, at all ! Where is he ? — ay, that’s it — 
 he’s at Holy Cross — all alone by himself, they tell me, an’ that’s 
 why I want to go ! An’ I must go, too, an’ be there afore the 
 clock strikes twelve the night. Let me go now — you see I can’t 
 stay at all, at all ! — 
 
 Oeh, among the green bushes he’s waiting for me ! ” 
 
 Bryan had purposely kept silence, fearing lest the sound of 
 %n unfamiliar voice might frighten her so that his feeble arm 
 could not longer hold her. But still he kept on his way, whilst 
 the rain fell faster and heavier each passing moment. They 
 had now reached the cottage, at the door of which stood 
 Cauth waiting anxiously, as on the previous night, for Bryan’s 
 appearance. She was just commencing with — “Why, then, 
 Bryan ” — when the old man brushed past her with Mabel into 
 the house. 
 
 “Wisha, Bryan! who’s that you have with you?” cried 
 Cauth, following them in; but no sooner did her eye fall on the 
 pale face of the maniac, looking ghostly through the long damp 
 tresses that hung over it in wild disorder, than a livid pallor 
 overspread her own visage, and she shook like an aspen leaf. 
 Meanwhile, Bryan had seated the miserable creature in the 
 chimney corner, and, although the fire was blazing brightly, he 
 threw on some additional turf, which latter act, not being 
 agreeable to Cauth, served to arouse her from her momentary 
 stupor. 
 
 “Now, then, what did you do that for?” she said sharply 
 enough, considering that the turf was unquestionably Bryan’s 
 own. “Wasn’t the fire good enough? One ’id think you had 
 a turf -stack back o’ the house.” 
 
 “Never mind, Cauth, never mind — God is a rich provider. 
 Come and see to poor Mabel — can’t you put some clothes on her 
 till you dry these duds she has on ? She’s ’most dead with the 
 eowld an’ wet, you see.” 
 
 “Cowld — eowld ! ” muttered the girl, crouching over the 
 
BRYAN'S STATIONS. 
 
 53 
 
 fire, and shivering all over as the kindly warmth reached her 
 emaciated frame through the wet garments that clung around 
 her. 
 
 “Why, then, to be sure, I’ll put dry clothes on her,” said 
 Cauth, with a strange mixture of compassion and peevishness in 
 her tone and in her face; “do you think I’m a Turk or a 
 haythen that I wouldn’t? But where did you come across 
 her ? ” 
 
 “ On the Rock above, an’ sure it was the blessin’ o’ the world 
 that I happened to be there at the time. She might have 
 been out all night under the rain, an’ maybe it’s dead I’d find 
 her in the mornin’. See how God takes care of them that can’t 
 take care of themselves ! Praise an’ glory to His name — He 
 does!” 
 
 It was no so easy matter for Cauth to get the necessary 
 change made in Mabel’s apparel. She could not persuade her 
 to leave the fire, and although Bryan went out of sight behind 
 the jamb-wall, so as to leave the place to themselves, the diffi- 
 culty still existed. The girl had taken it into her head that 
 some sinister motive prompted the disrobement, and she re- 
 sisted with all the strength that madness gives. 
 
 “If it’s going to hang me you are,” said she, freeing herself 
 with a sudden jerk from the restraint of Cauth’s arm, “ there’s 
 no need for you to strip me, sure ! — can’t you hang me with 
 my clothes on ? ” 
 
 Cauth tried to expostulate, but her voice failed her, and a 
 convulsive shudder passed through her frame. The senseless 
 prattle of the maniac was either striking some chord in her 
 own heart, or exciting her compassion to an intolerable 
 degree. She silently renewed her efforts, however, to take off 
 the wet clothes, and finally succeeded, owing mainly to their 
 tattered condition. But still, to the last, Mabel kept grumbling 
 and protesting. 
 
 “ Tut, tut ! you bould jade ! isn’t it ashamed you ought to 
 be to strip a dacent girl that way ? Be off with you now ! — not 
 a tack more you’ll get off — not a tack ! Oh, murdher ! isn’t she 
 the robber, all out ? ” 
 
 When the warm, dry clothes were once on, however, Mabel’s 
 tone changed. She began to feel the comfort, and a smile 
 overspread her wan features as, looking down at the red 
 
54 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 drugget petticoat which Cauth had put on, she said to Bryan, 
 who had just resumed his place at the fire — 
 
 “ There now, you see, I’m ‘ Petticoat Loose / ’ 1 — I tould you 
 so, but you wouldn’t b’lieve me ! Don’t be afeard, ould man, 
 I’ll not hurt you! But don’t stop me — don’t, an’ God bless 
 you ! for I’m on my way to Holy Cross to see him , you know , ail’ 
 I must be back at the hill before cock-crow. There, look at 
 her!” pointing with a giggling laugh at Cauth, who had 
 dropped almost fainting on a seat, — “she’s afeard of the ghost, 
 you see ! — she thinks Petticoat Loose ’ll hang her — ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 maybe she will. She hung me onst — that I mayn’t sin, but she 
 did ! — an’ I’m walkin’, walkin’ ever sence, an’ will till the Day 
 o’ Judgment.” 
 
 “ The Lord save us ! ” muttered Cauth ; “ she’ll be the death 
 o’ me this night, if I stay in the one house with her ! Any- 
 way, I must get the supper for them.” 
 
 The supper was got accordingly — tea and oaten bread for 
 Mabel, porridge and milk for Bryan, in which Cauth made a 
 show of joining him, but it w T as plain that the appetite was 
 wanting to her. Mabel, on the contrary, swallowed her 
 supper greedily, and with evident relish of the tea, then a 
 luxury little common amongst country people in any part of 
 Ireland. 
 
 “Tay ! ” said Mabel very softly, looking at the liquid in her 
 cup, — “ I like tay — I get it up at the Hall.” Then, as if the 
 name had brought a thought into her mind, she turned to 
 Bryan with quite a confidential air, “Jerry Pierce is at the 
 Hall now — you know Jerry ? — he’s not hung yet — but ould 
 Mr. Esmond says he’ll hang him, an’ Tim Murtha, an’ every- 
 nody — an’ then’on’t they hang him? — maybe they ’on’t — no, no, 
 Jiey don’t hang the quality — it’s shoot them they do ! ” and 
 she lowered her voice to a hissing whisper that froze the blood 
 in the veins of those who heard her. “You needn’t look at 
 me so, honest man ! for it’s truth I tell you — they do shoot the 
 gentlemen by times ” — 
 
 “ Whisht, whisht, Mabel ! ” said Bryan in a tone of great 
 
 1 A ghost, known by this appellation, was the terror of the Tipperary 
 peasantry of that neighbourhood for years before and after the time 
 specified — perhaps is still, for aught we know. The scene of her peram- 
 bulations was a bare bleak hill, a few miles from Cashel, 
 
BRYAN'S STATIONS . 
 
 55 
 
 alarm, knowing that walls have ears sometimes. “You said 
 you liked tay — give her another cup, Cauth.” 
 
 But Mahel would persist in the obnoxious theme, tea or no 
 tea. “ Did you ever hear of ould Chadwick — didn’t they shoot 
 him— didn’t they, now 1 ? Mara said they did. An’ listen hither,” 
 — pulling Bryan’s head close to her,— “he said it was him— you 
 know who I mane — there ! don’t say a word for your life — but 
 there ivccs blood spilled, now — that’s God’s truth — an’ sich 
 hangin’ you never seen as there was after it ! — ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 they thought to hang me too, but I hid behind King Donogh’s 
 tomb in Holy Cross Abbey abroad, an’ that’s how they missed 
 of me, you see ! — but they cotched him — an’ they hung him, 
 for all his purty red cheeks an’ his yalla hair. 
 
 Och ! what colour was your true love’s hair, 
 
 And what clothes did your true love wear? 
 
 A green silk jacket, this maid replied, 
 
 And his yallow hair to his belt was tied.” 
 
 A groan from Cauth here drew Bryan’s attention, and a glance 
 at her face was sufficient to show him that something unusual 
 was the matter with her ; she sat with her distended eyes fixed 
 on vacancy, her lips and cheeks as bloodless as those of a 
 corpse, and her hand extended as if in the act of pointing at 
 some object. 
 
 “ Blessed Mother ! ” cried Bryan, “ what’ll I do with her at 
 all ? It’s dyin’ she is, as sure as anything ! Cauth ! Cauth ! 
 what’s cornin’ over you, woman 1 ” and he shook her gently, 
 but for some time received no answer. 
 
 Mabel, as if conscious that something was wrong, crept to 
 her side, and began stroking down her hair, murmuring, “ Poor 
 thing ! poor thing ! did they hang somebody from you ? Cry 
 now ! why don’t you cry ? I used to cry long ago, but I can’t 
 cry now ! — I can only laugh — and sing — Och ay ! — 
 
 I sing my bonny bunch of locher, 0.” 
 
 Cauth’s features began at length to relax, and, heaving a 
 long, deep-drawn sigh, she shuddered, looked at Mabel, and 
 covered her face with her hands as if to shut out the sight 
 of her. 
 
 “ Bryan,” said she in a choking voice, “ I can’t stand it any 
 
56 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK . 
 
 longer ! We must either get her to sleep, or I must leave the 
 house — she’d have me as mad as herself before an hour.” 
 
 “ Well, I declare,” said Bryan in a whisper, “I feel mighty 
 quare myself, listenin’ to her. Do, an’ God bless you ! try an’ 
 get her to bed — you can put her in mine, an’ I’ll sit up all 
 night, for it wouldn’t be safe for us both to go to sleep ; she 
 might burn the house on us, so she might, for I’m afeard it’s 
 not much she’ll sleep.” 
 
 With much persuasion Mabel was induced to go to bed, and, 
 once down, she slept soundly, contrary to the expectations of 
 her host. After a good-natured dispute about which of them 
 should occupy the second bed, Bryan’s firmness prevailed, and 
 poor Cauth stretched her length on the straw pallet, not to 
 sleep, but to rest her weary limbs. 
 
CHAPTER Y. 
 
 MARY HEN NESS Y HAS A VISIT, AND BRYAN ANOTHER. 
 
 It was drawing towards Christmas— that is to say, about the 
 middle of December, when four gentlemen sat together over 
 their wine in the comfortable dining-room of an old-fashioned 
 house in Friar Street, in the good city of Cashel. One of these 
 was Dr. Ilennessy, the host of the evening ; other two, Dr. 
 O’Grady and Attorney Moran ; while the fourth was a tall 
 grey-haired man of portly presence, whose garb, as well as his 
 manner, indicated the priest. He was, indeed, the parish priest 
 of Cashel, and a Dean, moreover, of the archdiocese. A grave 
 and reverend man he was, stern enough, too, at times, but at 
 heart the kindest of human beings, as the poor of Cashel and 
 its vicinity knew full well. To all the oppressed of the country 
 round Dean M‘Dermot was a tower of strength, for the highest 
 and proudest of their oppressors not seldom quailed before his 
 scathing irony and the indomitable energy with which he 
 defended the rights of the poor and the powerless. Far and near 
 he was known as the protector of the widow and the orphan, 
 the friend of the friendless, and the terror of the wicked. The 
 fiercest faction-fight that ever raged in the streets of the old 
 borough was suspended, at least for the time being, oy the 
 sound of the Dean’s voice, or even the news of his approach. 
 Nay, the very children in “ the chapel ” were so struck with 
 awe when at the “ Catechism ” on Sunday afternoon he made 
 his appearance amongst them, that their tongues were tied with 
 fear, and the well-conned answers died away on their lips as he 
 passed along the line abruptly questioning each in turn with 
 characteristic abruptness, tapping his top-boots the while with 
 the end of his riding- whip. Yet how dear he was to the hearts 
 of his flock, young and old, the traditional respect still paid to 
 
58 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 his memory, after the lapse of many years, is the best and most 
 convincing proof. The Dean was not much given to what are 
 called the pleasures of the table, but he did occasionally enter- 
 tain some of his principal parishioners at dinner, and could not 
 refuse, perhaps would not if he could, accepting their hospitality 
 in return. 
 
 Such was the venerable gentleman who occupied the head of 
 Dr. Hennessy’s table that day, a privilege everywhere accorded 
 to him, and, indeed, to Irish parish priests generally, amongst 
 their own parishioners of the middle class, especially where the 
 guests are but few and all of the same circle, as was the 
 case on that occasion. Mary Hennessy and Bella Le Poer, who 
 had been of the party, had retired a little before, leaving the 
 gentlemen to their politics and their wine, as Mary laughingly 
 observed. 
 
 “Now, mind,” said Mary to her brother, opening the door 
 again for a moment, — “mind and don’t stay long here, for, 
 you know, the Esmonds and Mrs. O’Grady are coming to 
 tea. Excuse me, Dean ! ” she added, with a bright smile, “ I 
 forgot, for the moment, that you were present — so in your hands 
 I leave my request.” The Dean smiled assent, and the roguish 
 face vanished from the door, the owner of it humming “Di 
 tanti palpiti ” as she and Bella ascended the stairs arm-in-arm. 
 
 Leaving the young ladies to amuse themselves in the drawing- 
 room pending the expected arrivals, we will return to the 
 gentlemen in the parlour. Resuming a subject which had 
 been previously under discussion, Dr. O’Grady said — 
 
 “It does strike me as something odd that these agrarian 
 murders, so to speak, are of more frequent occurrence in our 
 county than, perhaps, any other in the kingdom. Can you 
 account for it, Dean, you that knows the country so well 1 ” 
 
 “ I account for it in this way,” the Dean replied, “ that 
 perhaps there is no county in Ireland where so little justice has 
 been dealt out to the people in times past, and, I am sorry to 
 say, in times present. The natural consequence is that the 
 oppressed have fallen, in the lapse of years, into an ugly habit 
 of administering justice themselves — or what they consider 
 justice — after their own wild fashion. They have long ago 
 found out that the law is not for them, but their oppressors, 
 therefore they fling it to the winds — excuse me, Mr. Moran ! — 
 
MARY HENNESSY HAS A VISIT. 
 
 59 
 
 and take vengeance as their motto. It is much to be deplored, 
 undoubtedly, but is not the hard-heartedness of the landlords 
 also to be deplored, and the blind infatuation that hurries them 
 on to their doom'? All the fearful examples of swift and 
 terrible revenge which their own eyes have seen will not induce 
 them to treat their unhappy tenants, when in their power, 
 with less rigorous severity.” 
 
 “I believe you are right, Dean,” said Dr. O’Grady. “If 
 there weren’t some such infatuation over them, surely the fate 
 of Chadwick, shot down in broad daylight before several 
 witnesses, would alone be a sufficient warning to them.” 
 
 “For my part,” said the host, “I only wonder there aren’t 
 more of the landlords shot. Upon my word and honour I do ! 
 And I think the ‘Tips,’ bloody and all as they are, are not half 
 so bad as people make them out. If they were, do you think 
 Will Gartland would have died in his bed ? — or — others we 
 Jcnoio have escaped so long, with so many curses hanging over 
 them, like the sw r ord of Damocles, ready to fall at any 
 moment ” 
 
 “Take care, Doctor, take care!” said the Dean, with a certain 
 solemnity of tone that impressed the others; “such subjects 
 are not to be treated lightly — or, indeed, at all. Murder is 
 always heinous in the sight of God, and no circumstances can 
 justify it. Mr. Moran, may I take the liberty of asking why 
 you seem so unusually grave this evening ? Is there anything 
 particular coming off at the Sessions to morrow that you are 
 meditating a speech — come, how is it?” 
 
 “ Hear ! hear ! ” from the two doctors, and the younger 
 pushed the decanter towards Moran, gaily saying, “ Cheer 
 up, Phil ! cheer up ! — all’s not lost that’s in danger, you 
 know.” 
 
 “Well, I don’t know,” said Moran significantly, “what or 
 who you may consider in danger, Doctor, but I really do believe 
 there’s some one in danger not many miles from here. Dean, 
 you do me more or less than justice ; I could not, if I would, 
 fix my mind on my pros and cons in any purely professional 
 matter, where ‘the feast of reason and the flow of soul’ are 
 both at my command. The fact is, I have been in low spirits 
 all day, and cannot, for the life of me, shake off a depression 
 that is altogether unusual with me.” 
 
60 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 “ Nonsense, man!” cried the lively host; “ you’ve been 
 listening to Mad Mabel to-day till you’ve got her notions in 
 your head. Come now, out with it ; aren’t we all to be hanged 
 — hanged by the neck till we’re as dead as — as Brian Boroinihe 'l 
 Eh, Phil ? ” and he assumed a look of comical gravity that made 
 every one smile, even the lawyer himself. 
 
 “ You are an incorrigible wag, Maurice,” said Moran, still in 
 the same grave tone ; “but — laugh as you may at the absurdity 
 of the thing — I confess poor Mabel’s jabbering has disturbed me 
 more than a little this very day.” 
 
 “ Why, how is that, Moran ? ” inquired the Dean, more 
 earnestly than might be expected. 
 
 Moran looked round before he answered, to see that no 
 servant was in waiting, which having ascertained, he said, “ I 
 know I may speak in this company with perfect safety what 
 I have to speak. Know then, all, that I much fear there 
 is some mischief brewing in this neighbourhood.” He paused 
 and looked from one to the other, as if almost uncertain whether 
 he ought to proceed. 
 
 Sundry exclamations of surprise followed, and the Dean 
 begged to know on what grounds Moran rested his opinion. 
 
 “ I am almost ashamed to tell you,” said Phil, lowering his 
 voice ; “ and yet I will, for I feel anxious to impart my harass- 
 ing thoughts to those in whose prudence and discretion I have 
 unbounded faith. You must know, then, sirs, that my house- 
 keeper, Honora Quin, is a great favourite with poor Mabeh who 
 spends hours together chattering in our kitchen, and crooning 
 her snatches of old songs. Well, to-day she came early in the 
 forenoon, and remained most of the day with Honora. By 
 some chance she found her way into the dining-room while I 
 was at lunch, and do as I would, I could not get rid of her. 
 You know how lugubrious is her usual style of talking, poor 
 thing ! and usually people do not much mind her, fortunately 
 for themselves, but to-day she let fall words again and again 
 which could not fail to arrest my attention.” 
 
 “ Ha ! ha ! ha ! ” laughed Hennessy ; “ well, that is rich ! — 
 Mad Mabel’s words arrest a lawyer’s attention ! After that we 
 need wonder at nothing, surely.” 
 
 “You may laugh, Maurice Hennessy, but I cannot, I assure 
 you,” 
 
MARY HENNESSY HAS A VISIT 
 
 61 
 
 “Pray go on, Mr. Moran,' ” said the Dean very gravely. 
 “ What were the words that excited your apprehension 1 ” 
 
 “ They were these, 5 ’ — and Moran’s voice again sank to a 
 scarcely audible whisper, — “ ‘ Ould Esmond must be shot ! ’ ” 
 
 “ Good God ! ” exclaimed the Dean in horror and amazement, 
 while the blanched faces of the two doctors showed that the 
 words had a tremendous meaning even on the lips of a 
 maniac. “ These words, you will all allow, were quite suffi- 
 cient to startle any sane man having any knowledge of certain 
 matters.” 
 
 “ Undoubtedly, Moran, undoubtedly ; but what more did you 
 gather from the unhappy creature’s ravings 1 ” 
 
 “ Not much, my dear Dean, except that the frequent men- 
 tion of Holy Cross Abbey, and twelve o’clock at night, might 
 lead us to suppose some connection, or give some clue to the 
 manner in which the unfortunate girl came to hear such omin- 
 ous words — if hear them she did.” 
 
 Here the door was suddenly thrown open, and Mary 
 Hennessy entered, followed by Bella, both girls strangely 
 excited, as they threw an eager, searching glance around the 
 room. 
 
 “ He is not here, then ! ” said Mary, pale as death. “ I told 
 you so, Bella ! — I told you that was nothing earthly.” 
 
 “ Why, Mary, what’s the matter with you 'l ” cried her 
 brother. Moran, almost as pale as herself, fixed his eyes on 
 her with anxious scrutiny, but said nothing. “ Who are you 
 looking for ? ” 
 
 “ Harry Esmond,” said Bella, answering for her friend. 
 “Has he not been here ” 
 
 “ Why, of course not,” cried Dr. Hennessy, with a very poor 
 attempt at cheerfulness. “ What the deuce put that in your 
 heads, you pair of goslings 'l ” 
 
 “ Tell him, Bella — I can’t ! ” said Mary, sinking heavily on 
 a chair. “ Hot here,” she repeated, — “ not here ! ” her voice 
 becoming fainter and fainter ; “ well, that is something 
 strange ! ” 
 
 “ My dear young ladies,” said the Dean, “will you tell us 
 what it is that has disturbed you ? — you seem quite agitated.” 
 
 “ It would be strange if we were not,” said Bella, “ consider* 
 ing what we have seen.” 
 
62 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK 
 
 “Well, well,” cried Hennessy, “what did you see? Your 
 own shadows on the wall, I daresay.” 
 
 “No, Doctor,” said Bella, with solemn earnestness, “ it was 
 not our own shadows — except either of them could take the 
 likeness of Harry Esmond .” 
 
 “Harry Esmond? Nonsense ! — begging your pardon, Bella.” 
 “ But how was it, Miss Le Poer?” said Dr. O’Grady. “Was 
 it young Harry you saw, or old Harry ? ” 
 
 “ Young Harry. We were sitting chatting by the fire in the 
 drawing-room, I with my back towards the door, when all at 
 once Mary called out, ‘ I declare there’s Harry ! Come, come, 
 none of your tricks, now ! You shan’t frighten us this time. 
 Where’s Henrietta?’ I turned my head, and, sure enough, 
 there stood Harry Esmond looking in at the door, which he 
 held half open. The light of the fire shone full on his face, 
 and I thought I never saw him look so grave. That, however, 
 did not surprise me, knowing what perfect command he has of 
 his features, and supposing him bent on frightening us girls.” 
 “Did he not speak?” 
 
 “Speak, Mr. Moran? No, indeed , he did not! ” 
 
 Dr. Hennessy burst into a loud laugh. “ Of course he did 
 not ! I know well it was a shadow you saw. One of those dim, 
 uncertain shadows which are only seen by firelight. Ha ! ha ! 
 ha ! One of the poets — Cowper, I think — describes them most 
 graphically,” and he recited, with theatrical emphasis, those 
 lines from “The Task”— 
 
 “But we perhaps 
 
 The glowing hearth may satisfy awhile 
 With faint illumination, that uplifts 
 The shadows to the ceiling, there by fits 
 Dancing uncoutlily to the quivering flame.” 
 
 “I admire your smartness, Doctor,” said Bella coldly; but 
 such was not our shadow, seeing that it was not 1 uplifted to the 
 ceiling,’ nor did it dance , couthly or uncouthly ; but when Mary 
 and I ran to the door, the figure glided away before us with a 
 slow and noiseless step, we following all the way, till it opened 
 the dining-room door and walked in. I had to support Mary 
 along the hall, for she would have it that it was Harry’s fetch 
 we saw, whilst I maintained that it was Harry himself, playing 
 off one of his practical jokes at our expense. But if none of 
 
MARY HENNESSY HAS A VISIT. 
 
 G3 
 
 you saw him corns in here,’ whereas we both saw him enter 
 the room, then the case is clear — it was his fetch we saw, 
 believe it who may or may not.” 
 
 “ It is very strange,” said the Dean, whilst the other gentle- 
 men looked at each other in silence, probably connecting this 
 singular apparition with the dark revealings of Mabels madness. 
 “ It is certainly very strange,” he repeated ; “ but still, young 
 ladies, I cannot help thinking that it might be the effect of 
 some mental hallucination. Probably you had been talking of 
 grave subjects, if not of supernatural appearances — come now, 
 was that the case ? ” 
 
 “ I solemnly assure you it was not,” replied the young lady ; 
 “ on the contrary, Dean, we were as merry as possible, and talk- 
 ing of something that made us both laugh heartily. Were we 
 not, Mary 1 ” 
 
 “ Of course we were, my dear. But there is no use saying 
 any more about this affair. I should not like either Harry or 
 Henrietta to hear of it — Henrietta especially, for I know it 
 would frighten her dreadfully. The more so, on account of our 
 seeing the fetch after dark, which, you know, is said to denote 
 death to the person so seen. My God ! ” and she passed her 
 hand over her brow, as one who would dispel some hideous 
 dream. 
 
 The gentlemen were unwilling to admit, even tacitly, the 
 supernatural character of the appearance ; they would fain have 
 laughed the girls out of their conceit, but somehow none of them 
 felt disposed to laugh, though even that they would fain have 
 concealed one from the other. The Dean proposed that they 
 should adjourn to the drawing-room with the ladies, a motion 
 which was eagerly adopted. Moran drew Mary’s arm under 
 his ; and Hennessy, bowing with mock ceremony to Bella, asked 
 with a dandified lisp if he might be allowed the unparalleled 
 honour of escorting her upstairs. 
 
 “Just for this once,” said the saucy girl, with an air of 
 haughty condescension. 
 
 “Well, this once is all I ask— now,” said the merry doctor ; 
 “but — hillo ! there’s music — Shaun the piper, as I live ! Never 
 came piper in better time ! What say you, fair ladies ! shall 
 we not have him upstairs for the evening ?” 
 
 “ Of course we will, Maurice,” said his sister, “ after he has 
 
64 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 had some needful comfort for the inner man. How lucky it 
 was that he came just now ! ” 
 
 “ And how soon he let you know of his arrival ! ” said Moran. 
 “The jolly old dog ! what a budget of fun he is, to be sure !• — 
 and what fun he can squeeze out of those pipes of his ! There’s 
 ‘ The Rocky Road to Dublin 9 for us ! — won’t we trip it on the 
 light fantastic toe by and by 1 — that is, with the Dean’s per- 
 mission.” 
 
 “My permission would not be wanting, Mr. Moran, were I 
 here, but the fact is, I must be at home before your dancing 
 will be likely to commence. I have something to do this 
 evening that cannot be deferred.” 
 
 Moran looked anxiously in his face ; so did Dr. O’Grady, and 
 a meaning glance was exchanged between the three. Nothing 
 more was said, however, and just at that moment a loud knock 
 at the hall door announced the arrival of the expected visitors. 
 A moment, and the full, rich voice of Harry Esmond sounded 
 cheerily in the hall in cordial greeting. His fine face was all 
 in a glow after his evening ride through the frosty air, and his 
 brown silken hair, slightly disordered, was carelessly thrown 
 back from off one temple, leaving the outline of his head and 
 face clearly defined. It was a fine head, not exactly indicative 
 of the highest intelligence, but well formed withal and firmly 
 set ; whilst the face, decidedly handsome, after the Saxon rather 
 than the Celtic type, was expressive of everything frank, manly, 
 and generous. He was tall — that is to say, rather above the 
 middle height, with a figure uniting strength and grace to a 
 degree rarely seen. 
 
 “ Who have you here, Maurice ? ” said Esmond, as he hung 
 his coat in the hall. “ I am delighted to see, or rather to hear , 
 that you have Shaun the piper for one individual. How the 
 fellow does bang off that merriest of tunes!” meaning “The 
 Wind that shakes the Barley,” which Shaun was then giving 
 out in glorious style, probably hearing the gentlemen in the hall. 
 
 “ That’s so like you, Harry,” said his friend, catching, as he 
 always did, the gushing gaiety that came spontaneously from 
 Esmond's heart. “ You asked me a question, and rambled on to 
 something else without waiting for an answer. We have only 
 Moran and O’Grady, and Miss Le Poer— that is, for the evening. 
 The Dean dined with us, but I am sorry to say he cannot 
 
MAR V HENNESS V HAS A VISIT. 
 
 65 
 
 remain much longer. He has some business to attend to at 
 home. Your aunt and uncle are coming, though, and my flame, 
 of course.” 
 
 “ Your flame ? I should like to know who that is — eh, 
 Maurice ? ” 
 
 “ Why, Aunt Vinegar, to be sure — I beg a thousand a year — 
 I mean Aunt Winifred.” 
 
 “Well, well, mocking’s catching, my fine fellow! You’ll 
 have a flame some of these days, take my word for it, cool as 
 you are now.” 
 
 “And pray how cool is that, Master Wiseacre?” 
 
 “A few degrees above zero, anyhow.” 
 
 They entered the drawing-room at one door as pretty Mrs. 
 Esmond, with Mary and Bella, entered at 'another. It was 
 hard for the girls to look at Harry Esmond with anything like 
 composure, remembering what they had seen, yet they managed 
 to conceal their feelings tolerably well on the whole. Yet when 
 Esmond took Mary Hennessy’s hand he missed the brilliant 
 smile that had often cheered his heart, and, starting, he looked 
 in her face. 
 
 “Mary — Mary Hennessy — are you quite, quite well?” he 
 asked. 
 
 “ Quite, quite well,” she answered, forcing a smile. 
 
 Harry shook his head, took her two hands in his, and looked 
 at her more earnestly, then sighed and turned away, evidently 
 not satisfied. 
 
 Before the elder Esmonds made their appearance the Dean 
 retired, much to the regret of the company, after exchanging a 
 few pleasant words with Shaun, who was by that time installed 
 in the wide lobby near the drawing-room door. 
 
 “When are you coming to our house, Shaun? — you’re for- 
 getting us altogether these times.” 
 
 “ Wislia, long life to your reverence ! it’s an ill day I’d forget 
 you , anyhow. But, to tell you the truth, your reverence, Mrs. 
 Dwyer is mighty stingy at times, an’ as cross as an ould cat, 
 savin’ your presence, sir.” 
 
 “ Pooh, pooh, man ! never mind Mrs. Dwyer — when she’s out 
 of humour, laugh her into it; and as to the stinginess,” he 
 laughed good-naturedly, “ we can easily manage that. Be sure 
 you come, now, before you leave the neighbourhood, for I want 
 
 5 
 
66 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 to hear some of the old airs that no one in Tipperary can play 
 like you.” 
 
 “ Glory to you, Father M‘Dermot ! it’s myself ’ill give you the 
 best in the pipes. I’ll be over, your reverence, some day this 
 week, God willin’, an 7 I’ll make a day of it when I do go, if it was 
 only to spite Mrs. Dwyer.” So saying, Shaun struck up “The 
 Priest in his Boots ” as the Dean descended the stairs with his 
 host, and the other gentlemen clapped their hands, crying, 
 “ Bravo, Shaun ! bravo ! That was well-timed, anyhow.” 
 When the venerable clergyman mounted his horse at the door, 
 Dr. Hennessy, from the steps, called out, “ Safe home, Dean ! 
 God be with you ! ” And the Dean answered, “ Your wish is 
 a good one, Doctor, and I thank you. Fare-you-well ! ” 
 
 It was not homeward the Dean turned his horse’s head. 
 Following Friar Street a little farther, he turned off in the 
 direction of Rock Gate, and rode slowly along, carefully noting 
 the cabins on either side, till at last, seeming to have found the 
 one he wanted, he stopped at the door, and, without alighting, 
 knocked several times with the butt end of his whip. No 
 sound came from within, no light was seen to glimmer in the 
 miserable hut. All was dark and silent as the grave. 
 
 “ This is strange,” said the Dean to himself half aloud. “ Can 
 they have left here ? And yet where would they go to ? ” 
 “True for your reverence — where would they go to?” said a 
 deep voice so close to the horse’s side that the priest started. 
 The night was pitch dark, rendering objects invisible at any 
 distance, and a thin coat of snow lay on the ground, sufficient 
 to deaden the sound of approaching footsteps. 
 
 “But they are gone, that is clear,” said the Dean ; “perhaps 
 you can tell where to ? ” 
 
 “ Is it me, your reverence 1 Oh, bad cess to the one o’ me 
 knows a thing about them ! It’s like they took to the road 1 at 
 last, the crathurs ! — sure, it’s starvin’ they wor here, for all the 
 help they got now and then from one an’ another.” 
 
 “ And pray who are you that seem to know so much about 
 their affairs ? ” 
 
 “ Oh, begorra, your reverence ought to know me well, any- 
 how ; sure, it was yourself that christened me.” 
 
 1 To take to the road means, in Irish phraseology, to go out begging. 
 
BRYAN HAS A VISIT . 
 
 67 
 
 “Yes, but that don’t answer my question as to who you 
 are.” 
 
 “Does anybody hereabouts know where they’re gone to? 
 Well, your reverence, if anybody does, it’s ould Bryan 
 Cullenan — Bryney the Eock, you know — himself an’ themselves 
 were as great as pickpockets. I’ll show your reverence Bryan’s 
 little place — it’s only a step from here.” 
 
 “ If you don’t tell me this instant who you are,” said the 
 Dean sternly, “ I’ll lay my whip over your shoulders. What’s 
 your name, I say, and where do you live? As for Bryan’s 
 cottage, I can find it out myself.” 
 
 “Well, in regard to the whip, now, I’d be sorry to put your 
 reverence to so much trouble, so I’ll be biddin’ you good-night, 
 an’ it’s sorry I am to see you on a fooVs errand 1 ” 
 
 “What do you mean, you rascal?” said the Dean, waxing 
 wroth, and carrying out his threat at the same time, as he 
 thought. But his whip only fell on empty space, and a low 
 mocking laugh sounded in his ears, as if from the rear of one 
 of the adjacent cabins. 
 
 Muttering to himself, “ What a change tyrannical oppression 
 will make in a man or a people !” the Dean took his horse by 
 the bridle and went straight to Bryan’s cottage, which was only 
 a few yards distant. A light was dimly visible through the 
 solitary pane of glass that served for a window, and it so 
 happened that, approaching the door, the Dean cast a glance on 
 the interior. What was it that fixed his eye, and made him 
 look long and earnestly ? The only figure visible was that of 
 Cauth, who sat sewing near the stand that held the “rosin- 
 slut,” as the peasantry call the resin candle. Bryan, if there 
 at all, was concealed by the jamb-wall. 
 
 A thrill of some strange emotion passed through the stalwart 
 frame of the priest as he gazed on that shrivelled hag, for such 
 she seemed, and he said to himself, “Merciful Providence! 
 how came she in Bryan’s cottage? — and she seems quite at 
 home. Surely the old man cannot know — he may, though, for 
 he is a singular man in his way, and might do such a thing. 
 Well, unless he speaks of it himself, I will not, that is certain ! 
 But it is very, very strange.” 
 
 He knocked at the door, and Bryan himself came to open it. 
 Great was the old man’s surprise when he saw who stood with- 
 
68 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 out, yet he answered the Dean’s “ God save you, Bryan ! ” witn 
 a cheerful “ God save you kindly, your reverence ! is it you 
 that’s in it, sir ? ” 
 
 “And who else would it he?” said the Dean of Cashel, 
 stepping in, whilst Bryan took hold of the bridle. 
 
 “ Will I tie the baste to the door-post, your reverence?” 
 “No, no, Bryan — no, no ; I have only a moment to stay.” 
 “Well, but I can’t leave the door open on your reverence 
 such a night as this, an’ if I shut it, maybe the baste would run 
 away.” 
 
 The Dean looked round ; Cauth had retreated into the 
 farthest corner of the cabin, where the hazy light scarcely pene- 
 trated. 
 
 “ I merely wished to know,” said the priest, lowering his 
 voice, “ if you can tell me where the Murthas are gone.” 
 
 “ Gone, your reverence ? ” said Bryan, much amazed ; “an’ do 
 you tell me they are gone ? ” 
 
 “Certainly; I have been knocking repeatedly at the door of 
 the hut where they had taken shelter, and I find it is entirely 
 deserted. Do you know anything of them?” 
 
 “Oh, the sorra thing, your reverence, the sorra thing. God 
 help them ! what’s come of them, at all ? Sure, it’ll come 
 down hot an’ heavy on them that brought them to this ! ” 
 
 “ Hush, Bryan, hush ! ” said the Dean solemnly ; “ those 
 things must be left to the Great Ruler of all. It is not for you 
 or me to judge our fellow-creatures. So you don’t know any- 
 thing at all about Tim, or where he’s gone to ? ” 
 
 Before Bryan answered he looked cautiously out into the 
 darkness, peering on every side, as if to make sure that no one 
 was within earshot. He then moved close to the Dean, and, 
 motioning for him to bend down his head, whispered in his ear— 
 “I’ll tell your reverence what I wouldn’t tell the face of clay 
 barrin’ yourself. Tim is not the man he used to be, at all, at 
 all, an’ I’m afeard there’s something running in his mind this 
 time back that’s not for the good of his sowl ! ” 
 
 He stepped back a pace, and the two exchanged a look of 
 solemn import. “ It was that very thing brought me out to- 
 night,” said the Dean in an undertone. “ I have heard things 
 that troubled me not a little, and 1 thought I would make an 
 effort to prevent bloodshed.” 
 
BRYAN HAS A VISIT. 
 
 69 
 
 Bryan shook his head. “ Fm afeard the art I man can’t do 
 it — but if anybody can, in coorse it’s you, if you can only get 
 speech of them.” 
 
 “Which I now begin to fear will be no easy matter. Well, 
 good-night, Bryan! We must only do our best, and leave the 
 rest to God.” 
 
 So saying, the Dean mounted his horse, and had just ex- 
 changed a last kind greeting with the old man, when a hoarse 
 voice spoke in the hearing of both, though where it came from 
 they could not ascertain, and it said — 
 
 “Go home, Dean M £ Dermot, and let justice take its coorse — 
 you might as well think to soften that Kock there as the hearts 
 of them you’re looking for this night.” 
 
 “God bless us ! ” cried Bryan, “ who can that be ?” 
 
 “ Friend,” said the Dean, addressing the invisible colloquist, 
 “ it is an evil purpose that shuns the eye of God’s anointed 
 minister. Could I but speak even a few words with those 
 persons to whom you have reference, it might be their own 
 salvation, temporal and eternal.” 
 
 A scoffing laugh was the only answer ; and the Dean, seeing 
 that nothing could then be done, reluctantly took his way 
 homeward, leaving Bryan as ill at ease as himself, though he 
 tried to conceal it from Cauth, who, strangely enough, made 
 neither remark nor inquiry as to the object of the Dean’s visit. 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 A DAY AT ESMOND HALL. 
 
 Two days before Christmas, the inmates of the cabins at the 
 foot of the Rock were thrown into a state of commotion by the 
 sight of the Esmond carriage stopping at Bryan Cullenan’s 
 door. The handsome brown livery was well known in the 
 neighbourhood, and many heads were popped inquiringly out 
 of doors to see what was going on. Mrs. Esmond herself was 
 in the carriage, looking ever so pretty in her cottage-bonnet and 
 black lace veil, with her two beautiful children, a boy of four 
 and a girl of two years old. But, alas ! there was nothing to be 
 gathered from what took place. The footman knocked at the 
 door ; Cauth came out and dropped her curtsey ; Mrs. Esmond 
 leaned forward, smiled graciously, and said something in a low 
 voice ; whereupon Cauth curtsied again, and the carriage rolled 
 away. This was the dumb show of the affair, and the curious 
 neighbours dreamed of nothing more. Yet there was some- 
 thing more, which heard, would have set them all on the alert. 
 “ What time will you be at home, ma’am? ” said Cauth to Mrs. 
 Esmond in the very lowest whisper ; “I want to speak to your- 
 self very particular.” The lady, with a look of surprise, named 
 the hour, and Cauth made a hasty retreat into the hut, as the 
 elegant cortege moved away. She never exposed herself much 
 to the prying eyes of her neighbours, and managed her affairs so 
 that she was seldom abroad in daylight. 
 
 Mrs. Esmond had appointed four o’clock that afternoon for 
 Cauth’s visit, and, punctual to the moment, Cauth was in wait- 
 ing, not in the kitchen, which she carefully avoided, but on the 
 gravel walk that swept up in two segments .of a circle from 
 the gates to the hall-door, around a smooth sward, in spring and 
 summer of velvet sheen, tastefully interspersed with the choicest 
 
A DA Y AT ESMOND HALL. 
 
 71 
 
 flowering shrubs. But the turf was brown and bare that winter 
 day, and the shrubs and plants were carefully covered to protect 
 them from the blighting effect of the frost. The trees in the 
 surrounding copse, too, were leafless all and bare, except where 
 the dark green of the fir and the still darker holly stood out 
 here and there from the sylvan desolation with the cheerless 
 and sombre effect of light glimmering through darkness. On 
 the gravel walk, then, Cauth took up her station, right in front 
 of the parlour windows, which opened on a lightly-trellised 
 verandah, as did the library on the opposite side of the hall. 
 During the few moments that Cauth stood there, her face con- 
 cealed in the hood of her cloak, she communed with her own 
 thoughts in a way peculiar to herself. 
 
 “ Isn't it a sorrowful thing, then, to see the flowers all faded and 
 gone, and the trees bare, and the grass withered ? Ay, winter's 
 a poor time — a poor time ! But there's a winter that's worse 
 than that — - fareer gar , there is ! The spring 'ill come in a little 
 time, and the purty flowers 'ill all pop up their heads again, 
 and the green 'ill come back to the fields an' to the trees, and 
 everything 'ill bloom so beautiful — even the very grass on the 
 graves ; but the green will never come back to my heart, nor the 
 sun shine upon it aither. All withered — withered — and dead ! 
 Ochone ! if a body was dead, it 'id be the less matther ; but a 
 dead heart in a livin' body — ch vo ! vo ! vo ! how does one live, 
 at all ? By God's mercy, sure ! and nothin' else, to give crathurs 
 time to make their pace with Him. Ah ! there she is, the 
 darlin', makin' signs to me from the window. Och, wirra ! why 
 wouldn't I do it — why wouldn't I ? Sure, I’d be the greatest 
 villain on Ireland's ground if I didn't ! — and I will do it if I lost 
 my life for it." With these singular words she ascended the 
 steps, and before she had time to ring, the door was opened 
 by Mrs. Esmond herself, as though the lady had some vague 
 suspicion that Cauth did not care to be seen by the servants, at 
 least on that occasion. 
 
 “ Don't you think I’m a little of a witch, Cauth ? " said Mrs. 
 Esmond, with a smile, as she pointed to one of the high-backed 
 Gothic chairs which graced the spacious hall. 
 
 “ Wisha, how is that, ma'am 1 ?" 
 
 “Why, you see I guessed that you would as soon not see 
 anv of the servants just now." 
 
72 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 “Well, sure enough you guessed the truth, ma’am. How’s 
 the master 1 ” 
 
 “He’s very well, I thank you.” 
 
 “The Lord keep him so ! Och, amen ! from my heart. Why, 
 ma’am dear ! sure, it isn’t givin’ me all this you’d be ? ” looking 
 at some silver pieces which Mrs. Esmond had placed in her hand. 
 
 “ Yes, yes, Cauth ; that’s all for you — you can provide with 
 it what you require for Christmas. Old Bryan must not want 
 the little comforts needful to his age — nor you either, Cauth. 
 But hush ! here comes Mr. Esmond — I hear his step on the 
 gravel walk.” 
 
 “Then listen to me, ma’am !” said Cauth, standing up, and 
 placing her head close to that of Mrs. Esmond : “ There's them 
 of the name that has need to keep indoors afther dark — you 
 know who I mane ! Ilusht now ! not a word, for God’s sake ! 
 — you don’t know the risk I’m runnin’ in sayin’ so much — not 
 a word to any one, barrin’ the master, an’ let him give a hint 
 where you know as fast as over he can — but God love you, an’ 
 don’t bring my name in, one way or the other ! ” 
 
 And, with a warning gesture to Mrs. Esmond, who seemed 
 to have lost the power of speech, Cauth drew her hood over 
 her face once more, and passed out with a low curtsey and a 
 “ God save your honour ! ” to Mr. Esmond, whom she met on 
 the threshold. 
 
 Harry Esmond came in brimful of a steeplechase that was to 
 come off next day a few miles from Cashel, but when he 
 looked at his wife, wondering at her unusual silence, the ruddy 
 hue faded from his cheek, seeing the unwonted paleness of hers 
 and the agitation visible on every feature. 
 
 “Why, Henrietta, my love, what’s the matter?” and, taking 
 her hand tenderly, he drew her into the parlour. “ Is that old 
 woman a fortune-teller, or has she been predicting evil things 
 for you ? Sit down and tell me what means this agitation so 
 unusual with you ? ” 
 
 “Harry,” said his wife, as the colour came slowly back to 
 her cheek, “that woman is no fortune-teller, but she has spoken 
 words that have a strange and awful meaning.” 
 
 “Indeed?” said Harry, wi'dh a somewhat incredulous air. 
 “And what were thev, pray?— or are you at liberty to repeat 
 them?” 
 
A DAY AT ESMOND HALE 
 
 73 
 
 “ I am — to you ! They are these : * There's them of the name 
 that has need to keep indoors after dark! — you know who 1 
 mean ,’ the woman added, and ‘let him / meaning yon, ‘give a 
 hint where you know as fast as ever he can/ Those were the 
 words, Harry. What do you think of them ? ” 
 
 “ I think of the whole affair this, that my dear Henrietta is 
 more of a simpleton than I ever took her for. Who is this 
 woman ? ” 
 
 “That I am not at liberty to tell you,” said Mrs. Esmond, 
 smiling at the word “simpleton,” as her husband supposed she 
 would. “But, Harry, I cannot view this matter as you do. 
 You and I both know that the person evidently meant has 
 enemies, and, what is worse, deserves to have them; believe 
 me, then, this warning is not to be slighted, inasmuch as it 
 must be kindly meant, and I must insist on your going this 
 very day to give the hint as desired.” 
 
 “Nonsense, child! how could I bring myself to convey 
 such a message ? You know the supreme contempt he 
 has for the country-people generally, and I should only get 
 laughed at for my pains — perhaps told to mind my own 
 business.” 
 
 “And what if you do? Consider the possible alternative !— 
 think how you would reproach yourself if anything did happen 
 which you, by this trifling act, might have prevented ! Harry, 
 you will not refuse me this favour ? ” and, taldng his two hands, 
 she looked up so beseechingly in his face that he could no 
 longer resist. 
 
 “Well, I will go after dinner — it is now half-past four.” 
 
 “Nay, you shall go now — you can dine at the Lodge — they 
 dine at five too, you know.” 
 
 “Well, I must say you are a provoking little sample of 
 womankind,” said Harry, with his habitually gay laugh ; “ but 
 if it be so, why, it must, that’s all ; ” and he rang the bell. 
 
 The tall butler appeared so very suddenly that his master 
 said, with some surprise, “Why, Pierce, where the deuce did 
 you come from ? ” 
 
 “Oh, sure, I was just on my step to the hall-door, your 
 honour. Didn’t the door-bell ring first ? ” 
 
 “Not that ive heard. You had better go and see if any one 
 is there.” 
 
74 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCIL 
 
 Pierce went accordingly, opened the hall-door, and looked 
 out, then returned with a face of artless innocence. 
 
 ‘‘Well, Pierce,” said his master, laughing, “did you see 
 any one ? ” 
 
 “ Wisha, no, your honour ! ” and he rubbed his elbow after a 
 fashion he had, and looked as foolish as might be ; “ still, I’d 
 take my book oath on it that I heard the big door bell ringin’ 
 ever so loud ; but, sure, it must be in my own ear it was. 
 Ochone ! maybe it’s a dead-bell 1 I heard ! ” 
 
 Why should words like these make Mrs. Esmond start? 
 That she could not explain even to herself, yet so it was, and 
 by some strange association came into her mind the mysterious 
 voice heard at the supper-table on Hallow-eve night. But none 
 of these thoughts or fancies troubled the bright surface of 
 Harry Esmond’s soul as he said to Pierce — 
 
 “Tell Mulligan to get the roan mare saddled as fast as 
 possible.” 
 
 “ The roan mare, sir ? I will, your honour ! — she’ll be out 
 in a jiffy.” And Pierce moved away as rapidly as his natural 
 sluggishness of motion permitted. 
 
 The roan mare, however, was not “ out in a jiffy,” but was, 
 on the contrary, so long in making her appearance that Mr. 
 Esmond, good-humoured as he was, began to lose patience, and, 
 opening the door, went out on the steps just as Mulligan, the 
 groom, hove in sight from the rear with the handsome roan. 
 
 “What the deuce kept you, Mulligan?” said the master, 
 slightly annoyed; “here I have been waiting full twenty 
 minutes.” 
 
 “Twenty minutes?” cried Mulligan, a loud-spoken, red- 
 faced man, yet fresh and honest -looking withal, — “twenty 
 minutes, your honour ? Oh, then, wait till I lay my eyes on that 
 lazy Larry,” meaning Pierce. “ Why, your honour, it’s not 
 over five minutes since he came to me with the word.” 
 
 “And what was he about ever since I sent him? ” 
 
 “ Slin-gin’ about, I suppose, as usual. He said he was lookin’ 
 for me around the stables, but if he looked in the right way he 
 needn’t have looked long ! ” 
 
 1 There is a very common superstition amongst the lower classes in 
 Ireland that the sound of a bell within the ear denotes an approaching 
 death in the family. 
 
A DAY AT ESMOND HALL. 
 
 75 
 
 “ Well, well, let it pass now/’ said Mr. Esmond ; “ every 
 one is not so smart as you, Tom ! — it doesn’t matter so much 
 after all. Good-bye, Henny ! ” and, vaulting into the saddle, he 
 kissed his hand to his wife, who stood at the door watching 
 him with a mixture of pride and fondness in her soft eyes. 
 
 “ So you’ll dine at the Lodge, Harry ? ” 
 
 “ Of course I must, although I shall be half an hour late — 
 riimporte — I fly on my lady’s errand dinnerless, as becomes a 
 knight sans peur et sans reproche. Farewell, sweetheart ! ” 
 “How, be home early, Harry!” called the sweet voice from 
 the door as he rode away. 
 
 “ Nine o'clock, or never I ” was the strange answer that came 
 clearly back on the evening breeze. 
 
 The dinner was served as usual that day at the Hall, and 
 Pierce, in his waiting-jacket of blue striped jean, was, of course, 
 in attendance. His mistress felt the loneliness of the table 
 weighing upon her like a nightmare, and, anxious to be alone 
 with her loneliness, she dismissed Pierce with the first course. 
 But Pierce still lingered, on one pretence or another, arranging 
 and disarranging the glasses and plate on the sideboard, placing 
 and displacing chairs, etc., till at length Mrs. Esmond said again — 
 “That will do, Pierce, that will do ; you can go now.” 
 
 <c If it ’id be pleasin’ to you, ma’am,” said Pierce, “ I’d make 
 bowld to say a few words to you.” 
 
 “On what subject, Pierce?” said his mistress, looking up in 
 surprise. 
 
 “Well, ma’am,” said Pierce in his sheepish way, “it’s about 
 Tim Murtha’s people — I know you wor kind and good to them 
 when their trouble was the sorest.” 
 
 “ But what of them now, Pierce ? — I heard to-day that they 
 had left the neighbourhood.” 
 
 “Well, it’s so said, ma’am.” 
 
 “Do you know where they’re gone to?” 
 
 “ Oyeh ! is it me ? Sure, it’s take to the road they did, for 
 Tim wasn’t able to work or want, you see, an’ they couldn’t 
 be always livin’ on charity.” 
 
 “ Of course not, Pierce ; but it is to be hoped that poor Tim 
 may soon be able to work again. There was no need whatever 
 of their ‘taking to the road,’ as you say, and I am very sorry 
 indeed to find that they have done so.” 
 
76 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK 
 
 “ God bless you, ma’am ! an’ it’s Tim that knows your goodness 
 well ; but sure, he couldn’t stay in the place at all, ma’am— he 
 was warned off ; ” and Pierce’s voice grew husky. 
 
 “Warned off, Pierce? What do you mean by that?” said 
 Mrs. Esmond, much surprised. 
 
 “ Why, I mane, ma’am, that Mr. Esmond of the Lodge — that’s 
 their landlord, ma’am — sent for Tim about a week ago, but Tim 
 wasn’t able to go, so he sent him word by his Scotch steward 
 that if lie didn’t clear off from about Cashel altogether before 
 the week was at an end, he’d have him put in a tight place. 
 Poor Tim wanted to know the raison, but Sawney was mighty 
 short, an’ would only tell him that for the raison he ought to 
 know it best himself.” 
 
 “My God!” murmured Mrs. Esmond, and she raised her 
 tearful eyes to heaven. “But surely, Pierce, Tim was not the 
 fool to heed such a warning as that ? He was not latterly on 
 Mr. Esmond’s property.” 
 
 “In coorse he wasn’t, ma’am.” Pierce paused a moment, 
 then suddenly added, “Tim is a mighty paceable man, ma’am, 
 an’ he thought for quietness’ sake he had bettei do as he was 
 bid. He’s a quiet, harmless crathur, Mrs. Esmond, that ’id do 
 anything at all — anything at all for pace.” 
 
 There was something in the tone of the man’s voice as he 
 spoke these words that drew Mrs. Esmond’s eyes to his face, 
 and she could not help noticing its singular expression. The 
 usually stolid features were gleaming with a lurid light, a fierce 
 intelligence, that vanished as quickly as it came even whilst the 
 lady gazed in silent wonder. Somehow her heart sank within 
 her, but she strove to appear calm. 
 
 “Are you any relation of Tim’s?” asked Mrs. Esmond, partly 
 to break the silence, which she felt painful. 
 
 “ Is it me, ma’am ? Oh, the sorra drop’s blood I’m to him ; 
 that I mayn’t sin if I am ! but he’s a fellow- crathur, you see, 
 Mrs. Esmond ; an’ we were neighbour boys, too, reared at the 
 door with one another, an’ it goes hard on me to see him 
 tlirated like a dog, or worse — a dog, inagh ! ” he added, with a 
 bitter laugh that sounded strangely hollow; “oh, bedad, it 
 isn’t the one way the gentlemen uses their dogs an’ their 
 tenants ! ” 
 
 “Pierce,” said his mistress, “I am surprised to hear you 
 
A DAY AT ESMOND HALL, 
 
 77 
 
 talk so. What have ‘the gentlemen ’ ever clone to you that 
 you should speak so hard of them ? ” 
 
 “ Not to me, ma'am ! Oh no, I declare they never done me 
 either hurt or harm, but that’s bekase I fell in with the right 
 sort. If they were all like the masther here, they might thravel 
 the counthry night or day without any one hurtin’ a hair o’ their 
 heads. It’s little need there ’id be for police-barracks an’ all 
 sich things ! — oh no, ma’am ! if there wasn't Chadwicks there ’ id 
 be no Graces — or, aither, if there was law for the likes o’ Tim 
 Murtha — which there isn’t ! — then crathurs wouldn’t have to 
 take the law in their own hands; for, Mrs. Esmond,” and he drew 
 so near her, and spoke so low, that she shrank back affrighted, 
 — “Mrs. Esmond, ma’am, it’s the last thing with one of us — I 
 mane the poor — when ice think of sheddin ’ blood, or talcin' away 
 the life that we can't give back!" 
 
 Awed by the solemnity of the man’s tone and manner, Mrs. 
 Esmond sank back almost fainting in her chair, and, covering 
 her eyes with one hand, motioned him with the other to leave 
 the room. 
 
 “I’m goin’, ma’am,” said Pierce; “but before I go, be 
 pleased to let me say one word more. If I thought I had 
 offended you by what I said, I’d go down on my knees to ax 
 forgiveness, for it’s you that has the good wish of the poor, an’ 
 the good word, an’ the masther too, Lord’s blessin’ be about him ! ” 
 
 “Then why speak those horrid words to me?” said Mrs. 
 Esmond faintly. 
 
 “For a raison I have, ma’am, that I can’t tell you now ; but 
 don’t be scared, Mrs. Esmond, don’t now, an’ you’ll obleege 
 me ; for if all Tipperary was swimmin’ in blood, you and yours 
 'id walk drysliod ! I’m goin’ now, ma’am, as you bid me, an’ 
 all sorts o’ luck attend you till I see you again ! Don’t fear for 
 Mr. Esmond — that’s the masther, ma’am ! ” 
 
 “Fear?” cried Mrs. Esmond, starting up; “why should I 
 fear for him ? ” 
 
 There was none to answer the question. Pierce was gone, 
 and Mrs. Esmond felt sick at heart, oppressed with strange 
 and gloomy forebodings. She was roused by a sad, sweet voice 
 singing without, the sound evidently approaching the house — 
 
 “Come, all ye fair maids that do pass by, 
 
 Help me to mourn for my sailor boy !” 
 
78 
 
 THE HERMIT OE THE ROCK. 
 
 Mrs. Esmond went to the window, glad of anything that 
 might change the current of her thoughts, though the words 
 that were sung were too much in unison with them to he at all 
 cheering. 
 
 “ I shouldn’t wonder if that were poor Mabel,” she said to 
 herself with tender pity. It was Mabel, now sitting on the 
 lowermost step, singing like a lark — 
 
 “And still I’ll bunch my violets, 
 
 And tie them with the locher, O!” 
 
 Oh, the exquisite music of that old air, as it gushed from the 
 unconscious heart of the maniac ; but anon it was changed for 
 another far more sorrowful, but still more touchingly beautiful 
 — one that is on every lip in Upper and Lower Munster — 
 
 “ Shule, shule, shule agragh ! 
 
 Time, alas ! cannot ease my woe, 
 
 Since the lad of my heart from me did go. 
 
 “Gone! Ay, sure enough, he’s gone!” muttered the forlorn 
 wanderer, “ but he said he wouldn’t be long — that he’d only go 
 down a start to Holy Cross Abbey, where some one was going 
 to be hung ! — 
 
 “Ocli, oft I’ve sat on my love’s knee, 
 
 And many a fond story he told to me — 
 
 He said many things that ne’er will be — 
 
 Shule, shule, agragh ! 
 
 “ An’ didn’t he tell me about the shootin’, too ? — ha ! ha ! in 
 coorse he did ! — but he said it was ould Chadwick, you know, 
 an’ they said it was ould Esmond ! ” 
 
 Here Mrs. Esmond opened the door, with a face of ashy 
 paleness. 
 
 “Who said so, Mabel? Come in, my poor girl.” Mabel 
 went accordingly. “Now, tell me who said it was ‘ould 
 Esmond ’ ? ” using her own phraseology. 
 
 “Why, the men in the abbey that dark night — don’t you 
 remember? — the dead were a-listenin’ to them as well as the 
 livin’ ; but I wasn’t livin’, you know,” she added confidentially ; 
 “ they hung me that time with Patrick.” 
 
 “ Indeed ? ” 
 
 “Ay, did they, an’ I’m walkin’, walkin’ ever sence, an’ will till 
 the Day o’ Judgment — ocb.I ’m tired walkin’, that’s what lam!” 
 
A DAY AT ESMOND HALL. 
 
 79 
 
 “ You had better go to the kitchen, Mabel, and get some 
 dinner.” 
 
 “ I will, ma'am ; ” and away she went singing — 
 
 “ Och ! I'm the girl that makes the stir 
 From Cork along to Skibbereen — a ” 
 
 Mrs. Esmond looked after her with a smile of ineffable pity, 
 and then hastened to procure some warm clothing for the poor 
 creature, saying to herself as she did so, “ If she would only 
 keep it ; hut, of course, she will not. I believe I have covered 
 her half a dozen times. However, she must not go shivering 
 from this door on a winter's day." 
 
 The servants were ordered to bring Mabel upstairs when she 
 had had her dinner, which being done, Mrs. Esmond's own fair 
 hands clothed her from head to foot in comfortable winter gar- 
 ments. Mabel appeared to watch the progress of her toilet 
 with great complacency, and when it was done Mrs. Esmond 
 said — 
 
 “ You feel better now, Mabel, don't you ? ” A smile was 
 Mabel's answer. “ What do you say to me for dressing you in 
 those nice warm clothes, Mabel ? " said the lady, with a view to 
 ascertain whether she felt or understood the change. 
 
 Mabel looked at her earnestly— very, very earnestly — as 
 though she were trying hard to arrange her thoughts for utter- 
 ance, then said slowly and distinctly — 
 
 “That no one belongin' to you may ever be hanged — or 
 shot ! " she added, as if correcting herself. 
 
 Mrs. Esmond, with a cry of horror, told the servant to take 
 her away, and to keep her over night, if possible. 
 
 “ God bless you, ma'am ! you've a purty face, anyhow," said 
 Mabel, with a low curtsey, as the girl took her arm gently to 
 lead her away. The next moment she broke out into the 
 wild death-song of the peasantry, clapping her hands and bend- 
 ing forward as if over a corpse. It was a positive relief to 
 Mrs. Esmond's over-wrought mind when the unhappy creature 
 was removed from her sight, but dolefully came back to the 
 lady’s ears the sad strain she sang in Irish as she paced the long 
 and echoing hall — 
 
 “ Fast-flowing tears above the grave of the rich man are shed, 
 
 But they are dried when the cold stone shuts in his narrow bed.” 
 
80 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 “May the Lord preserve him , anyhow!” sighed Mrs. 
 Esmond, half ashamed of the fears that were gathering shape 
 and form within her heart, at all times painfully susceptible of 
 impressions from without. Then, as the firelight danced and 
 flickered amongst the shadows on the wall in the darkening 
 room, officious memory brought back the cabalistic sports of 
 Hallow-eve — the clay and the ring — her wedding-ring — and 
 the gloom that then, for the first time, fell on her spirits like 
 a funeral pall. Anxious to dispel these sombre fancies, that 
 were preying like vampires on the springs of life, and exciting 
 her brain beyond endurance, she started up and hastened to the 
 nursery, hoping to find in the cheerful prattle of her little ones 
 the peace that solitude denied. She was not disappointed ; for, 
 after spending the evening with the children, and printing a 
 farewell kiss on the rosy lips of each as they were laid for the 
 night in their little cribs, she descended to the parlour with a 
 lighter heart and a more hopeful spirit. 
 
 It was past eight o’clock, and she rang to order supper for 
 half-past nine, saying to herself as she pulled the bell, “ That 
 will be time enough, for I know he dined late at Uncle 
 Harry’s.” 
 
 The housemaid appeared, received the order for the cook, and 
 also for the butler. 
 
 “I’ll set the table myself, ma’am,” replied the girl, “for 
 Pierce isn’t within.” 
 
 “Not within ? And where is he ? ” 
 
 “ Not a know I know, ma’am, but he went out just after 
 cornin’ down from you that time, an’ he never came back sence. 
 We all thought you had sent him of an errand, maybe.” 
 
 “ I did not,” said Mrs. Esmond, relapsing into her so-lately 
 overcome disquietude, “ and I wonder he would think of going 
 out without so much as asking permission. Well, go down, 
 Jane, at all events, and set the table, and tell Bessy to make 
 haste, so that supper will be ready just to the moment.” 
 
 The girl curtsied and withdrew. Mrs. Esmond took up a 
 book and tried to read, but read she could not ; listlessly she 
 turned over the leaves of a London magazine, till she came to 
 some fine lines of John Malcolm’s on “ Presentiment of Death.” 
 There she stopped and read, and read again, these stanzas in 
 particular arresting her attention — 
 
A DAY AT ESMOND HALL. 
 
 81 
 
 It comes, eclipsing pleasure’s beams, 
 
 A shadow from the future cast ; 
 
 Tis secret in its source as dreams, 
 
 And traceless as the blast. 
 
 It comes, the dark, mysterious mood, — 
 
 The prophet-spirit shades the mind, 
 
 Which trembles, as autumnal wood 
 That 4 ‘ shakes without a wind ! ” 
 
 “ The prophet-spirit ? ” repeated Mrs. Esmond. “ I wonder 
 if that be not the spirit that has been shaking my very soul 
 these last weary hours !” She shuddered as she spoke, the 
 book fell from her hand, and she sat for some moments 
 with her languid eyes fixed on the pretty timepiece set in the 
 belfry-tower of a miniature cathedral on the mantelshelf. The 
 cheerful sound of the small pendulum concealed within the 
 tower was the only sound that broke on the stillness of the 
 too-quiet room, and its pleasant tic-tic was more than usually 
 distinct, when, all at once, the sounds ceased, and the hands 
 stopped precisely at the moment of half-past eight. “ Well, 
 that is strange ! ” muttered Mrs. Esmond. “ I saw Harry wind 
 it up this morning, and I never knew it to stop in that way 
 before. ” She was so absorbed in her own feverish thoughts, 
 however, that she forgot to set^the timepiece a-going, so the 
 pendulum stood still, with the hands pointing, like skeleton 
 fingers, to half -jpast eight I 
 
 Time grew drearier every moment, and every moment Mrs. 
 Esmond’s anxiety increased; nine o’clock by her watch, yet 
 still Harry came not. A moment or two after, a horse’s hoofs 
 rang on the gravel walk without — a fervent “Thank God!” 
 escaped her pallid lips. She would have hastened to the door, 
 but her limbs refused to carry her, and she sank again on the 
 sofa, with her eyes fixed on the door. It opened, but instead of 
 her husband appeared Mulligan, the groom. One glance at his 
 face was enough. She started up, and, clasping her hands, 
 cried, “ For God’s sake, Mulligan, what’s the matter 1 ” 
 
 “ Oh, ma’am dear, don’t be frightened, — we don’t know what 
 has happened — but — but ” — 
 
 “ But what ? — why don’t you go on 1 Out with it, man, 
 whatever it is ! ” 
 
 “You heard that horse cornin’ to the door there a minute ago ? 
 
 5 
 
82 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 — well, ma’am, it wasn’t the roan, it was one of ould Mr. 
 Esmond’s steel-greys ” — 
 
 “ Well, and who was the rider?” 
 
 “ There was no rider , ma’am! — but och ! ma’am dear, mind 
 it wasn't our roan ! ” 
 
 “Nine o'clock, or never /” muttered Mrs. Esmond. Her head 
 sank on her chest, and she would have fallen fainting to the 
 floor had not Mulligan caught her in his arms. His cries soon 
 brought assistance, and, leaving his mistress to the care of her 
 terror-stricken servants, he hurried away to get the coachman 
 and some of the neighbours to go with him along the road 
 towards Rose Lodge to see if anything was wrong. 
 
CHAPTEK VII. 
 
 MURDER AND MYSTERY. 
 
 Mrs. Esmond was slow in recovering from that swoon, and 
 even when consciousness did return, strength was sadly 
 wanting. Mind and body were both prostrated, as if by 
 some violent shock, and when her attendants proposed to her 
 to retire to her chamber for a little while, she passively con- 
 sented, whereupon two of them supported her up the stairs. 
 They could not induce her, however, to lie down ; throwing 
 herself on her knees beside her bed, she bowed her head upon 
 it in silent prayer, and so remained till the girls, fearing that 
 she had fainted again, gently touched her arm. She looked 
 up with a wintry smile on her pale features. 
 
 “ Never fear, Peggy ! I’m not dead ! ” The words came out, 
 as it were, with a spasmodic effort, and a dreary emphasis on 
 the pronoun I. “ Oh, girls, let us pray — let us all pray 
 together ! ” 
 
 And they did pray, the girls awed by the strange composure, 
 the unnatural calmness of their mistress, at a moment when 
 they could hardly restrain themselves from rushing out to join 
 the search which they felt was going on. 
 
 Half an hour might have passed thus, when the door-bell 
 rang. Mrs. Esmond started to her feet, gasping for breath— 
 strove to speak, but unable to utter a word, pointed to the 
 door. The girls understood her — one of them hurried down- 
 stairs, but did not return. Strange sounds were heard in the 
 hall, as if of heavy feet shuffling along, and whispering voices, 
 and stifled groans and sobs. Still Mrs. Esmond moved not, 
 though the flitting colour on her cheek, and the fearful 
 intensity with which her eyes rested on the door, showed the 
 awful struggle between fear and hope that was going on within. 
 
 88 
 
84 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 “Ma’am dear,” said the remaining servant, “what can it tte, 
 at all ? Will I go an’ see ? ” 
 
 “ Go ! ” The word escaped from between the firmly com- 
 pressed lips, as though the speaker were scarcely conscious of 
 its import. The girl darted off like a lapwing, and she had 
 hardly time to descend the stairs, when a piercing scream 
 echoed through the corridor. “Ha! that’s Nora’s voice! I 
 knew it!” said Mrs. Esmond to herself, — “my God! I knew 
 it ! ” and she fell senseless on the floor. 
 
 When she again opened her eyes on surrounding objects, 
 all the women servants of the household were around her, 
 engaged in various efforts for her recovery, one slapping the 
 palms of her hands, another bathing her temples, whilst a third 
 had her almost choked, holding burnt feathers under her nose. 
 Her first look of wild inquiry was answered with a chorus of 
 sorrowful ejaculations that confirmed her worst fears. It was 
 but the work of a moment to spring out of bed and dash the 
 officious attendants to one side and the other. 
 
 “Where is Harry?” cried the half-crazed wife ; “where is 
 my husband ? — dead or alive, let me see him ! ” 
 
 No one spoke, but on the instant came from the adjoining 
 room the most sorrowful death-cry that ever thrilled mourner’s 
 heart. Guided by the sound, Mrs. Esmond flew to the door, 
 which was closed, but paused before she attempted to open it, 
 her face like that of a sheeted corpse, and the cold dew oozing 
 from her pallid brow. 
 
 “ Ma’am dear, don’t go in ! ” whispered one from behind ; 
 “ for God’s sake, don’t ! ” 
 
 A scornful laugh was the answer, the door was flung open, 
 and Mrs. Esmond stood in the presence of her husband, but not 
 as she parted from him some hours before. Dead and cold he 
 lay, in the clothes he had worn all day, the blood slowly 
 trickling from a bullet wound in his temple, showing all too 
 plainly the manner in which he had met his death. At the 
 foot of the bed sat Mad Mabel, crooning her song of woe, and 
 rocking her body to and fro, in dismal accordance with the 
 wild strain she sang so piteously. Mulligan and two or three 
 other men who were in the room drew back as the door opened ; 
 they need not have done so, for their presence was unheeded by 
 her whose soul was that moment crushed as by arx avalanche. 
 
MURDER AND MYSTERY, 
 
 85 
 
 Mrs. Esmond stood beside the bed, looking down on the 
 heap of clay that was her husband, but no sigh, no sound, 
 escaped her. Every faculty of her being seemed paralysed, 
 every limb, every feature, as it were, petrified. Her silence at 
 such a moment was something wholly inexplicable to the 
 simple hearts around, and the stony rigidity of her living 
 features was more awful to their eyes even than the ghastly 
 presence of death. People held their breath, as though fearful 
 of disturbing a silence that yet was terrible to all. Looks of 
 pity were exchanged, and gestures of horror, but not a word 
 spoken. Even Mabel had ceased her wailing, and sat looking 
 very earnestly at the motionless figure on the bed — from that 
 her eyes wandered to the strangely-altered face of Mrs. 
 Esmond. All at once she rose softly from her seat, glided 
 like a spirit to her side, and, throwing her arm round her 
 neck, began to pat her cheek with her cold hand, saying at 
 the same time in a tone of tender pity — 
 
 “ Cry now ! Why don’t you cry ? Poor thing ! poor thing ! ” 
 As if Mabel’s voice had broken the mighty spell that kept 
 her senses in thrall, Mrs. Esmond started into sudden life, 
 threw up her arms wfildly, and uttered a scream so piercing, so 
 full of anguish, that it rang in the>ars of those who heard it 
 for many a long day after. Disengaging herself from Mabel’s 
 encircling arm, she threw herself on the body of her husband 
 and wildly called upon his name, kissing his cold lips again 
 and again, as though hoping to restore their warmth. In vain, 
 in vain ! Then she laid her hand on his heart, but no, no ! all 
 was still — still as death could make it. Yet she could not, 
 would not, believe that death ivas there. How could she 
 realise it to herself that the stark form before her was that of 
 her young husband, who had left her but a few short hours 
 before in all the buoyancy of youth and health and happiness ? 
 Harry dead ! Harry Esmond dead ! Ho, no ! it could not be 
 — it must be a dream, a horrible dream. 
 
 Turning for the first time, with her hand still on Esmond’s 
 heart, her eye ran round the room till it rested on the blank, 
 terror-stricken face of Mulligan. In low, cautious tones, as if 
 fearing to awaken the sleeper, she said, with frightful calmness — 
 “Mulligan, he is not dead — he cannot be dead ! Go directly 
 for Dr. O’Grady and Dr. Hennessy,” 
 
86 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK . 
 
 “ They’ll be here presently, ma’am,” said the poor fellow, 
 trying hard to keep in the tears that were choking his utter- 
 ance ; “ there’s two messengers gone for them before we — we — 
 brought the poor master home.” 
 
 Again Mrs. Esmond bent down and touched the lips of her 
 beloved and laid her trembling hand on his heart, then took 
 up the hand that hung down over the bedside and felt for a 
 pulse ; when all this was done, the last spark of hope seemed 
 to die out in her heart — with the stiff, cold hand pressed to her 
 bosom, she turned again to Mulligan, and cried in a tone of 
 heart-piercing anguish — 
 
 “ Oh, Mulligan, Mulligan ! who had the heart to kill him ? ” 
 This was the signal for a general outburst of lamentation ; 
 the grief and pity so long restrained now broke out in tears 
 and sobs. 
 
 “Ay, you may well cry!” said Mrs. Esmond; “you have 
 all lost a good friend I But oh, Harry, Harry ! what is any 
 one’s loss to mine ? ” And, starting to her feet, she wrung her 
 hands in anguish. No tear escaped her burning eyelids, and 
 she felt as though her brain were all on fire. “ Mulligan ! ” 
 cried she again, with a wildness that alarmed every one, — 
 “Mulligan! I asked you before whose work is this*? Where 
 did you find your master ? ” 
 
 “ Och, God pity me that has to tell it ! ” said Mulligan. 
 “Sure, w*e found him” — here a burst of tears interrupted the 
 sad tale — “sure, we found him lying on the roadside about half 
 way between here an’ the Lodge. As for them that done the 
 deed — well, God knows — God knows ! ” 
 
 “ It’s little matter to me,” said Mrs. Esmond drearily, as she 
 wiped away with her handkerchief the blood that disfigured 
 poor Harry’s dead face — that face late so comely and so cheer- 
 ing. “ A time will come for all that, — now it is enough for me 
 to know that I am a widow and my children orphans this 
 dismal night — that I have lost the dearest and best of hus- 
 bands, and my children the best of fathers ! Oh, Harry, 
 Harry ! is that you that lies there so stiff and cold ? — you 
 that gave life and light to all around you ? — oh no, no ! it 
 cannot be you ! ” and, raising his head on her arm, she looked 
 with piteous earnestness on his face. “Alas ! yes, it is Harry 
 Esmond — it is my husband ! But you cannot be dead, Harry ! 
 
MURDER AND MYSTERY, 
 
 87 
 
 oh no ! you cannot be dead ! Speak to me, Harry ! — oh, in 
 mercy speak to me — or I cannot — cannot live ! ” 
 
 “ You must get her away — at once ! ” said Dr. O’Grady, who 
 with Dr. Hennessy just then appeared at the door, both panting 
 with excitement, and pale with horror. “ Oh, Maurice, what a 
 sight ! ” he whispered to his friend. “ Poor, poor Harry ! I fear 
 there is little chance of our doing any good — but come, now ! 
 be a man, and brace yourself up, that we may at least do what 
 we can.” 
 
 The servants were all in motion in an instant, and the sound 
 of the doctor’s familiar voice aroused the unhappy lady. Turn- 
 ing round with a ghastly smile on her parted lips, she said — 
 
 “Come in — come in — you’ll not disturb Mm I Oh, Dr. 
 O’Grady, Dr. Hennessy, look what they have done to poor 
 Harry ! — he never met you without a friendly smile and a kind 
 word ; but he’ll never smile again — he’ll never reach the hand 
 of welcome any more ! — look here ! ” and, pointing to the wound 
 on the temple, from which only an occasional drop of blood now 
 oozed thick and dark, she fell fainting on the body of her 
 husband. 
 
 “It is just as well,” said the elder practitioner. “Now take 
 her to her own room as gently as you can, and lay her on 
 the bed.” 
 
 It was no easy task to unwind her arms from around the 
 body, but it was at length done, and the doctors proceeded to 
 discharge their melancholy duty, having first cleared the room 
 of all except Mulligan. 
 
 A very few moments served to convince the doctors that 
 Harry Esmond was, indeed, no more. 
 
 “ That bullet did its work well,” said Hennessy, as the two 
 stood beside the bed looking mournfully down on the dead. 
 “ The Lord have mercy on your soul, Harry Esmond ! I didn’t 
 think you had an enemy on earth ! Merciful Heaven, O’Grady ! 
 who could have done such a deed ? ” 
 
 “Mulligan,” said Dr. O’Grady, turning to that faithful 
 servant, “they tell me you found him.” 
 
 “ Wisha, then, I did, sir ! Ochone ! ochone ! I did ! ” 
 
 “Where? and how?” 
 
 Mulligan described the place exactly, and the position in 
 which he found the body. 
 
88 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 “And was there no trace of the murderer 1 Is there no 
 clue to guide us — I mean the law — in bringing the wretch 
 to justice ? ” 
 
 Mulligan was silent, but the next moment he said musingly, 
 as if to himself, “ How did he come to leave the roan behind, 
 I wondher?” 
 
 “ What’s that you say, Mulligan ? ” said Hennessy quickly. 
 “Was it not his own horse he rode h ” 
 
 “ Well, that’s what I’m not able to tell you, sir, but I know it 
 was one of ould Mr. Esmond’s horses — the steel-grey — that 
 galloped up to our stable this night without a rider — an’ it was 
 our own roan mare that the masther took with him.” 
 
 Hennessy and O’Grady looked into each other’s eyes, as if 
 each sought to read the other’s thought. 
 
 “Has Uncle Harry been sent for*!” asked O’Grady. 
 
 “Ho, sir.” 
 
 “ Send Pierce off immediately, then.” 
 
 “ Pierce, sir — is it Pierce $ ” and Mulligan began to rub his 
 elbow. 
 
 “Yes, Pierce. You cannot go — you are wanted here, as the 
 oldest servant of the family.” 
 
 “Well, but, docthor dear, I can’t send Pierce, for Pierce 
 isn’t in, or hasn’t been since half-past four or five.” 
 
 There was something in the tone of these words that made 
 the gentlemen start and look fixedly at the groom. Mulligan’s 
 eyes sank consciously beneath their gaze. All at once Dr. 
 O’Grady’s hand fell heavily on his shoulder. 
 
 “ Mulligan, there is something on your mind that you do not 
 care to tell. But you need not fear to tell us, for you will have 
 to tell all in a court of justice, and that before long. Tell me 
 now, had this man Pierce any grudge against Mr. Esmond ? ” 
 
 “Not against my master, sir ! 0 Lord, no, sir, I’ll take my 
 
 oath he hadn’t ! There was no one had any grudge against 
 him ! — vo ! vo ! how could they ” 
 
 “And yet they shot him!” said Hennessy, with stern em- 
 phasis ; “ they have killed one of the best landlords in Tipperary 
 — one of the best friends the poor had — after that, who can 
 ever say a word in their behalf ? My poor, poor Harry ! I 
 thought you could travel the county over by night or day 
 without any one touching a hair of your head ! — and to think 
 
MURDER AND MYSTER V 
 
 89 
 
 that others who did oppress the poor are alive and well, and you 
 lying there dead — shot down like a dog in the flower of your 
 youth — my noble, generous, whole-souled Harry ! — you that 
 always stood their friend when they most needed one ! ” 
 
 “Well gentlemen,” said Mulligan, wiping away his tears 
 with the sleeve of his jacket, “it does look very bad — very, 
 very bad at this present time — an’ if any one done that deed 
 a purpose — I mane if they kneiv who was in it — I’d disown 
 Tipperary for ever an’ a day ” — 
 
 Both gentlemen turned at this and fixed their eyes on 
 Mulligan. There was a deep meaning in his eyes, no less than 
 in his words. 
 
 “ So you think, Mulligan,” said O’Grady slowly and thought- 
 fully, “that there might have been a mistake — a fatal mistake, 
 if so 1 ” 
 
 “ I’ll lay my life on it, sir ! ” said the groom, with honest 
 warmth. “I wouldn’t believe the bishop — no, nor the Pope 
 himself, if he said it, that my master was shot a purpose. Ho, 
 sir ! it’s bad enough, God knows, but it isn’t as bad as that ! ” 
 “Well, well, it makes little difference, after all, how he 
 came by his death ; he is dead, God help us all this night ! 
 May the Mother of Sorrows comfort his poor wife, and protect 
 his little orphans ! ” O’Grady’s voice faltered as he thus spoke, 
 and it was only after clearing his throat several times that he 
 said to his brother doctor, “ Of course, nothing can be done 
 here till the inquest is over. We must send at once to notify 
 the coroner;” and he raised his handkerchief to his eyes. 
 Professionally cold and calm as O’Grady was on ordinary 
 occasions, he was here a very child. 
 
 Mulligan was accordingly despatched with the awful intelli- 
 gence to the coroner of Mr. Esmond’s murder, — awful, indeed, 
 
 for Dr. , then coroner for that district of the County 
 
 Tipperary, was himself a personal friend of the deceased 
 gentleman. 
 
 When the doctors found themselves alone together, Hennessy 
 laid his hand on O’Grady’s arm and said, “How tell me, 
 O’Grady, what is your opinion of all this ? ” 
 
 O’Grady lowered his voice to a whisper as he replied, “ My 
 opinion is that ” — He did not finish the sentence, for the door 
 opened and Uncle Harry made his appearance. Without speak- 
 
00 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 ing a word, but merely nodding to the doctors, the old man 
 approached the bed, and looked long on the lifeless form of his 
 nephew. No outward sign gave token of what passed within, 
 but those who watched with intense interest the bearing of that 
 stem man under so terrible a trial, did see what they never 
 forgot, the mighty workings of a hard, proud heart, writhing 
 under the lash. The face was only partially seen to them, 
 but even that partial view was not needed, for the swollen and 
 throbbing veins on the great thick neck, and the heaving of the 
 broad chest, sufficiently indicated the storm of passion that was 
 raging within. 
 
 At last he turned and looked from one doctor to the other 
 with heavy, bloodshot eyes, glaring fiercely from under his 
 bushy brows. 
 
 “ So they’ve killed poor Harry ! ” said he in a hoarse, guttural 
 voice. 
 
 “ So it appears, Mr. Esmond,” sadly said O’Grady. 
 
 “ Well, there’s what it is to be ‘ a good landlord ’ ! ” There 
 was a fierceness of sarcasm in these words that cannot be 
 described. “If it was /, now, that lay there instead of Harry, 
 people would say, I suppose, that I deserved what I got — ah ! 
 the villains ! the black-hearted, cowardly villains ! it’s little I 
 regard them ! ” 
 
 “ Take care, Mr. Esmond, take care ! ” said Hennessy. “ With 
 that sight before you, how can you speak so ? ” 
 
 “ And why not T’ said Esmond fiercely. 
 
 “ Because, Mr. Esmond,” said Hennessy, drawing near to 
 him, and looking him steadily in the face, “ because that bullet 
 may have missed its mark ! .No man ever meant to shoot young 
 Harry Esmond ! ” 
 
 The old man started as if an adder had stung him. A 
 ghastly paleness overspread his face, and a brighter glare flashed 
 in his eyes. “Dr. Hennessy,” he stammered out, “ what do 
 you mean 1 ” 
 
 “ I mean just what I said,” replied the doctor slowly and 
 emphatically, “ that my poor friend never incurred the fearful 
 penalty he has paid. Excuse me,” said the doctor to O’Grady, 
 “ I will go and see how poor Mrs. Esmond is.” 
 
 “You are impertinent, sir! — you forget yourself!” hissed 
 the old man between his teeth. 
 
MURDER AND MYSTER V 
 
 91 
 
 “No, sir, I do not forget myself, or you either!” and so 
 saying, Hennessy left the room. As he passed along the 
 corridor to the remote apartment whither Mrs. Esmond had 
 been conveyed, he encountered more than one group of the 
 servants with certain women of the neighbourhood whom the 
 news had already reached. Every soul of them was in tears, 
 and their groans and lamentations attested the sincerity of their 
 sorrow. Some had stories to tell of dreams they had dreamed 
 about the poor dear master, or the mistress, God save her ! or 
 of “great trouble and confusion about the big house.” And 
 sure they knew well there was something going to happen. 
 Others had been favoured with warnings of divers other kinds, 
 all of which were now interpreted in the awful death of “ the 
 master ” so dearly loved by all. The cook was trying hard to 
 make herself intelligible through the sobs and tears that choked 
 her voice, while she set forth her claims to supernatural 
 enlightenment. 
 
 “ Sure, didn’t I know ever since Hol’eve night that somethin’ 
 or another was goin’ to happen ? ” 
 
 “Wisha, how is that, Molly dear?” and all the rest dried 
 their eyes, and held their breath to listen to one so well entitled 
 to speak. 
 
 Molly then told, with sundry additions, the affair of the ring 
 — the wedding-ring and the clay. When Molly had enjoyed 
 sufficiently the simple wonder of her auditors, she proceeded to 
 cap the climax with her own experience. “But there was 
 something more than that,” said she, “ that nobody seen bailin’ 
 myself an’ Nancy there.” 
 
 “The Lord save us, Molly, achree ! what was it?” 
 
 “Afther they wor all gone to bed that night, myself an’ 
 Nancy bein’ the last in the kitchen, we thought we’d rake the 
 ashes smooth to see if there ’id be any feet cornin’ or goin’. 
 We waited to try the salt, too, so we put a thimbleful fornenst 
 every one in the house, standin’ on a plate in a cool place, an’ 
 off we went to bed.” 
 
 “Well, Molly, an’ what came of it? ” 
 
 “ As true as I’m a livin’ woman this night, an’ the master a 
 dead man, — Lord receive his sowl in glory ! — there was the mark 
 of a foot in the ashes — a man’s foot, too, an’ for all the world 
 about the size of his, an’ it turned to’st the door.” 
 
92 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK . 
 
 “ The Lord between us an’ harm ! ” 
 
 “ An’ when we went to look at the salt, behold you, there 
 was one thimbleful broken down, an’ melted like, an’ the others 
 all standin’ as straight as when we left them. Now that’s as 
 thrue as you’re all standin’ there, an’ if you doubt my words 
 there’s Nancy Kenny can tell you the same.” 
 
 Nancy groaned in corroboration, and another took up the 
 dismal theme of the warnings. It was very remarkable, how- 
 ever, that in all their grief for the good master they had lost, 
 little was said of the manner of his death, and nothing whatever 
 of the perpetrator of the deed — whoever that might be. 
 
 When Dr. Hennessy knocked at the door of the room where 
 Mrs. Esmond was, it was opened by Mrs. O’Grady, and he found 
 within Mrs. Esmond, senior, and Aunt Winifred, all three 
 having come with Uncle Harry. Mary Hennessy, it appeared, 
 was so overcome by the dreadful shock that she was utterly 
 unable to follow the dictates of her heart in hastening to the 
 side of her so awfully-bereaved friend. 
 
 To the doctor’s inquiry of how she found herself, Mrs. 
 Esmond replied, in low, faint accents, “ Oh, there is no fear 
 of me — I am well enough — too well ! But, Dr. Hennessy,” she 
 added, with sudden animation, raising herself from her reclining 
 posture in a large arm-chair, — “ Dr. Hennessy, do tell me, has 
 that man Pierce yet returned ? ” 
 
 “ I believe not. But why do you ask ? — did you want him ? ” 
 “ Want him h ” Mrs. Esmond repeated, with a visible shudder; 
 “ oh no ! no ! no ! The sight of him would be death — death — 
 death ! ” and, moaning piteously, she fell back again in the chair. 
 
 “ Why, surely, Mrs. Esmond,” said the doctor, “ you cannot 
 suspect him ? — what motive could induce him— or, indeed, any 
 one else — to commit so black a crime ? ” 
 
 “ I know not, doctor, I know not ; but ” — and the unhappy 
 lady paused, gasping for breath — “ but from something he said 
 to me just before leaving the house — and after my poor — my 
 poor Harry was gone — I fear — oh, I am almost certain that he 
 aad — at least — something to do with it ! ” She could say no more. 
 
 The horror of this announcement blanched every cheek, 
 and the ladies were, for once, struck dumb. It was only for a 
 moment, however, for, long before the doctor could make up his 
 mind as to what he should say, I; unt Winifred broke out with— 
 
MURDER AND MYSTERY 
 
 93 
 
 “ La me ! we might have known there was something bad 
 about the fellow ; don’t you remember the voice we heard on 
 Hallow-eve night ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, and that sad affair of the ring, my dear Mrs. Esmond,” 
 subjoined Mrs. O’Grady ; “ you know I told you that you 
 should not have given your wedding-ring for such a purpose ! 
 My dear, it was very thoughtless of you to do it — indeed, 
 indeed it was ! My ! my ! my ! who could have foreseen this ? 
 — though I must say that 1 had a sort of presentiment that 
 night that something very bad was going to happen. Poor dear 
 Harry ! ” and, taking out her handkerchief, the sympathising 
 friend buried her face in its snowy folds. The elder Mrs. 
 Esmond, who sat quietly with her niece’s hand clasped in hers, 
 here made a sign to the doctor to get the others out of the 
 room. 
 
 “ My dear Mrs. Esmond,” said Dr. Hennessy, anxious him- 
 self to rid her, if possible, of these Job’s comforters, “had you 
 not better lie down on the bed, and remain quiet a while ? I 
 see you are completely exhausted. Aunt Martha will stay with 
 you, and Mrs. O’Grady and Aunt Winifred can go downstairs 
 and attend to the household affairs. The people are already 
 crowding in, and the house will be full of guests before 
 morning.” 
 
 The proposal was eagerly accepted by the two active ladies, 
 who immediately retired, brimful of importance. It was hard, 
 however, to persuade Mrs. Esmond to remain where she was. 
 
 “ Oh, Dr. Hennessy ! — oh, Aunt Martha ! ” she sobbed, 
 “how can I stay here — and Harry so near me — dead ? — oh 
 no, no !— I cannot — cannot stay ! ” and she rose from her seat, 
 notwithstanding the gentle efforts of Aunt Martha to prevent 
 her. “ Now, Aunt Martha, do not — do not ask to keep me ! ” 
 she faltered out in tones of piteous entreaty ; “ he will not be 
 long with me — let me look upon him while I can ! — while I 
 can ! Oh, Aunt Martha, Aunt Martha ! what will I do at all ? ” 
 
 A wild burst of anguish followed, and Mrs. Esmond, trembling 
 and exhausted, was easily prevailed upon to resume her seat. 
 It appeared to the sympathising friends who watched her so 
 tenderly that there was in her mind, and hovering on her lips, 
 something which she could not put in words. Aunt Martha, 
 kind and prudent, guessed it. 
 
94 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 “ My poor Henrietta,” said she, “ you are thinking of — of — 
 the laying out — but that cannot be done to-night.” 
 
 “And why not?” cried Mrs. Esmond, with a start. 
 
 The old lady was silent, but the doctor spoke — 
 
 “Well, you know, my dear Mrs. Esmond,” coughing slightly 
 to gain time, “ there is a certain — ah ! — investigation to be made 
 — before — before anything of that kind is done ” — 
 
 “ Oh, you mean the inquest ? ” said the widow, seized with a 
 sudden tremor ; “I had forgotten that — my God ! my God ! ” 
 
 “ What if you took her to see the children ? ” whispered the 
 doctor to Aunt Martha as he turned to leave the room ; “ the 
 sight of them might soften her heart and make her weep — then 
 all were well : but I fear this horrid wildness — this dry, feverish 
 agony.” . 
 
 At this juncture the door opened and Uncle Harry joined 
 the group. The meeting between him and the heart-stricken 
 widow of his murdered nephew was strangely silent and solemn. 
 In silence the old man took Mrs. Esmond’s hand and squeezed 
 it very hard ; in silence he seated himself by her side, drew a 
 long, long breath that ended in a sigh, then looked through his 
 half-closed eyes first at his wife, then at Dr. Hennessy, and last 
 of all at his niece. As for Mrs. Esmond, she appeared but little 
 consoled by his presence, and a darker shadow seemed to gather 
 on her face since his entrance. She returned his greeting with 
 her wonted gentleness, but remained silent. 
 
 “My dear niece,” began Uncle Harry at length, “this is an 
 awful visitation that has come upon us all. Who could have 
 thought that such an end awaited our poor Harry ? ” 
 
 A voice here spoke from the shade of the high and richly 
 curtained bed — “ They said they’d do it — an’ they did ! — they 
 said they’d hang — no, shoot tmld Esmond ! ” 
 
 “Great God! who is that?” exclaimed Uncle Harry, while 
 his wife turned pale as death, and Dr. Hennessy, approaching 
 the spot whence the voice appeared to issue, led Mabel out by 
 the hand. 
 
 “ I knew r it was poor Mabel,” sighed the younger Mrs. Esmond. 
 “But how came she here?” said Uncle Harry testily. 
 
 “She must have got in when you did,” observed Dr. 
 Hennessy, “ for I know she wasn’t in the room before.” 
 
 “Don’t mind her,” pleaded Mrs. Esmond, reaching out her 
 
MURDER AND MYSTERY. 
 
 95 
 
 hand to Mabel; “she was the first to cry over — over — him 
 that's gone ! That’s a good girl, Mabel ! don’t be afraid ! ” and 
 she smoothed down the dark dishevelled tresses that hung over 
 the girl’s shoulders. 
 
 “I’m afraid of him/" said Mabel, pointing to Uncle Harry, 
 who was regarding her with one of his keen, scowling glances. 
 “That’s ould Esmond, you know,” in a half whisper to Mrs. 
 Esmond, “and they said he was a born devil/" 
 
 “ Hush, hush, Mabel ! ” whispered Mrs. Esmond eagerly. 
 
 “ Let her say on,” said Uncle Harry sternly. “ Who said I 
 was a born devil, Mabel?” 
 
 “Why, the men in the abbey that dark night — an’ listen 
 hither — they said they’d kill you ! — ha ! ha ! I knew they’d do 
 it! — it’s well it wasn’t hang you they did — they hang every 
 one, you know — barrin’ the gentlemen — but they shoot them ! 
 ha ! ha ! ha ! — an’ that’s all the same — but, ochone ! the purty 
 young gentleman in the room above, what made them shoot 
 him ? Sure, he never done anybody any harm ! — 
 
 Och, it’s once 1 had a true love, but now 1 have none ! ” 
 
 This allusion to her husband’s fate, accompanied as it was 
 with so touching a tribute to his goodness, went straight to 
 Mrs. Esmond’s heart, and drew a torrent of tears from her eyes, 
 to Dr. Hennessy’s great relief. 
 
 “ But who were the men ? ” persisted Uncle Harry, his brow 
 darkening more and more every moment. 
 
 “Wisha, how could I see in the dark?” was the answer. 
 “ Ask Jerry Pierce up at the big house, and maybe he'll tell 
 you ! He's Kate Murtha's born brother , you know ! Augh ! let 
 me go now — I want to see the young master. Ochone ! ochone ! 
 the black day it was when anybody made that hole in his 
 purty white forehead ! ” 
 
 Dr. Hennessy flew with great alacrity to open the door for 
 the wayward girl, and away she went along the corridor, crying 
 and clapping her hands in all the wildness of sorrow. 
 
 “ There’s a terrible meaning running through her incoherent 
 ravings,” said Uncle Harry, with stern emphasis ; “ we must 
 have her before the coroner in the morning. Come, doctor, let 
 us join the gentlemen ; ” and, taking Hennessy’s ar^m, they left 
 the room together. 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE EVENTS OF A NIGHT. 
 
 The next day was Christmas Eve, and after that came Christmas 
 Day, but the Christmas joys were clouded in many a household 
 in and around Cashel by the awful death of the county’s 
 favourite, the gay, the generous, the all-beloved Harry Esmond. 
 The comforts that surrounded many an otherwise cheerless 
 hearth that Christmas-tide were the gift of him and his gentle 
 wife, and how could the poor forget that there was sorrow at 
 “the big house,” yea, the heaviest of all sorrows ? They could 
 not forget, and they did not forget, that one of the noblest 
 gentlemen in Tipperary lay cold and dead that day, that a 
 blight had already fallen on the young life of their most 
 bountiful benefactress. Few houses there were in all the 
 countryside in which the Rosary was not said those nights for 
 “ rest to the poor young master’s soul,” and many a fair frolic 
 was “ nipped i’ the bud ” by the timely admonition of some 
 grave senior, “ Wisha, how could you think of the like an’ the 
 young master a cowld corpse the day ? — och ! more’s the pity.” 
 
 And when St. Stephen’s Day came, and the “Wren-boys” 
 perambulated the town and its vicinity bearing that diminutive 
 specimen of the feathered tribe aloft in triumph amongst green 
 boughs ornamented with gay streamers, the rollicking, noisy 
 crowd hushed their obstreperous mirth whilst they passed in 
 front of the Hall. 
 
 “Whisht, now, boys! whisht! Bad cess to you! don’t you know 
 what’s in there ? — Hot a word, now, not a word for your lives ! ” 
 
 “ Och ! then, sure, it’s the first time we ever passed that door 
 without a big piece o’ silver ! — God rest his soul that’s gone ! ” 
 Such were the exclamations that stopped the bellowing mouths 
 of the juvenile mob, but the seniors of the troop need scarcely 
 
THE EVENTS OF A NIGHT. 
 
 97 
 
 have uttered them, for the youngest there would have neither 
 laughed nor sung whilst passing the house of Death — that one, 
 east of all. A few perches past the Esmond gates, however, 
 and the wild chorus rose higher than ever— 
 
 “The wran, the wran, the king of all birds, 
 
 St. Stephen’s Day was caught in the furs ; 
 
 Although he is little, his family’s great, 
 
 Rise, fair lady, and give us a trate ! ” 
 
 This refrain , repeated in recitative with the utmost rapidity 
 of utterance by some scores of squalling voices, was anything 
 but musical in its character, yet heard from afar it was not 
 without a certain wild melody, like the murmur of waves on 
 the sandy beach. As “ a lay of the olden time ” the “ Song of 
 the Wren/’ importunate to some, was right welcome to others, 
 bringing back long- vanished scenes, and the simple joys of 
 other years when life was warm and young. The mourners 
 heard it, and it made their sadness deeper yet, by contrast with 
 the bright, untroubled past ; faint and far it came to the ears of 
 the new-made widow and Mary Hennessy, where they sat, hand 
 locked in hand, beside the bed whereon lay the shrouded form 
 of Harry Esmond, now decked in the mournful habiliments of 
 the grave, awaiting its burial on the morrow; then did the two 
 pale friends look into each other’s eyes, and the weight of present 
 woe crushed heavier on their hearts as memory brought back 
 the merry Christmas-times that, for one of them, at least, were 
 to come no more. The same thoughts came back with the same 
 familiar sound to Maurice Hennessy on his daily rounds, and 
 to Phil Moran at his desk, and he dropped the scroll over which 
 he had been musing — it was the official report of the coroner’s 
 inquest — and a shadow fell on his thoughtful brow, and the 
 tears welled up from his inmost heart as he murmured, “ Poor, 
 poor Harry ! friend of my boyhood’s years, how often have we 
 laughed together at the merry pranks and mischievous drollery 
 of the Wren-boys ! They will miss your open hand to-day ! 
 So they ought ! so they ought ! ” he added, starting up and 
 pacing the room to and fro with hasty strides ; “ they’ll all miss 
 him, and that not to-day or to-morrow either— and that they 
 may, from my heart out ! When any one could be found 
 amongst them hardened enough to murder young Harry Esmond, 
 7 
 
98 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 they deserve the worst that can come upon them ! Such a deed 
 is enough to draw down a curse on the whole country ! ” 
 
 “ True for you, sir ! ” said his clerk, a thin-faced and rather 
 cadaverous individual, who had the ungainly peculiarity of 
 never looking any one straight in the face. “ If it had been the 
 old gentleman, now, a body wouldn’t have cared, but his 
 tenantry hadn’t that good luck ! ” 
 
 “Good luck, you rascal?” said his master, turning sharp 
 round ; “ how dare you say such a word in my presence ? ” 
 “Why, then, upon my credit, sir, I meant no offence,” 
 whispered the clerk ; “ but if it was old Esmond that got the 
 bullet in place of Master Harry, I’m thinking, sir, there would 
 be more dry eyes than there is the day.” 
 
 “ Silence, sir ! ” shouted Moran. “ Don’t let me hear any more 
 of such talk, but go on with what you are doing.” 
 
 “ I will, Mr. Moran ; but, to tell you the truth, sir, if it was 
 the old fellow that was popped, I wouldn’t make out the 
 warrant so — so cheerfully.” 
 
 “ Cheerfully, you villain ? Why, you look for all the world 
 like a hangman ! — or rather, like one whose own neck was in 
 danger ! ” 
 
 “Oh, God forbid, sir, God forbid ! ” and the cadaverous clerk, 
 whose name was Ned Murtha, put up his skinny hand to his 
 neck, as if to make sure that it was not in danger. “ But then 
 I wish Mr. Boland had got the warrant made out at home.” 
 
 “ And why so, pray ? ” 
 
 “Well, you see, sir, it’s the first warrant of the kind I ever 
 made out, and I can’t — I can’t warm to the job, at all, at all ! 
 ’Deed I can’t, sir ! ” 
 
 “ Nonsense, man, nonsense ! don’t you think the fellow that 
 shot Harry Esmond deserves to swing for it ? ” 
 
 “ I know, sir, I know, but then — but then I don’t care to 
 have a hand in any one’s death.” 
 
 “ Go on with your work, I say ! — no more idle prate — there 
 is no time to be lost.” 
 
 Moran seated himself at his desk, bent again over his papers 
 — silence reigned for a few minutes, when an exclamation from 
 Ned made the lawyer turn quickly, just in time to see that 
 eccentric individual throw down his pen and jump from his 
 perch on the high office-stool, 
 
THE EVENTS OE A NIGHT . 
 
 99 
 
 “Confound it, ]STed ! what’s the matter now?” cried the 
 attorney. 
 
 “Well, it’s a folly to talk, Mr. Moran,” said Ned, looking 
 every way but at him ; “ I can’t nor I won’t write them words, 
 sir, in regard to Jerry Pierce 1 ” 
 
 “You will not, eh % ” 
 
 “No, sir ; I wouldn’t do it for all you’re worth ! It’s against 
 nature, so it is ! ” 
 
 “ And why against nature ? ” 
 
 “Because, Mr. Moran, Jerry Pierce is a first and second 
 cousin of my own, and — and — 0 Lord ! if it was only the old 
 fellow he had shot — no, no — I didn’t mean that, Mr. Moran ! 
 I didn’t, indeed, sir ! for I won’t believe he shot e’er a one, at 
 all, till I’m full sure of it. But don’t ask me, sir, if you please, 
 to make out the warrant — Jerry and myself are too near akin, 
 sir, for vie to do it, let it be as it may. And besides, Jerry 
 saved me a horsing 1 oust, when we were at school together, by 
 reason of taking the fault on himself to screen me, and he as 
 innocent as the child unborn.” 
 
 Poor Ned took out a blue handkerchief spotted with white, 
 and giving it a very determined shake before he applied it to 
 its legitimate purpose, blubbered out, “No, Mr. Moran! I 
 can’t do it , sir — if I lose my place for it ! ” 
 
 “ Well, well, Ned, you shan’t lose your place for it,” said 
 Moran, coughing down his emotions — lawyer as he was, there 
 was a large infusion of the milk of human kindness in his 
 heart. “ Go and tell Brannigan to come here — he’ll make out 
 the warrant, and you can copy that deed he was going to 
 commence. Hurry, now, hurry ! ” 
 
 “I will, sir,” said Ned, but he only said it, for his journey 
 to the next room occupied considerably more time than the 
 distance seemed to warrant. 
 
 “Ned Murtha,” said Moran to himself, as the door closed 
 behind him, “ there’s more of a heart in that ungainly body of 
 yours than I ever gave you credit for.” 
 
 1 All our readers may not understand the nature of the service ren- 
 dered on this occasion. In country schools in Ireland when a boy was 
 convicted of any capital offence, he was hoisted on the back of another 
 boy, and castigated to the master’s “heart’s content.” This punishment 
 was technically styled horsing . 
 
100 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 The reader will see from this that a warrant had been issued 
 immediately after the coroner’s inquest for the arrest of 
 “ Jeremiah — commonly called Jerry — Pierce , late butler at 
 Esmond Hall.” The verdict on which this warrant was 
 founded could nowise have been returned but for the evidence 
 of Mrs. Esmond touching the mysterious words of Pierce, and 
 his no less mysterious conduct on the fatal day of the murder — 
 this, coupled with his sudden disappearance, furnished very 
 strong presumptive evidence that, if not the principal in the 
 atrocious crime, he was, at least, cognizant thereof, and, there- 
 fore, accessory. It was an awful suspicion, considering the 
 relation which had existed between the supposed murderer 
 and his victim — the unvarying kindness of the master and the 
 apparent fidelity and gratitude of the man. In fact, no motive 
 could be assigned for the perpetration of so foul a murder, and 
 hence it was that the whole country cried shame on the murderer, 
 and one general feeling of horror and of indignation pervaded 
 the minds of all. Bich and poor were alike interested in this 
 mysterious murder — the rich naturally inferring from it that no 
 man’s life was safe amid a population so prone to deeds of 
 blood that not even the best of landlords was safe from their 
 capricious malice ; the poor, on the other hand, lamenting the 
 loss of their generous friend and most bountiful benefactor, the 
 darling of every heart, and filled with shame and confusion to 
 think that a man could be found in Tipperary to shoot him in 
 cold blood. “One of themselves, too,” — that was the worst of 
 it. There had been murders committed even in that part of the 
 country, where the murderers were regarded with compassion 
 rather than abhorrence, because they had but executed the general 
 thirst for vengeance on some hard-hearted, tyrannical landlord* 
 the scourge of his miserable tenantry, and the avowed enemy 
 of the people ; — in this case, however, there was no sympathy 
 for the murderer — all the popular feeling was against him; 
 in all that eastern district of Tipperary there was not man, 
 woman, or child who did not execrate the deed, praying with 
 all the fervour of grateful love for the repose of Mr. Esmond’s 
 soul, and that God might comfort his desolate widow and her 
 unconscious orphans. 
 
 Of the many humble homes to which the untimely death of 
 young Harry Esmond brought tribulation, there was none 
 
THE EVENTS OF A NIGHT. 
 
 101 
 
 where grief weighed so heavily as in that of Bryan Cullenan. 
 The news had come like a thunderbolt on Cauth and Bryan, 
 and both equally felt the crushing blow, but its effect on each 
 was diametrically opposite. Bryan hastened at once to the 
 Hall, “ satisfied himself,” as he said, “ with a good cry over the 
 poor young master,” and prayed long and fervently beside his 
 cold remains, the tears streaming from his aged eyes on the 
 Bridgetine beads he was telling for the repose of that dear 
 soul. During the three days and nights that the vigil of death 
 was kept in Esmond Hall, Bryan spent the greater part of his 
 time there, now giving out the Rosary and the Litanies amongst 
 the country-people who thronged the kitchen and the servants’ 
 hall, now kneeling, absorbed in pious meditation, beside the 
 state bed on which the body was laid out, that mournful 
 privilege being tacitly conceded to the old man of the Rock. 
 
 Cauth, on the contrary, never went near the house of death. 
 A certain gloomy wildness seemed to have taken possession of 
 her, and she talked incoherently to herself with the strangest 
 gesticulations. That was only when alone, however, for to 
 Bryan she was unusually silent all those dreary days. Once, 
 when the old man asked, was she not going up “to see the poor 
 young master before he was laid in the cold clay, where none of 
 them could ever see him any more,” she turned on him sharply 
 with — 
 
 “Don’t be botherin’ me, Bryan Cullenan ! What for would I 
 go up there ? ” 
 
 “ Wisha, Cauth ! what for does any one go up there?” said 
 Bryan, much amazed. “Myself thought you had a great wish 
 for the quality at the Hall ! ” 
 
 “Who says I haven’t?” she returned still more sharply. 
 “ Go your ways, now, Bryan, an’ let me alone ! I hate to hear 
 people makin’ fools o’ themselves, talkin’ of what they know 
 nothin’ about.” 
 
 Poor Bryan was fain to do her bidding, and “went his 
 ways ” to the Rock, wondering much what manner of woman 
 Cauth might be, who, professing so much love and gratitude for 
 “the young mistress,” appeared yet so little touched by the 
 dread sorrow that had come upon her. 
 
 “ Ay, go your ways, ould man ! ” said Cauth, when she 
 found herself alone; “it’s little you know about them you’re 
 
102 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK . 
 
 leavin’ behind. Oh,” she moaned, “if I hadn’t gone next or 
 nigh them ! if I hadn’t loaded them with blessin’s, maybe this 
 heavy curse wouldn’t have come down on them ! sure, I might a 
 known how it ’id be ! — why wouldn’t I go an’ see him, inagh ! 
 och, then, God help your wit, you poor foolish ould man ! isn’t 
 it on my two knees I’d walk from here to there, an’ back again, 
 if it could do himself or herself any good — but, fareer gar/ it 
 couldn’t ! — no ! no ! no ! it couldn’t, an’ it ’id break my heart 
 entirely to see my poor darlin’ young gentleman lyin’ there kilt 
 an’ murdhered fornenst my eyes ! it would — it would ! Och ! 
 the black villain — the black villain ! sure, the Devil himself had 
 a hand in him, or he couldn’t do the likes o’ that — he couldn’t 
 spill the blood of one that never done any one any harm — one 
 that had the blessin’ of the poor, an’ the good wish of high and 
 low ! ” 
 
 That night when 
 
 The iron tongue of midnight had told twelve, 
 
 it so happened that Bryan Cullenan found himself alone for a 
 short space with the sheeted dead. The ladies and gentlemen 
 were taking some refreshment in the next room, and Mrs. 
 Esmond had been prevailed upon with much ado to lay down 
 her weary head, even though sleep, that ever forsakes the 
 wretched, and “ flies from woe,” was little to be expected for 
 one so utterly woebegone. 
 
 All at once Bryan’s solemn meditations were rudely inter- 
 rupted by the sight of a tall figure standing by the bed, 
 wrapped in a greatcoat, the cape of which was thrown over the 
 head after the manner of a hood. Bryan’s heart sank within 
 him, and his tongue clave to his palate, so that he could not 
 speak, even if he would. With his eyes starting from their 
 sockets, he watched the motionless form, as it stood with head 
 bent forward, and hands — they were large, bony hands, too — 
 clasped tightly together, back side up, as they hung at arm’s 
 length in front. The attitude was one of mournful contempla- 
 tion, but no sound was heard, not even a sigh from the unseen 
 lips. But as Bryan gazed with his heart in his eyes, he saw 
 some sudden emotion shake the huge frame of his mysterious 
 fellow-watcher — one long low moan was heard, like the wail of a 
 tortured spirit, and the figure, turning towards Bryan, raised a 
 
THE EVENTS OF A NIGHT 
 
 103 
 
 finger in admonition and passed slowly from the room. Oh, 
 the horror of that moment ! the icy shiver that ran from the old 
 man’s heart through every vein of his body, as, glancing up into 
 the face which he supposed was that of a supernatural being, he 
 recognised the murderer — Jerry Pierce ! 
 
 Bryan used to say in after days that he often wondered how 
 he got over the fright of that moment. He whose days, and 
 nights too, were not seldom passed amongst the dead — he that 
 could sleep contentedly amongst the graves on the desolate Bock 
 of Cashel, no whit alarmed by the possibility of some of their 
 occupants 
 
 Revisiting the glimpses of the moon,— 
 
 he was paralysed with terror by the sight of that mortal man. 
 His first impulse was to cry out and give the alarm now that 
 he found his tongue unloosed from the spell of that dread 
 presence ; but Bryan was a cautious man, an exceeding cautious 
 man, and he made it a rule in every emergency to “ think twice 
 and speak once,” so he thought twice then, and concluded — just as 
 “ the quality” came in again from the other room — firstly, that 
 there was no great chance of catching Pierce by that time, and 
 secondly, that it might be the death of the young mistress if she 
 came to hear that the murderer of her husband had been there 
 in the silent midnight to look upon the lifeless remains of his 
 victim. So Bryan crept from the room unnoticed by any one, and 
 was making his way to the kitchen, when in the hall he found a 
 crowd assembled round one of the maid-servants, who seemed 
 obstinately bent on fainting away directly, from which overt act 
 divers of her fellow-servants, aided by a number of the wake- 
 people from below, were violently endeavouring to dissuade 
 her. 
 
 “ Och ! let me alone ! ” hysterically cried, or rather sobbed, the 
 entirely overcome damsel, as she wriggled and twisted in the 
 arms of the sympathising assistants; “sure, I’ll never be the 
 better of it — never — never ! — och ! I’ll faint* — I’ll faint ! ” 
 
 “ Wisha, don’t now ! don’t, achree ! — you’ll be over it soon, 
 please God ! — it’s only a wakeness.” 
 
 “ What did you see, a colleen ? ” 
 
 “ Och ! och ! what did I see ? — why, I seen — I seen — Jerry 
 Pierce ! ! — Och ! I’m goin’— I’m goin’ ! ” 
 
104 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK, 
 
 Exclamations of horror were heard on every side. “Jerry 
 Pierce ! ! the Lord in heaven save us ! — ah, then, where did you 
 see him, acushla?” 
 
 “I met him — on the stairs -abroad — cornin’ down — an’ the 
 cape of his big-coat up over his head — oh ! oh ! — an’ his eyes 
 lookin’ at me like — like live coals ! ” 
 
 - “ Oyeh ! it’s his fetch she seen ! ” — ran round the circle in a 
 loud whisper, — “it’s well if she does get over it, the crathur !” 
 
 “ There, there ! she’s goin’ ! ” 
 
 “ If she is, she can use her feet well — and her tongue too,” said 
 Bryan to himself as he passed on towards the kitchen, cruelly in- 
 different to the precarious condition of the fainting fair one, hut 
 much occupied with the thoughts of the apparition which had 
 frightened himself no less than her. Notwithstanding Bryan’s 
 silence, the news soon spread all over the house, and every soul 
 in it, with the single exception of its widowed mistress and 
 Uncle Harry — of whom all stood in too much awe to tell him 
 anything — had heard the awful tale of Jerry Pierce’s fetch 
 being seen walking about the house. Then did Mary Hennessy 
 and Bella Le Poer remind each other of the shadowy form they 
 had seen only ten or twelve days before, and, coupling that with 
 this, they shudderingly concluded — as did most of those at the 
 wake — that this appearance was possibly in advance of the 
 wretched man’s impending doom. 
 
 There was another that saw Jerry Pierce that night — -a 
 comely, dark-liaired damsel, by name Celia Mulquin, who kept 
 house for her uncle, a road contractor, named Larry Dwyer, 
 within a stone’s throw of the Esmond gate. The uncle and his 
 two strapping sons were long since abed and sleeping soundly, 
 as evinced by the somewhat unmusical chorus executed in trio 
 by that number of nasal organs on the loft which covered “ the 
 room,” — another over the kitchen being Celia’s sleeping apart- 
 ment, both reached by a ladder ; the middle space, or that end 
 of the kitchen where was the fireplace, shaded from the door by 
 the jamb-wall, had no covering over it but the thatch and wattles 
 of the roof. 
 
 Celia was sitting in a very desponding attitude before the yet 
 unraked fire, looking with fixed, unconscious eyes down into the 
 red greshaugh , the ashes of the burned sods which had all day 
 long made “the back” for the light “slane turf” that formed 
 
THE EVENTS OF A NIGHT 
 
 105 
 
 the fire. It was hard to say what Celia was thinking of just 
 then, but it must have been something very painful to her 
 heart, judging by the paleness of her round fair cheek and the 
 sad expression of her soft blue eyes. By and by the vacant 
 look vanished, and a world of sorrow was suddenly in motion all 
 over the girl's smooth features. Tears began at length to moisten 
 her eyelids, and, raising the two corners of her checked apron, 
 she held them to her eyes, her chest heaving violently under 
 the coloured kerchief so modestly folded over it. Suddenly 
 she started, turned her head in the attitude of listening, then 
 stood up and crossed herself, her eyes fixed with a frightened 
 look on the little window that pierced the front wall of the 
 house a few feet from the ground. 
 
 “ Christ save us ! ” muttered the girl ; “ who can it be at this 
 dead hour o' the night ? — why, sure — sure it can’t be him 1 ” 
 
 The pallor deepened on her face, but she stepped on tiptoe 
 to the window ; nothing was there to be seen but the pitchy 
 darkness of the night. A tap was now heard at the door, and 
 thither went Celia with the same stealthy pace. Putting her 
 ear close to the door, she listened for a repetition of the sound 
 — it came not again in the same form, but a voice spoke 
 through the keyhole — 
 
 “ Celia darlin’, won’t you let mein? If you’re by yourself, 
 do, for God’s sake ! I want to speak to you.” 
 
 Celia knew the voice, and it brought the rich colour back to 
 her cheek, though the flush passed away as quickly as it 
 came. For a moment she stood irresolute, but her soft 
 woman’s heart prevailed, and she opened the door with as 
 little noise as possible. Jerry Pierce stood without, but the 
 next moment he stood within, close by the jamb-wall. The 
 girl retreated as far as the front wall would let her, but that 
 was only a few feet. 
 
 “ Celia,” said the man in a thick, hoarse whisper, “ are you 
 afeard of me too ? ” 
 
 “ I’m not afeard of you,” she answered in the same low tone; 
 “ I know you’ll not harm me; but — but — oh, what — what 
 brings you here, you poor misfortunate man ? ” 
 
 “ Bekase I’m hunted like a wild baste already, an’ they’ll be 
 apt to hunt me down soon, an’ then I could never say to you 
 what I must say, dead or alive. Are they all gone to bed ? ” 
 
106 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCII 
 
 “ Hours an’ hours ago — don’t you hoar them snorin’ J ” 
 
 “ May I sit down, then, for a little start by the fire ? ” whis- 
 pered the deep voice ; “ I’m shiverin’ with the cowld, Celia, 
 an’ it’ll be long, long before I see your face again — maybe 
 never ! ” The girl could not resist this sorrowful appeal, so, 
 placing the light in a position which threw the broad fireplace 
 and the greater part of the kitchen in shade, she proceeded to 
 hang a thick cloth before the window, so that none could look 
 in from without, and then placed a low seat for J erry in the 
 corner just by the jamb. Taking her own station on the oppo- 
 site side of the fire, she sat with her eyes cast down, .her cheek 
 and lip pale as ashes, and her clasped hands resting on her 
 knees. For a few moments both were silent, Pierce cowering 
 over the fire, while his large limbs trembled, partly with cold, 
 partly with misery and desolation. 
 
 “ Maybe you’re hungry ? ” questioned the girl in a choking 
 voice, without raising her eyes, and without naming his name. 
 
 A sort of low, convulsive laugh gurgled in the man’s throat as, 
 starting at her voice, he replied, “No, I didn’t come here to ask 
 charity; I had my supper — thanks to them that gave it to me.” 
 
 “ Well, what — what — did you want with me!” still without 
 looking up. 
 
 “ Want with you ? ” repeated the man in a half -angry tone, 
 but the next moment he added somewhat more mildly, “ Oyeh, 
 Celia ! it’s althered times with us when you’d ax me such a 
 question. But och ! och ! sure, the faut isn’t yours, mavrone 
 mavrone, it is not ! ” 
 
 “ I ask you again, what did you come here for ? ” 
 
 “ I’ll tell you that — do you believe me guilty of what’s laid 
 to my charge ? ” 
 
 “ How can I efo'sbelieve it ? ” asked Celia sadly. “ An’ och ! 
 och ! but it’s the hard thing to think that — that ” — 
 
 “ That what?” 
 
 “ That you’d be guilty of the likes of that.” 
 
 “ But you think I am ? ” 
 
 “ Wisha, God help me ! what can I think t” And the tears 
 began to fall unheeded from Celia’s eyes. 
 
 In a moment Pierce was beside her, and would have taken 
 her hand, but that she stoutly resisted, drawing her seat away 
 from him with a look that was partly fear, partly anger. 
 
THE EVENTS OF A NIGHT . 
 
 107 
 
 “ Don’t — don’t — lay a hand on me, unless you want to kill 
 me too ! ” 
 
 She was sorry for the word almost before it had passed her 
 lips, hut she made no effort to recall it. Its effect on Pierce 
 was like that of a stunning blow ; he was struck dumb, and for 
 a moment could only look at the terrified girl with eyes of 
 blank bewilderment. At last he sighed, and that sigh passed 
 shivering through his whole body, his blue lips parted, and he 
 said, clasping his hands together, and letting his head fall 
 heavily on his chest, “ Then I am— I am — a murderer ! ” 
 
 When he raised his head again, there was a ghastly smile on 
 his face, and he looked more like a corpse than a living being ; 
 his hands were clasped tight across his breast, as though to 
 restrain its wild throbbings ; it was some moments before he 
 could speak, gasping for breath the while, Celia watching him 
 with eyes distended by horror and amazement. At last he 
 spoke in a hissing whisper that made the blood curdle in her 
 veins — 
 
 “ Well, now, that's what brought me here the night ! ” 
 
 “ What ? ” 
 
 “ Why, you know the promise of marriage that’s betwixt us 
 — well, I came to give mine back — it’ll soon be all over with 
 me , an’ I don’t want to have you afeard of me cornin’ back on 
 account o’ the promise — when — when — I’m gone ! ” 1 
 
 Celia Mulquin leaned forward and looked into his eyes with 
 a wild, searching gaze, — as she looked, her features gradually 
 relaxed, her lips parted with something like a smile, if a smile 
 could come at such a moment. Slowly, very slowly, she spoke — 
 “ I’ll not give you back your promise, then ; for, livin’ or dead, 
 Jerry Pierce, if I don’t marry you , I’ll marry no one else. If 
 that’s what you came for, you have your answer ! ” 
 
 Jerry Pierce sprang to his feet with an energy that 
 frightened poor Celia. A gleam of wild, passionate joy 
 flashed across his features like red lightning over the black 
 thunder-cloud. 
 
 “ I have my answer,” he said in the subdued tones that 
 
 1 This superstition is common in all parts of Ireland. If one of two 
 betrothed lovers die, it is considered as certain as anything, not of faith, 
 can be, that he or she will haunt the living party to the promise until it 
 be cancelled between them. 
 
108 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK 
 
 caution required, — “ I have my answer, an’ I’ll go ! Now I can 
 face death, an’ shame, an’ all that’s before me ; for I know 
 there’s one true heart that — that loves me still, black and 
 odious as I am ! God be with you, achorra macree ! ” 
 
 " Whisht, whisht ! ” said the girl earnestly ; “ how dare you 
 name that Holy Name ? ” 
 
 “ I can dare more than that,” was the answer. He stooped 
 towards her, and, before she could prevent him, kissed her pale 
 lips once, twice, thrice. “ Don’t be angry, Celia, that’s the first 
 kiss, and maybe the last, but it isn't the kiss of a murderer ! — 
 you’ll think of them words, darlin’, an’ they’ll comfort your 
 poor heart when I’m maybe swingin’ on the gibbet ! ” 
 
 He was gone before Celia could make herself conscious of 
 what he had said. 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 UNCLE HARRY HAS AN ADVENTURE. 
 
 At the chapel door in Cashel on the following Sunday there 
 was a crowd gathered, after last Mass, discussing, of course, the 
 murder of young Mr. Esmond. There generally is a crowd 
 after Mass, I am forced to confess, at every church and chapel 
 door, discussing all manner of topics ; hut on the day in question 
 the crowd was even greater than usual, and there was no diver- 
 sity in the subjects under discussion — all were chattering away for 
 dear life on the one engrossing theme of the murder, all the more 
 engrossing for being horrible, and, moreover, mysterious. Many 
 were the wild and strange rumours already afloat in relation to 
 the murder and its probable causes, for people will have causes 
 for everything, and where there are none on hand, they will 
 make them to order. Some would have it that Pierce had an 
 old spite against Master Harry since one day long ago he was out 
 following the hunt as a game-boy, and the young master said 
 or did something to him that was rankling in his mind ever 
 since, till he got the chance of being revenged. Others always 
 knew, they said, that there was something very bad in that 
 Jerry Pierce; whilst others went further still, and said, with a 
 sagacious wink or a shake of the head, that there was “ a bad 
 drop in them Pierces altogether.” This capped the climax, the 
 more so as it was something entirely new, for the Pierces, 
 though poor cottiers from father to son, had always been in 
 good repute with their neighbours, and this was the first actual 
 blemish on their fair name. But there are always people ready, 
 on such occasions, “ to help the lame dog over the stile,” as they 
 say in Ireland, which means, in plain English, to speed an ill 
 story on its way. “ When a man's down, down with him,” i? 
 the common order of things, and that in more countries than 
 
 109 
 
110 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 our dear Celtic Ireland. There are lame dogs in every country, 
 and charitable people in abundance to “ help them over the 
 stile.” But to our story. 
 
 The Dean himself had spoken for a full hour after Mass on 
 the awful crime just committed in their midst, the disgrace of 
 which fell, he said, on the whole community, until such time, 
 at least, as the murderer was brought to justice. He had 
 warned the people against aiding or assisting in concealing him 
 from the officers of the law, saying that his crime was of the 
 most revolting character, without one extenuating circumstance 
 to lessen its enormity in the sight of God or man. He had 
 paid an affectionate tribute to the virtues of the deceased 
 gentleman, and spoke even with tears of the loss he was to the 
 whole country both as a landlord and a magistrate. “ When 
 young Harry Esmond,” said he, “was on the bench, the poor 
 man always knew he had a friend that would see justice done 
 him ; and as a landlord,” said he, “ where will you find his 
 equal? — which of you, his tenants, ever went from his office- 
 door with anything but a blessing on your lips? Well, he is 
 gone ; this upright magistrate — this kind, easy landlord — this 
 honourable, noble-hearted gentleman is gone from amongst us — 
 cut down in the pride of his manhood, in the bloom of his 
 youth, like a young tree lightning-blasted. And, alas ! alas ! 
 that I should have to say it ! — cut down by the hand of 
 violence — the red hand of murder ! — oh, horrible, most horrible 
 it is to think of, for if people stay their friends and benefactors, 
 what can be said in their favour? Nothing, nothing; they 
 close the lips of their friends, and make their name odious to 
 those who know them not. Murder is always abominable in 
 the sight of God, and on no account justifiable. There are 
 times, however, when people will pretend to make excuses, and 
 soften down the horror of the crime by alleged provocation of 
 one kind or another; but here, as you all know, there is, or 
 can be, no palliation of a deed which stands out in the calendar 
 of crime as a black and brutal murder. As for the perpetrator 
 of the deed, may God convert him, and bring him to a sense 
 of his wickedness before justice overtakes him, as it surely will, 
 even in this world, if there be a just God in heaven ! And 
 mark well my words— the man or woman that has act or part 
 in concealing that unhappy man from the officers of justice 
 
UNCLE HARR Y HAS AN AD VENTURE. 1 1 1 
 
 will be accountable for it before God and the laws of his 
 country ! ” 
 
 This discourse, as may well be supposed, had made a deep 
 impression on the minds of all, and, in fact, closed every heart 
 against the murderer. 
 
 And so, as I said before, every tongue was loud in con- 
 demnation of the crime, whilst showing cause for its com- 
 mission. All at once, a little old woman in a red cloak, with 
 the hood drawn over her face, stumped out from the midst of 
 the crowd, and stood on the open green with both hands rest- 
 ing on her stick, regarding the different speakers with a strange 
 expression of scorn on the only part of her face that was visible 
 beneath the hood. After listening a few moments longer, she 
 broke out into a shrill, derisive laugh that immediately drew 
 all eyes to her strange figure and stranger attitude, and it so 
 happened that the clatter of voices ceased at once, and a hush 
 fell on the so-lately noisy crowd. 
 
 “ Ha ! ha ! ha ! ” laughed the hag again, “ much you all 
 know about it ! — jist as much as the crows that are makin’ 
 game of you up yondher in the trees ! — Ugh ! ugh ! ugh ! go 
 home about your business, I’d advise you, an J let the poor boy 
 alone that never done you any harm ! — Ugh ! ugh ! ugh ! isn’t 
 it funny to hear people talkin’ of what they know nothing 
 about? But I tell you again ’’—and she raised her stick and 
 pointed it at the crowd — “ let Jerry Pierce alone, or ye’ll not 
 be thankful to yourselves ! ” 
 
 Away she hobbled, leaving her hearers bewildered and con- 
 fused, for a whisper had run through the crowd while she 
 spoke — “ It’s the fairy- woman of the hill ! Christ between us 
 an’ harm ! ” 
 
 A heavy shower of rain could not have dispersed the crowd 
 more quickly than the sound of that woman’s voice ; but as 
 they scattered in all directions through the town and the 
 adjoining country, groups might be seen here and there with 
 their heads together, and in low, cautious tones might also be 
 heard as the parting salutation — “ So it’s best take care, any- 
 how, an’ not anger her A 
 
 In the course of that Sunday afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. 
 Esmond of Rose Lodge paid a visit to their widowed niece, 
 with whom Aunt Winifred had been staying ever since the 
 
112 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 fatal night that had quenched in blood the light of Esmond 
 Hall. Mary Hennessy and Bella Le Poer were also there, to 
 Mrs. Esmond’s greater consolation, for their tender and judi- 
 cious kindness was balm to her bruised and broken heart. No 
 visitors were as yet admitted, save only the nearest relatives, 
 and the house, late so full of life and animation, was gloomy as 
 a funeral vault. The very servants, as they glided around in 
 their deep mourning costume, were grave and sad as mutes at 
 a funeral, and the merry voices of the children were hushed 
 and silent. As for the fair mistress of the mansion, no smile 
 had yet crossed her visage, and but few words escaped her 
 bloodless lips, as she lay from day to day in her high-backed 
 chair, a pale drooping flower, fading slowly away in the sight 
 of the two devoted friends who watched her with more than 
 sister’s love. As on that first dreary night, the presence of 
 Uncle Harry seemed somehow to discompose her, though she 
 evidently strove to hide her disquiet, fearing, doubtless, to give 
 him pain. But her tell-tale features refused to keep the secret, 
 and the old man’s keen eye speedily detected the emotion she 
 vainly sought to repress. Declining Mrs. Esmond’s faint in- 
 vitation to remain for dinner, he rose abruptly, saying to his 
 wife — 
 
 “ Come, Martha, it will be night before we get home.” He 
 glanced at the timepiece over the mantel. “ Why, how is that, 
 Henrietta? — your clock is not going.” 
 
 “ No,” said Mrs. Esmond, with more energy than she had of 
 late manifested; “it stopped, I suppose, when Harry’s heart 
 did, and it shall never go again — at least, while I am its 
 owner.” 
 
 “What ! do you mean to say it stopped at that hour , on that 
 night ? ” and he pointed to the hands. 
 
 “My eyes saw it.” 
 
 “Great God! it was about the very moment /” and the old 
 man leaned on the back of a chair for support, his eyes still 
 fixed on the timepiece. 
 
 “ You think so, uncle ? ” 
 
 “There is no doubt of it,” said Aunt Martha, her face pale 
 as ashes. “It was about eight o’clock when he left our door, 
 and half an hour would likely have brought him to— to — the 
 fatal spot.” 
 
UNCLE HARR V HAS AN AD VENTURE. 1 1 3 
 
 “ True ! — -most true ! ” murmured Uncle Harry, as if to him- 
 self. 
 
 “ But tell me, uncle,” said Mrs. Esmond, with a spasmodic 
 effort, “ how it happened that it was your horse my poor fellow 
 rode at the time, instead of the roan mare he took from here ? ” 
 
 “ Oh, that, my dear, is easily explained,” Uncle Harry care- 
 lessly replied. “The roan got lame with him on the way, 
 and when my groom came to examine how it was, he found 
 that a nail in one of the fore-shoes had pierced the hoof, and 
 the animal was in downright pain, so we had to send directly 
 for the blacksmith to take off the shoe, and a hard job it was 
 to get it off. Of course Harry had nothing for it but to leave 
 her behind, and take one of my horses.” 
 
 “Dear me!” groaned Aunt Winifred, “it was most unfor- 
 tunate.” 
 
 “What was?” said her brother snappishly. 
 
 “Why, the change of horses, brother! You know there is 
 such a thing as luck, after all, and I do think that grey of 
 ours was unlucky to poor Harry ! — I shall never go out with 
 her again — never — never ! But, mercy on us ! you needn’t 
 
 look so cross ; one would think you meant to bite my nose 
 off!” 
 
 “Ho danger of that, Winny,” said her brother maliciously; 
 “ my chance of getting you off my hands is small enough now 
 without taking so unnatural a means of spoiling your beauty ! 
 Good-bye, Henny, my poor child ; try and keep up your heart 
 as well as you can.” 
 
 “ I will, sir,” was the dreamy, listless answer, as the mourner 
 received and returned Aunt Martha’s kind farewell greeting. 
 As for Miss Esmond, she stiffened herself to the rigidity of a 
 colossal poker, and, not deigning to notice her brother’s parting 
 nod, extended the long fingers of her right hand to her sister- 
 in-law, saying as she did so — 
 
 “Well, Martha, my dear, though he’s my brother, I must 
 say that you have got the greatest bear of a husband in all 
 Tipperary. You have indeed ! ” 
 
 At another time this little manifestation of temper on the 
 part of Aunt Winifred would have given much amusement, but 
 there was none to notice it then, and in grave silence the party 
 separated 
 8 
 
114 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 The early night was already close at hand when Mr. Esmond 
 stepped into the gig where his wife was already seated. As he 
 took the reins from Mulligan, he placed a half-crown in his 
 hand, which Mulligan acknowledged by a very low bow and a 
 “ Long life to your honour, an’ safe home, sir ! ” Then, lowering 
 his voice, he added, “ I’d make the bay step out, your honour, 
 if I was you — there do be ghosts an’ things abroad afther dusk, 
 an’ you’ve a lonesome bit of a road before you. Safe home, sir ! ” 
 he said aloud, and, making a sign to Mr. Esmond to say nothing, 
 he hurried off to open the gates, then bowed again as the gig 
 rolled out on the high road, and distinctly uttered the words, 
 “Take care ! ” 
 
 “What did Mulligan say, my dear?” asked Mrs. Esmond 
 when they were fairly started. 
 
 “ He said to-morrow would be a fine day,” replied her 
 husband with characteristic gruffness, as he leaned forward to 
 apply the whip to the shining flanks of his horse, though the 
 animal needed no such hint to make haste home. 
 
 Mrs. Esmond made no further attempt at conversation, and 
 the ill-matched pair were whirled along for a mile and better 
 through the chilly air of the winter evening without again 
 exchanging words. Both were wrapt apparently in their own 
 thoughts, and gloomy thoughts they were, too, for neither could 
 forget that about the same hour less than a week ago, one near 
 and dear to them left his home in happy unconsciousness that 
 he was to see it nevermore. 
 
 As the evening shades fell colder and darker on the wintry 
 landscape, the sense of loneliness began to press on the stout 
 heart of Mr. Esmond, and he was glad to break the silence that 
 he now felt oppressive. He addressed some trifling observation 
 to his wife, but had not yet received an answer when the horse, 
 shying at some object on the roadside, pricked up his ears, 
 tossed his head, and began to prance in a backward direction 
 that was anything but safe, seeing that a gravel-pit full of 
 yellow muddy water bounded the road at that particular spot. 
 
 Mrs. Esmond’s scream of terror frightened the animal still 
 more ; back — back he went, notwithstanding the desperate 
 efforts made by the strong arm that was urging him forward ; 
 back — back he reared, till the wheels of the gig were within a 
 foot of the water edge. Mrs. Esmond, crying, “ Holy Mary ! 
 
UNCLE HARRY HAS AN AH VENTURE, 115 
 
 Mother of God ! pray for us ! ” was about to throw herself out 
 of the gig at all hazards, when a tall man appeared at the 
 horse’s head, laid hold of the bridle, and with one jerk, and a 
 soothing “Wo! wo!” drew the frightened animal out on the 
 road, the gig lumbering heavily at his heels. 
 
 The fervent thanksgiving that escaped from Mrs. Esmond’s 
 ashy lips was for once echoed by her husband, with a hearty 
 acknowledgment of the timely assistance that had saved them 
 both from an awful death. 
 
 “ You have saved our lives this night,” said he. 
 
 “ Undher God, sir — undher God,” put in the tall man, stooping 
 to pick up a bag he had thrown from his shoulder. 
 
 “ Oh, of course — of course ! — that’s understood. But who and 
 what are you? tell me that before you go, for if I live I’ll reward 
 you well.” 
 
 “ I’m not goin’ yit,” was the answer ; “ I’ll walk a little ways 
 farther with you, for fear the baste might shy again, or some- 
 thing.” 
 
 “ But who are you ? what is your name ? ” 
 
 “Well, my name isn’t worth your honour’s knowin’, but I’m 
 the poor man that asked charity from you there back o’ the hill, 
 an’ didn’t get it.” 
 
 “ My God ! ” murmured Mrs. Esmond in an audible whisper, 
 and she pressed close to her husband as the tall beggarman 
 appeared at her side of the vehicle. 
 
 “ Don’t be afeard, ma’am ! ” said he in a voice that sounded 
 as if it came from a barrel ; “ any company’s better than none 
 sometimes — especially on a lonesome road of a dark night.” 
 
 Mrs. Esmond said no more, and the sturdy beggarman trudged 
 along, staif in hand, by her side, keeping pace with the horse 
 even at a brisk trot. The few belated stragglers who passed 
 along one way or the other, exchanging a brief salutation with 
 the self-appointed guide, passed cheerily on, most of them 
 whistling some lively air, as if to counteract the sombre influ- 
 ence of the hour. 
 
 On and on went the gig, and on went the tall beggarman 
 beside it, bag on back and staff in hand. The one half of Mr. 
 Esmond’s homeward road was already passed, when the horse 
 pricked up his ears again, glanced fearfully at one side of the 
 road where stood an old limekiln, its rude masonry partly con- 
 
116 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK 
 
 cealecl by the overhanging branches of a huge alderbush. In 
 an instant the beggarman had hold of the bridle, and his strong 
 arm speedily brought the scared animal to subjection. A slight 
 noise was heard as it were in the kiln — a dark form was visible 
 for a moment, one word issued from the throat of the man at 
 the horse’s head — the word was “ Remember !” — in the twinkling 
 of an eye the figure vanished, and the horse sped lightly on 
 his way. Mrs. Esmond breathed more freely, she knew not 
 why. 
 
 A little farther on, the beggarman stopped, and laid his hand 
 on the rein. “ You’ll soon be at home now, Mr. Esmond,” 
 said he in his deep, guttural tones ; “ the baste won’t shy any 
 more, I’m thinkin’, so I’ll be biddin’ you good-night; an’ it’s one 
 advice I’ll give you, never refuse a poor man or a poor woman 
 a charity when they ask it for God’s sake, — an’ listen to what 
 I’m goin’ to say, your honour,” — he leaned over the wheel and 
 spoke in a whisper, — “you’re the last man in Tipperary that 
 ought to be out afther nightfall. Now go your ways ! ” 
 
 “But, my very worthy fellow,” said Mr. Esmond, “will 
 you not tell me to whom I am so deeply indebted this 
 night ? ” 
 
 “Maybe you wouldn’t thank me if I did,” said the man 
 gruffly; “ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies. Go on 
 now, as fast as you can, or maybe there’s worse than a quarry 
 before you ; an’ mind what I tell you — be merciful to the poor, 
 or their curse ’ill fall on you where I can’t save you ! ” 
 
 Bounding like an antelope over the ditch, he disappeared, 
 and it is hardly necessary to say that Mr. Esmond’s bay flew 
 home at a gallop. 
 
 The first act of Mr. Esmond after reaching home was to send 
 post-haste for the Dean and Attorney Moran. Pending their 
 arrival dinner was served, but seldom was meal less honoured at 
 the well-appointed table of Rose Lodge. The old gentleman was 
 far too much excited to think of eating ; with his bushy brows 
 knit together, and his sharp grey eyes fixed in moody thought, 
 he sat leaning back in his chair, scarcely deigning to answer 
 the repeated entreaties of his wife to eat something. 
 
 At last, seeing that the lady had finished her very slight 
 repast, he said, pushing back his chair with characteristic 
 brusquei'ie, “If you’re done now, Martha, I wish you would 
 
UNCLE HARR V HAS AN AD VENTURE . 117 
 
 have those things removed I wonder how people can eat 
 under such circumstances.” 
 
 Mrs. Esmond made no reply — she was, indeed, a most 
 submissive wife at all times ; the dishes were removed, and 
 fruit and wine placed on the table. The old gentleman drank 
 off a glass of Madeira, then looked at his wife and said — 
 
 “That was a confoundedly queer chap, that beggarman ! — 
 didn’t you think so, Martha ? ” 
 
 “ I really can’t say, my dear, what I thought of him, or of 
 anything else at the time, I was so frightened.” 
 
 “ What ! ” said the husband ironically ; “ at the prospect of a 
 cold bath? Well, I own it wasn’t over inviting such a night 
 as this. But you know that chilling prospective was only for 
 a moment.” 
 
 “Was there no other danger but that of the quarry?” said 
 Mrs. Esmond pointedly. 
 
 “ Oh, true, there was the limekiln, — but that needn’t have 
 shocked your weak nerves, seeing that there was no fire in 
 it. They couldn’t roast you, you know, without fire ! — ha ! 
 ha ! ha ! ” 
 
 A second and a third glass of the sparkling Madeira had 
 somewhat exhilarated the old man’s spirits, though his humour 
 was still bitter. 
 
 “I am sorry, my dear,” said Mrs. Esmond quietly, “that I 
 can’t compliment you on your wit. Now, I think I wasn’t the 
 only one whose nerves , weak or strong, were shocked on this 
 occasion.” 
 
 “ Of course not, my dear; there was the horse” — 
 
 “Well, what was it that frightened the horse first and 
 last?” 
 
 “ I’m sure I can’t tell — except it was a ghost ; horses, you 
 know, can see a spirit where human optics are at fault.” 
 
 The cool sarcasm of Mr. Esmond’s tone and manner did un- 
 doubtedly ruffle his wife’s temper not a little. That amiable 
 gentleman took sufficient pains on all occasions to show his 
 unbounded contempt for female understanding generally, which 
 he was wont to epigrammise by grammatical comparison as weak 
 —weaker — weakest. But, for reasons sufficiently clear to herself, 
 Mrs. Esmond was more than usually susceptible to his pointless 
 sarcasm. 
 
118 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK . 
 
 “ Harry,” said she, with much earnestness of look and tone, 
 “if I were alone, I, for one, would not have been afraid of 
 either the living or the dead.” 
 
 “ Zounds, madam ! what do you mean by that ? ” cried her 
 husband fiercely. 
 
 “No blustering, Harry — no blustering ! ” said his wife calmly 
 but firmly. “ What I mean to say is this, that my fears were 
 for you,” — drawing back and pointing at him with her finger, — 
 “not for myself. I feared that the blow might fall this time 
 roller e it was meant to fall before ! You understand — I see you 
 do; I will therefore leave you to your own thoughts, which 
 may, in your case, be the best companions, commending to your 
 further attention the old adage, ‘ It is ill playing with edged 
 tools.’” 
 
 Before Mr. Esmond had recovered the effect of this stunning 
 blow, the door-bell gave intimation that one or both of the 
 anxiously - expected visitors had arrived, and Mrs. Esmond 
 vanished by one door as the Dean and the man of law entered 
 by another. 
 
 Mr. Esmond, recovering by a violent effort from the stunning 
 effect of his wife’s home-thrust, advanced with outstretched 
 hand to greet his guests. 
 
 “Well, Mr. Esmond,” said the Dean, when, having warmed 
 his hands over the fire, he turned and faced his host, “ you see 
 we have promptly obeyed your summons, though, as regards 
 myself, I would rather have waited a little, seeing that I had 
 but just returned from a sick call, some three miles away.” 
 
 “ I’m very sorry indeed,” said Mr. Esmond, “ but my 
 business is very urgent, and would not by any means wait.” 
 
 “Well, what is your business?” and the Dean exchanged a 
 significant glance with Moran, who had coolly taken his place 
 at the table for the refreshment of his inner man, — “ what is your 
 business, sir ? It must be of grave importance when you send 
 in all haste for the priest and the lawyer.” 
 
 “ It is of grave importance — the very gravest importance, 
 Dean M‘Dermot ! ” emphatically said Mr. Esmond, as he threw 
 himself back in his chair opposite the Dean, and looked first in 
 his face, then in Moran’s, to see how they took this startling 
 announcement. “Do you know that I have discovered the 
 existence of a conspiracy ? ” 
 
UNCLE HARR Y HAS AN AD VENTURE. 1 1 9 
 
 “ A conspiracy, Mr. Esmond 1” cried his hearers simultane- 
 ously. 
 
 “Yes, a conspiracy !— a conspiracy against me— -Harry Es- 
 mond, of Rose Lodge ! — a conspiracy to taka away my life — to 
 murder me ! ! ” 
 
 “ Bless me, Mr. Esmond, you astonish me!” said the 
 Dean. What Moran would have said we know not, for it so 
 happened that he was seized just then with a troublesome fit 
 of coughing that made him very red in the face, and obliged 
 him to apply his handkerchief to his eyes very suspiciously 
 often. 
 
 “ I thought I should astonish you,” went on Mr. Esmond, 
 wholly absorbed in his own ideas. “But you will be more 
 astonished when I tell you that I have a strong suspicion, 
 almost amounting to certainty, that my poor nephew fell a 
 victim to this same diabolical agency.” 
 
 “ Ah, indeed ? and what reason have you to think so 1 ” The 
 half-credulous look vanished from the Dean’s massive features, 
 and Moran’s cough suddenly ceased to trouble him. 
 
 “ Sit down, Dean, and I’ll tell you all about it, then let you 
 and Moran judge for yourselves.” 
 
 The details of the evening’s adventures were listened to with 
 much interest by the two gentlemen, a glance of surprise being 
 exchanged between them at certain points of the narrative. 
 
 “Now what do you think of that?” said Mr. Esmond in con- 
 clusion. “Am I, or am I not, justified in thinking that there 
 is a conspiracy on foot to murder me , as my nephew has been 
 murdered, in cold blood — in fact, to exterminate the Esmonds ? 
 What say you, Dean ? what say you, Moran ? ” 
 
 The priest shook his head and replied that he did not see how 
 that followed from the premises. 
 
 “You would have much trouble to make out your case, my 
 dear sir, in a court of law,” said Moran. “ For my part, I see 
 no proof whatever of a conspiracy in what you have been 
 telling us.” 
 
 “Indeed? Well, I must say your faculties are more obtuse 
 than I ever supposed they were. And you, Dean ! I am 
 astonished that you do not see further into this affair ! Now, 
 what is your opinion of that beggarman ? ” 
 
 “Why, upon my word, Mr. Esmond,” the Dean replied in the 
 
120 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 caustic tone he could well employ at times, — “ upon my word, 
 I think him a very fine fellow, and that on your own showing. 
 You don’t mean to find fault with him, do you, for saving your 
 life ? ” 
 
 “ Saving my life, indeed 1 I tell you that was all a sham !” 
 
 “ Then your horse must have been in the fault.” 
 
 “Pshaw! the horse 1 ? — who frightened the horse? Tell me 
 that, now ! ” 
 
 “ Why, perhaps the beggarman — or his bag ! ” 
 
 “Yes, that may do for the quarry, but then there must have 
 been another individual, with or without a bag, in waiting at 
 the limekiln ! ” 
 
 “Very true, Mr. Esmond — very true;” and the Dean began 
 poking the fire with a meditative air, while Moran took out his 
 note-book and wrote, more, apparently, to satisfy the self- 
 opinionated old man than from any necessity there was to 
 commit the affair to paper. 
 
 “ Humph ! humph ! ” soliloquised Moran as his pen flew over 
 the paper with professional rapidity; “let us see now how the 
 case stands. Mr. Esmond deposes that being on his way from 
 Esmond Hall to Eose Lodge, his horse took fright, and by a 
 retrograde movement towards a stone quarry in the vicinity 
 would have precipitated deponent and his wife thereinto, had 
 not a beggarman, minus bag, caught hold of the bridle, and per- 
 suaded the obstinate animal to resume his onward course. Is 
 not that right, Mr. Esmond ? ” 
 
 “Perfectly correct, sir — perfectly correct.” 
 
 “ Whereanent said beggarman, plus bag, walked by the side 
 of the gig till a certain limekiln was reached, where and when 
 deponent’s horse took fright again, when said beggarman, with 
 felonious intent, as deponent sayeth, did again take forcible 
 possession of the reins, and enunciating the remarkable word 
 * Eemember,’ whether addressed to the horse or some unknown 
 individual deponent sayeth not — not having the fear of God 
 before his eyes, did feloniously lead the animal some distance 
 on his way, then and there feloniously betaking himself to parts 
 unknown — all which facts do clearly indicate in the mind of 
 this deponent a dangerous conspiracy against his life. Am I 
 still correct, Mr. Esmond ? ” 
 
 “ Yes — on the whole ; but — ahem ! ” pulling up his collar, 
 
UNCLE HARRY HAS AN AD VENTURE . 121 
 
 and establishing his head therein with a vehement jerk, “pray, 
 Mr. Moran, what is your own opinion of the matter ? ” 
 
 “My opinion,” said Moran gravely, “is, that you owe your 
 life twice to that same beggarman during that short journey ! ” 
 “And yours, Dean?” 
 
 “ Precisely the same as Mr. Moran’s. No reasonable doubt 
 can be entertained that your life was in danger from some con- 
 cealed enemy, and that you owe your safety, and perhaps that 
 of your wife, to the protecting presence of that mendicant ” — 
 
 “ Oh, hang the mendicant ! ” angrily broke in Esmond. “ If 
 I don’t clear the country of these sturdy bang-beggars before I’m 
 many weeks older, never call me an efficient magistrate —that’s 
 all!” 
 
 “Well, Moran, after that we may go, I think,” said the 
 Dean, rising, as did Moran, both looking the indignation they 
 felt. “We have learned two useful lessons to-night, one of which 
 is never to save any one’s life without permission asked and 
 received; the other is, never to obey a summons from Rose 
 Lodge without a written certificate of actual necessity. A good 
 evening, Mr. Esmond ! ” 
 
 And, declining all entreaties to remain longer, the gentlemen 
 mounted their horses and bade adieu to Rose Lodge. 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 A MORNING ON THE ROCK. 
 
 January passed away with its cold, clear days, and February 
 duly fulfilled its allotted task of filling the dyke; snow had 
 fallen in unusual quantities, making the farmer’s heart glad 
 with the prospect of rich fields and abundant crops. The first 
 days of the month were so mild and fair that the country- 
 people were no little alarmed, because of an old saying amongst 
 them that all the months in the year curse a fair February. 
 St. Bridget’s Day, the first of the month, was a dry, sunny day, 
 only just cold enough to make outdoor exercise agreeable, and 
 as soon as old Bryan could get “ a mouthful to eat ” after Mass, 
 he went up to the Rock to make his “ stations,” which having 
 done, he went about his work of restoration, talking to him- 
 self as usual. He had no lack of employment that day, for 
 a storm which had raged with great violence for full twenty- 
 four hours in the last week of January had covered the surface 
 of the sacred enclosure with fragments from the ruins. Not- 
 withstanding that Bryan had been labouring for some days to 
 repair what he could of the damage, many stones lay scattered 
 around, some whole, some broken in their fall, while amongst 
 them were seen not a few fragments from the rare old sculp- 
 tures on the walls and arches ; here a leaf from a tall Corinthian 
 column, there the round cheek of a stone cherub from one of 
 the corbels of the arches; again, the corner of some mural 
 tablet, or a piece from a monumental slab which, split for long, 
 had at length yielded to the might of the storm, and, wrenched 
 from its home of ages, was hurled from on high to swell the 
 heap of rubbish on the floor of nave or chancel, aisle or tran- 
 sept, as the case might be. Everywhere these wrecks of the 
 recent storm met Bryan’s eye, not so numerous, it is true, as 
 
 132 
 
A MORNING ON THE ROCK 
 
 123 
 
 they had been, but still enough to make the old man’s heart 
 ache, the more so as many of the fragments were far beyond his 
 power to restore, on account of the height from which they had 
 fallen, and their hopelessly shattered condition. 
 
 “Well, well,” said Bryan, “patience is a virtue, an’ if I 
 can’t replace them all, sure I will a good many of them. So in 
 honour of the blessed and holy St. Bridget, I’ll begin my work 
 this day.” 
 
 With all the ardour and energy of “ sweet five-and-twenty,” 
 Bryan addressed himself to that labour of love, which to any 
 other but a man of primitive faith and primitive simplicity 
 would have appeared insufferably tedious, but to him who had 
 grown grey in the loving service of the Saints of Cashel, pre- 
 serving their monumental remains as far as one poor solitary 
 mortal could from the devastation of wind and rain — to him it 
 was happiness purer than the coarse, carnal-minded worldling 
 ever knows to set about repairing the effects of every passing 
 storm that shook the sacred walls of Cashel. 
 
 After working a while in silence, Bryan began, as he often did, 
 to croon an ancient ditty, on this occasion an old Carmelite 
 hymn, known and sung in every rural district of Ireland to the 
 old, old air which Moore has w T edded to the sweetly tender song, 
 “ Come rest in this Bosom ” — 
 
 “ Och, when the loud trumpet sounds over the deep, 
 
 And wakens each nation out of their long sleep — 
 
 Och, it’s then you’ll see thousands come crowding along 
 To the valley of Josapliat, it’s there we’ll all throng. 
 
 Mavrone ! what a sight that’ll be ! — an’ maybe Cashel won’t 
 turn out the grand company entirely ! If they’ll only let poor 
 Bryan Cullenan jist walk behind them, a long ways off, when 
 they’re on their march to the valley — well, sure, it’s great 
 presumption for me to think o’ the like, but somehow I think 
 they’ll all have a gragli for poor Bryan, that used to keep the 
 weeds an’ the long grass from chokin’ up their tombs, and take 
 care of the fine ould walls they built to the glory of God in the 
 ancient days of Erin — 
 
 Och, there you’ll see Carmelites in glorious array, 
 
 And we wiil be with them if we work our way. 
 
124 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 Well, that’s a fine promise, anyhow ! God grant us grace to 
 ‘ work our way ’ ! ” 
 
 Another while of assiduous work and silent meditation, and 
 then Bryan commenced again, to another old-world air both sad 
 and dreary — 
 
 “ Down by Killarney’s banks I strayed, 
 
 Down by a floating wave, 
 
 A holy hermit I espied, 
 
 Lying prostrate in his cave. 
 
 Well, now, that must be a fine place for a hermit ! ” solilo- 
 quised Bryan ; “I declare but it must. They say that Kil- 
 larney is a wondherful place, with wood and water to no end, 
 an’ mountains, an’ rocks, an’ all sich things — an’ fairies that 
 bates the world out for the antic tricks they play, an’ the 
 sweet music they make in the bright moonlight nights when 
 the ladies an’ gentlemen do go out a-boatin’ on the lakes. I often 
 heard the quality that comes here on their tower talkin’ about 
 it, till my ould heart would be jumpin’ out o’ my mouth ; and 
 then I’d begin to think of the ould hermit — what a fine time 
 he had of it there, an’ what a fine place it must be to make 
 one’s soul in ! — 
 
 His eyes ofttimes to heaven he raised, 
 
 And thus exclaimed he, 
 
 1 Adieu, adieu, thou faithless world, 
 
 Thou ne’er wast made for me ! ’ 
 
 Poor man ! poor man ! that must have been when he was dyin’, 
 
 I suppose. Och ! an’ sure it is 6 a faithless world ’ ! ” and Bryan 
 sighed dolorously; “jist go no farther than the poor young 
 master — to think of him bein’ shot like a dog, an’ by them that 
 was on his own flure, an’ eatin’ an’ drinkin’ of his share for 
 months and months ! Well, sure enough it was a horrid mur- 
 der,” he went on, though in an undertone ; “ in all my born 
 days I never heard the likes of it. Och ! my poor young 
 gentleman ! but it was* the hard, hard thing for any one to take | 
 your life, an’ you so young, so handsome, an’ so good — so good ! 
 The Lord receive you in glory this day, I pray, through the in- 
 tercession of the blessed an’ holy St. Bridget. As for him that 
 cut your days short — well, well, I’ll leave him to God — he’s bad t 
 enough as he is, an’ I’ll only pray that the good an’ merciful God 
 
A MORNING ON THE ROCK. 
 
 125 
 
 ni ay bring him to repentance ! It’s mighty strange that he can’t 
 be taken, an’ the people all again him as they are ! — 
 
 To Thee, dear Lord, we recommend 
 Our brethren late departed ; 
 
 Grant that their souls may ever be 
 Amongst the saints and martyrs ! 
 
 0 Virgin Mother, intercede ! 
 
 Protect them by your banner, 
 
 And help them at the judgment-seat. 
 
 0 Lord, have mercy on them ! 1 
 
 Amen, amen, sweet Jesus ! espaycially him that was taken 
 so sudden! — och! och! an’ more was the pity!” he muttered low 
 to himself. 
 
 The heavy sigh, or groan, that accompanied the words was 
 heard, though not the words themselves, by two young ladies 
 who had just reached the spot, all unnoticed by Bryan. 
 
 “Bryan,” said one of them, the taller of the two, “I would 
 wager a trifle that I know what you are thinking of.” 
 
 The old man started as though a cannon were discharged close 
 to his ear. Turning hastily, he looked at one and the other of 
 his visitors, then smiled and took off his hat, and bowed very low. 
 
 “Well, I declare, Miss Mary, but you took a start out of 
 me — you an’ Miss Power ! But long life to you both ! sure, it’s 
 always proud I am to see you, espaycially up here on the Rock 
 w r here I’m in a manner at home. But in regard to your knowin’ 
 what I was thinkin’ of, bedad, if you do, you bate the women of 
 Mungret all to nothing ! ” 
 
 “ The women of Mungret ?” repeated Mary Hennessy, for she 
 it was, as may be supposed, whom Bryan addressed as “ Miss 
 
 1 The air of this old hymn of the people is exceedingly solemn and 
 beautiful. There is some reason to think, however, that neither it nor 
 the hymn is extensively known in Ireland. The author heard it once, 
 many, many years ago, in her early days, under circumstances that fixed 
 its wild, sweet melody in her fancy for ever after. Passing with some 
 friends the “ chapel” of her native place — which stood in a solitary and 
 beautiful spot on the outskirts of the populous town — one fine summer’s 
 evening when day was fading into night, she was surprised to hear the 
 sound of music from within, a thing by no means usual on week-days. 
 Entering, she found a few pious persons singing this old hymn for the 
 dead, and as the solemn chorus echoed through the deserted chapel in the 
 silence of the shadowy twilight, the effect was indescribably fine. 
 
126 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 Mary.” “Well, I have often heard of the women of Mungret, 
 but I really never thought of asking what manner of women 
 they were whose wisdom has come down to us in the form of a 
 proverb. Can you enlighten us on that point, Bryan h I know 
 you are a sort of walking repository of ancient lore.” 
 
 “ Well, it’s a folly to talk, Miss Mary, a body does see an’ 
 hear a sight o’ things in threescore-and-ten years, but the most 
 of what I know of £ ancient lore/ as you call it, I larned here 
 among the ould walls, from hearin’ the quality talkin’ of all 
 such things when I do be showin’ them round the Kock.” 
 “Well, I suppose you can tell us all about the women of 
 Mungret and their wisdom , can you not ” 
 
 “ In coorse I can. But I’m ashamed to see you an’ Miss 
 Power 1 standin’ so long on your feet ; if it was summer-time, 
 now, you’d be at no loss for a sate,” and he glanced mournfully 
 around on the fragments of plinth and capital that strewed the 
 nave of the cathedral. 
 
 “ Oh, never mind us,” said the young ladies in a breath ; 
 “ we’d as soon stand as sit. But pray go on with your story.” 
 “Well, Miss Mary, I’ll tell you the story as I heard Father 
 Heenan of Ivillenaule tellin’ it to two English gentlemen one 
 day here on the Kock. A long time ago, when there was a 
 great college here at Cashel, an’ another at Mungret, in the 
 County Limerick, westwards, there was a power of fine larned 
 men in both places, but Mungret got the applause all over 
 Ireland, an’ even beyond sea everywhere, for the wonderful great 
 skill they had in all sorts of lamin’, espaycially what Father 
 Heenan called the dead languages. Myself doesn’t know what 
 in the world sort of languages them can be — barrin’ they’d be 
 what the priests spake to the evil sperits when they’re layin’ 
 them in the Ked Say, or anywhere. Anyhow, that’s what 
 Father Heenan said, I’m sartin sure of that. Well, Mungret 
 bein’ famous for the dead languages, an’ the fame of that house 
 bein’ noised abroad, as I told you before, the heads of our college 
 here — that’s Cashel — took a notion that they’d send some of 
 their best men to Mungret below, to try the skill of the people 
 there, or whether it was true what every one said about them 
 
 1 So the country-people always called the Le Poers, and that, I believe, 
 was the origin of the name lower , now so common in the south of 
 Ireland. 
 
A MORNING ON THE ROCK. 
 
 127 
 
 in regard to the dead languages. So when the head men a 
 Mungret got word of what was goin’ on, they were a little 
 daunted, you may be sure, for fear their students wouldn’t he 
 able to answer all the questions that ’id be put to them, an’ that 
 they’d be ruined entirely, an’ disgraced for ever, in regard to the 
 dead languages , so well becomes them, doesn’t they dress up 
 some of the best of the students in women’s clothes, an’ some 
 of the monks, that were great larned men entirely, like plain 
 countrymen goin’ to their work, an’ they sends them all off to 
 scatter hither an’ thither along the road that the Cashel men 
 were to thravel on their way there. Well, what would ye 
 have of it, but when the fine venerable ould gentlemen from 
 Cashel got within three or four miles or so of Mungret, an’ 
 began to ask how far they had to go, or maybe which was the 
 way, when they’d come to a cross-roads or the like, they were 
 always answered in the dead languages ” — 
 
 “ Oh, nonsense, Bryan ! ” cried Miss Hennessy a little im- 
 patiently ; “ the dead languages are Greek and Latin, and some 
 others not spoken now.” 
 
 “Well, well, miss, I suppose you know best,” said Bryan 
 submissively; “anyhow, there wasn’t a man or woman they 
 spoke to but answered them in ” — 
 
 “ Greek or Latin.” 
 
 “ In Greek or Latin, then, if that’s what the dead languages 
 manes, — so the gentlemen from Cashel here began to look at 
 one another, an’ shake their heads, an’ at long last they put 
 their heads together, an’ says they, ‘ Where’s the use in our goin’ 
 to Mungret, when all the country-people around the abbey — 
 even the very women — speak the dead — ahem ! — Greek an’ Latin 
 — as well as we do ourselves ? What chance would we have with 
 the monks and the students ? Maybe it’s worsted we’d be our- 
 selves instead of puzzling them.’ So with that they turns on 
 their heel an’ comes straight back to Cashel without ever goin’ 
 next or near Mungret ” — 
 
 “ And so ” — 
 
 “An’ so, ever since then, Miss Mary, it’s a byword in the 
 place, You're as wise as the women of Mungret , more by token 
 they weren’t women at all, but fine well-spoken young students 
 that were great hands entirely at the dead languages , an’ I 
 suppose the livin' too — if there be such things ” 
 
128 
 
 THE HERMIT OF TIIE ROCK i 
 
 At this the young ladies laughed, assuring Bryan that there 
 were such things as living languages — “And what is more, 
 Bryan, ” added Bella, “you are speaking a living language 
 yourself.” 
 
 “Is it me spa-kin’ a livin’ language ” and the old man turned 
 on the fair friends a look of simple wonder that much amused 
 them, accustomed as they were to his guileless ways. “ Oh, 
 now I see it’s makin’ game of me ye are — as, in coorse, you have 
 every right to do — me spakin’ a livin’ language ! — well, now, if 
 that doesn’t flog all ! As if I could spake any language, either 
 livin’ or dead.” 
 
 The lesson which our Hermit might have received in the 
 interesting science of philology was prevented for that time, at 
 least, by the arrival of another party, whose advent appeared to 
 throw the young ladies into a pretty little state of excitement, 
 a nervous tremor, as it were, that would have puzzled any 
 observant spectator. The party consisted of a pale, lady-like 
 young person, very plainly attired, two pretty little damsels of 
 some ten and twelve respectively, a comely gentleman with a 
 fine Pickwickian cast of countenance, a very white cravat, in 
 the folds of which his soft fleshy chin, or rather chins, lay 
 snugly imbedded, and an exceedingly smooth suit of black, the 
 nether garments of that demi-length vulgarly called knee- 
 breeches, with, to all these attributes of respectability super- 
 added, a goodly rotundity of that central region of the human 
 corpus which in Shakespeare’s “justice ” was said to be “ with 
 good capon lined ” — whatever the lining might have been in 
 the case before us, the exterior was undoubtedly both “ fair 
 and round ; ” lastly, there was a tall, dignified personage of some 
 thirty-eight or forty years, not remarkably handsome, yet strik- 
 ingly noble in appearance, and with just that set of features 
 which ordinarily express both superiority of intellect and that 
 consciousness of the same which in some faces might be set 
 down as approaching to superciliousness ; this, however, was by 
 no means the case in the very marked face of the gentleman in 
 question, whose manners withal were singularly unpretending, 
 though marked by a certain degree of reserve, and a coolness 
 that might or might not be constitutional. This personage was 
 no other than the Earl of Effingham, the fat gentleman, Rev. 
 Mr. Goodchild, his chaplain, the two little girls, his daughters, 
 
A MORNING ON THE ROCK . 
 
 129 
 
 Lady Ann and Lady Emma Cartwright, and the young lady, 
 their governess, Miss Markham, whom our readers will 
 remember as forming one of the pleasant party assembled on 
 Hallow-eve night under the hospitable roof of Esmond Hall. 
 
 “ Bryan,” said Miss Markham, after she had shaken hands 
 with the other young ladies, “ these gentlemen are desirous of 
 seeing the ruins. Will it be convenient for you to show them 
 now ? ” And she smiled in her pensive way, well knowing that 
 Bryan lived for nothing else but to take care of the ruins and to 
 “ show ” them. 
 
 “Wisha, then, it is convaynient, Miss Markham, an’ why 
 wouldn’t it ? What am I here for only to show the place to the 
 ladies and gentlemen when they come on their tower ? ” 
 
 “ My very worthy old man,” said the rosy chaplain, whose 
 enunciation of syllables and final letters was remarkably full 
 and distinct, — “ my very worthy old man, I am told you are 
 something of an antiquarian.” 
 
 “ An anti- what, your honour ? ” 
 
 “An anti-quarian,” repeated the chaplain slowly and with 
 great complacency. “ I presume you know what that is?” 
 “Well, no,” said Bryan, with a gentle shake of his old head, 
 “ I can’t say I do. Maybe it’s anti-trinitar-ian you mane, sir ? ” 
 he slowly added, as his thoughts reverted to the hedge-school 
 of his childish days, and the word that looked so awfully grand 
 and terrifically long at the head of the much-dreaded words of 
 seven syllables somewhere near the end of his “Universal .” 1 
 The ladies all smiled, and even the grave dignity of Lord 
 Effingham was put to the test ; but the good parson would have 
 there and then undertaken to enlighten Bryan on the difference 
 between “antiquarian” and “ anti trinitarian ” had not the peer 
 nterposed. 
 
 “We have heard,” said he, “that there is no one now living 
 who knows so much about these magnificent ruins as you do — 
 that is, if you are the Hermit of the Rock.” 
 
 “Well, your honour,” said Bryan bashfully, “I b’lieve there’s 
 
 1 The Universal Spelling-Book of the last generation — in Ireland, at 
 least — still traditionally remembered in connection with “The Town in 
 Danger of a Siege,” the edifying history of “Tommy and Harry,” and 
 that graceless “Boy in the Apple-tree” who would not yield to moral 
 suasion. 
 
 9 
 
130 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 some that calls me so, but it’s only a nickname, sir, that the 
 quality gave me, for I’m no hermit, at all, you see, or anything 
 in the wide world but a poor ould man that takes care of the 
 ruins here, an’ shows the ladies an’ gentlemen through the 
 place when they come from furrin parts or anywhere to have a 
 sight of it.” 
 
 The two little girls had been eyeing the Hermit with much 
 curiosity, and the elder of the two suddenly exclaimed, loud 
 enough to be heard by all present — 
 
 “ La, Miss Markham ! what a very funny-looking old man 
 he is ! and don’t he speak queer 1 ” How much further the 
 young lady would have committed her party there is no saying, 
 for Miss Markham, with a crimson cheek, drew her to her side, 
 with a whispered “Fie, Lady Ann ! fie, fie!” that effectually 
 silenced the young chatterbox for that time at least. 
 
 “ Miss Markham,” said the Earl, with a grave smile, “ you 
 forgot to introduce your young friends.” 
 
 “Excuse me, my lord, for I am sometimes forgetful,” — she 
 did not say what was really the case, that she could not well 
 have taken the liberty of introducing friends of hers to him, — 
 “permit me now to repair my unaccountable oversight.” 
 
 The peer bowed with lofty grace to Miss Hennessy, more 
 condescendingly to Miss Le Poer, whose name arrested hia 
 attention. 
 
 “ Le Poer ? ” he repeated, as his eagle eye scanned her girlish 
 features ; “ what ! any relation to the ever-charming Countess of 
 Blessington ? ” 
 
 “Hot much of a relation, my lord,” said Bella, blushing to 
 find herself for the first time in her short life in actual parlance 
 with a peer of the realm ; “ there is a relationship, I know, but 
 of what degree I do not know.” 
 
 “Be it as it may, I am pleased to make your acquaintance, 
 Miss Le Poer,” was the courteous reply, as the party prepared 
 to follow Bryan, the chaplain, note-book in hand, close at the 
 old man’s side. 
 
 “ How we shall have some fun,” whispered Harriet Markham 
 to her young friends ; “ the chaplain, bless his heart ! is some- 
 what of a character in his way, and cherishes, moreover, a 
 supreme contempt for all things popish. It is, I believe, a 
 grievous thorn in the good man’s side that the primary eduea- 
 
A MORNING ON THE ROCK. 
 
 131 
 
 tion of the Ladies Cartwright is entrusted to one who has 
 lapsed from Anglicanism and turned her back on the Thirty-nine 
 Articles ! Do but listen to him and Bryan ! ” 
 
 “Friend cicerone” began the law - church chaplain, “I 
 presume you have many distinguished visitors here from time 
 to time ? ” 
 
 “Well, we do, then, have some very grand people now an’ 
 then,” rejoined the Hermit ; “ but my name isn’t Chris-rooney, 
 or Chitch-rony, or whatsoever that was you said, — it’s Cullenan, 
 your honour — Bryan Cullenan ! ” with strong emphasis on the 
 name. 
 
 “But, my good friend, you mistake me,” said the reverend 
 gentleman apologetically ; “I did not mean to address you by 
 name just then ; I merely said cicerone , which means a guide.” 
 The explanation appeared to satisfy Bryan, who was now 
 putting on his official dignity. 
 
 “Who was the greatest personage you ever had here? You 
 have had the Primate, I suppose? — I mean the Protestant 
 Primate, of course.” 
 
 “Is it him? is it ould Beresford ? Oh, then, much about 
 him, an far less ! ” cried Bryan indignantly ; “ it’s betwixt two 
 minds myself was when the ould rap was here, whether I’d 
 show him the place or not, an’ I put a penance on myself for 
 doin’ it ! — Primate, inagh ! it’s the hopeful Primate he is ! ” 1 
 A low titter was heard in the rear, speedily suppressed, how- 
 ever, on the part of the young ladies by a side-view of the 
 Earl’s face, graver and darker even than its wont. Lord 
 Effingham was a staunch supporter of “the Establishment.” 
 
 “ My good Mr. Cullenan,” said the chaplain, his nose swelled 
 with anger, yet his voice over-exceedingly calm, — “my good Mr. 
 Cullenan — my very respectable old anchoret ” — 
 
 “ I tould you before,” said Bryan, with a testiness foreign to 
 his nature, “ that my name was Bryan Cullenan — now I tell it 
 
 1 Most of our readers are well acquainted with the obnoxious character 
 of the Beresfords and the hatred with which they are regarded by the 
 peasantry, not only of Munster, where they are chiefly located, but of all 
 parts of Ireland. Indeed, their possessions were scattered all over the 
 country, and their character was everywhere the same. The late Marquis 
 of Waterford was, with all his wildness, the best Beresford amongst them, 
 and with all his faults he was rather a favourite with the people. To his 
 credit be it said, he was far from being; a bad landlord 
 
132 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 to you onst for all ! — for a big man you have a mighty short 
 memory ! Now, to save you the throuble of askin’ any more 
 question? about the grand people that was here in my time, I’ll 
 jist tell you who was the greatest man I ever showed over the 
 Eock — an’ that was Dan O' Connell!” 
 
 “Dan O’Connell?” cried Mr. Goodchild, recoiling from 
 Bryan as if he had suddenly put forth the horns of Beelzebub. 
 “You must be losing your senses, old man ! ” 
 
 “’Deed, then, I’m not, your honour ! Sure, the world knows 
 that the Counsellor is the greatest man in all Ireland, barrin’ 
 the bishops an’ archbishops — that’s our own, I mane, an’ it isn’t 
 much time they have to be travellin’ about, seein’ sights — they 
 have something else to mind, God help them ! Another great 
 man we had here one day was Father Tom Maguire — in coorse 
 your honour has heard of him — him that had the great discus- 
 sion with Pope — Pope and Maguire, you know ? ” 
 
 “I know nothing about the man,” fibbed Mr. Goodchild, 
 with the petulance of a very froward child . 
 
 “ Oh, naughty Mr. Goodchild ! ” whispered Harriet to Mary ; 
 “ only hear what he says ! — he knows nothing about Father 
 Tom Maguire I ” 
 
 The chaplain had evidently got enough of Bryan’s company 
 so he turned away to examine, as he said, the architectural 
 features of the building. 
 
 “Mind your steps, then,” quoth Bryan, “for if you don’t 
 you’ll be apt to get a toss over some o’ these stones that the 
 storm brought down the other night.” Then, stopping for a 
 moment to look after the parson, he said, as if to himself v 
 “Well, now, where in the world did he come from? Sure, 1 
 thought every one knew Father Tom Maguire ! He’s a mighty 
 quare ould gentleman, anyhow, whosomever he is ! ” 
 
 They were now in the chapel, and Bryan pointed out to the 
 Earl — the ladies were all familiar with the scene — the place 
 where the high altar stood of old, and near by, the tomb of 
 Myler M‘Grath. 
 
 “Was he not Archbishop of Cashel?” said the EarL 
 “Well, he was, an’ he was not,” replied the Hermit. 
 
 “ How is that, friend ?” 
 
 “ Why, your honour, he was only Queen Elizabeth’s arch 
 bishop, an’ in coorse Queen Elizabeth had no more power than 
 
A MORNING ON I HE ROCK. 
 
 13o 
 
 you or I to make a bishop, let alone an archbishop — -so we never 
 give him anything but ‘ Myler M ‘Gratia/ an’ that same is too 
 good for him, for he was a disgrace to his name, on account of 
 sellin’ his faith for a good livin’. Still, there’s some people says 
 that he came back afore his death, so we pray for his poor soul, 
 hopin’ that God may forgive him his sins, an’ espaycially the 
 shame an’ the sorrow he brought to all good Christians ! The 
 Lord forgive him, an’ I forgive him, poor unfortunate man ! But 
 isn’t that a fine elegant tomb they put over him *2 ” 
 
 “ Very fine indeed, for the time at which it was erected.” 
 
 “ There’s none of our own bishops here that has so fine a one, 
 an’ more’s the pity,” said Bryan mournfully; “but no matter 
 for that, they don’t need anything like that to keep them in the 
 people’s minds. They’ll never be forgotten, anyhow ! Husht, 
 now ! ” and he lowered his voice to a whisper, and made a sign 
 to the children to be silent; “this is the place, your honour, 
 where the Holy Sacrifice used to be offered up, so I never allow 
 any noise to be here.” When they left the chancel he said 
 aloud, “ Where the Verbum caro factum used to be said for 
 hundreds an’ hundreds of years ” — the old man bent his knee at 
 the awful words, as did the three young ladies — “ there ought 
 to be silence for ever — an’ there will, too, while God spares me 
 life. A time will come when the altars will rise again on the 
 Rock of Cashel, an’ the unbloody Sacrifice of the New Law will 
 be offered here again, an’ psalms will be - sung, an’ organs play, 
 an’ the people that will see that day will rejoice, for Ireland 
 will then be a nation again, and Cashel may be ‘ Cashel of the 
 Bishops,’ though it’ll never be ‘ Cashel of the Kings ’ any more !” 
 As the old man thus spoke, his aged eyes flashed with a 
 strange and fitful light that gradually illumined his whole 
 features, a flush suffused his hollow cheek, and a smile, as it 
 were, of exultation wreathed his pale lips. His look was fixed 
 as if on some point far off in the future, and the whole character 
 of the face was so transformed, as it were, by the proud vision 
 passing before the eye of the spirit, that it was hard to re- 
 cognise the meek, subdued, and somewhat emaciated face of old 
 Bryan. The ladies glanced instinctively at the Earl ; he was 
 regarding the old man with a look of surprise mingled with 
 curiosity, whilst even the children pulled Miss Markham’s 
 sleeve on either side and pointed in silence to the strange old 
 
134 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK 
 
 man, the like of whom they had never seen. The rapt 
 expression, however, was visible but for a moment — gradually 
 the light faded away, and the smile vanished, and Bryan said 
 in his usual tone, as if to himself — 
 
 “ My old bones will be white and bare by that time, an’ my 
 soul with God, I humbly trust — well, no matter, though Til 
 not be here on earth to see it, I’ll see it from above, an’ that’ll 
 be better, for there I’ll have the holy saints of Cashel all before 
 me in their heavenly glory ! There’ll be no Murroghs there ! ” 
 he added, addressing his listeners in the same calm, solilo- 
 quising tone, — “no, nor any Harrys, or Elizabeths, or Oliver 
 Cromwells ! That’s one great comfort, anyhow ! — ice'll have 
 heaven to ourselves / ” 
 
 “ Who do you mean by ive, Bryan? ” said the Earl. 
 
 The old man looked up in the cold, dark face of the speaker 
 and scanned it for a moment, then glanced significantly at the 
 young ladies, whom he knew to be Catholics, shook his head, 
 and replied evasively — 
 
 “ Why, then, all good Christians , please your honour ! ” 
 
 The Earl smiled, — his smile was very pleasing as it shone for 
 a moment on the dark, well-formed features, — but he made no 
 further remark. The chaplain now rejoined the party, taking 
 care, however, to keep at a safe distance from Bryan, and they 
 made the circuit of the sacred enclosure, examining everything 
 worth seeing, and listening with marked surprise — on the part, 
 at least, of the Earl and his chaplain — to the explanations of 
 old Bryan, so beautiful in their simplicity, yet so learned in 
 their admirable reconciliation of all the splendid monuments 
 with the purposes of Catholic worship in the grand old ages of 
 the past, with which the old man seemed as familiar a* 
 though he had in the body witnessed their glories. Even the 
 ultra-Protestant Goodchild heard with amazement the simple 
 eloquence which faith and fervour, more powerful than rhetoric, 
 gave to the tongue of the old cicerone . 
 
 “ I am told,” said the Earl, as the party emerged from the 
 last of the buildings, and stood on the verge of the Rock, looking 
 out over the magnificent plain, — “I am told, Bryan, that you 
 spend whole days here working amongst these ruins, endeavour- 
 ing to preserve them from the ravages of time, without any hope 
 Df remuneration.” 
 
A MORNING ON THE ROCK 
 
 135 
 
 “ An’ what better work could I be at 1 ” said Eryan sharply. 
 “ As for payment, what payment could I get here that I’d care 
 anything about ? — I’ll be paid in heaven, please the Lord ! ” 
 And, reverently baring his aged head, the old man raised his eyes 
 upwards with an expression that faith and hope could alone 
 impart to the face of man. 
 
 “You sleep here at night, too, sometimes h ” 
 
 “ It’s the place I like best to sleep in.” 
 
 “ And you are not afraid ? ” 
 
 “Afraid?” repeated Bryan, with a look bordering on con- 
 tempt. “Well, now, that’s a good joke, anyhow! — afraid on 
 the Rock of Cashel ! — athen, where would a body be safe if it 
 wasn’t here on St. Patrick’s Rock, with these consecrated walls 
 about one, an’ the holy dead below, an’ the voices of saints 
 singing hymns an’ psalms all about one in the darkness of the 
 night — how could I be afraid on the Rock of Cashel by day or 
 by night ? ” With these words ringing in their ears, the party 
 bade adieu to the strange old man, with a gratuity from the 
 Earl that astonished his simple heart 
 
CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE RIDE HOME. 
 
 As our party stood for a moment enjoying the fair prospect ere 
 they descended from the Rock, old Bryan, having carefully 
 hidden away his golden treasure from the eye of day, called 
 after the young ladies, with all of whom he was familiar from 
 their frequent visits to the ruins — 
 
 “Take care, ladies, that none of ye’d be tempted, standin 
 there, to take the leap that Queen Gormlaith did once upon a 
 time ! 75 
 
 “ Why, what leap did she take, Bryan 3 ” 
 
 “Well, I can’t tell you that, Miss Mary, bekase why, I 
 never heard it myself, but she took a great leap here at Cashel 
 — maybe from the side o’ the Rock, for all as I know ; she 
 must ha’ been a great leaper that same Queen Gormlaith, for 
 the ould chronicles tell that 
 
 Gormlaith took three leaps, 
 
 Which a woman shall never take [again], 
 
 A leap at Ath-cliath [Dublin], a leap at Teamhair [Tara], 
 
 A leap at Caiseal of the goblets over all.” 1 
 
 At this the ladies laughed and the gentlemen smiled. 
 
 “And pray, Bryan, who was this Queen Gormley ?” asked 
 Mary Hennessy. 
 
 “ Wisha, then, Miss Mary ! — unless she’s far belied, it doesn’t 
 .natter much who she was, for by all accounts she was no great 
 
 1 “ Annals of the Four Masters.” According to these famous annalists, 
 this Gormlaith (pronounced Gormley) was daughter of a chief of Offaly, 
 who died a.d. 928, and wife of a Danish king of Dublin, Aulaf or Auliffe 
 by name. O’Donoghoe, in his Memoirs of the O'Briens , says that she 
 had the great monarch Brian Boromhe for a second husband, and was 
 repudiated by that good prince for her shameless immorality. 
 
 136 
 
THE RIDE HOME. 
 
 137 
 
 things. They say she was Brian Boromhe’s second or third wife, 
 an’ that he had to put her away clane and diver on account of 
 the bad life she led. Sure, it’s easy Jcnoivn she wasn’t a dacent 
 woman, or it isn’t leapin’ she’d be, the tory ! like a lump of a 
 gossoon, or a wild goat ! ” 
 
 “I see you are no admirer of female gymnastics, Bryan,” 
 said Lord Effingham, with a smile, as the young ladies walked 
 on in silence, not caring to notice Bryan’s concluding remark. 
 
 “ I’m no admirer,” quoth Bryan, “ of anything fay male 
 barrin’ what’s dacent an’ proper.” 
 
 It is hard to say what meaning the old man attached to the 
 word gymnastics. Perhaps he understood it in the same sense 
 as Biddy Moriarty, the Pill Lane fishwoman, did O’Connell’s 
 hypothenuse or parallelogram in his memorable mathematical 
 scolding match with that renowned vendor of “Dublin Bay 
 herrings” and other piscal edibles. 
 
 “Your honour, sir,” said Bryan, after coughing in vain 
 once or twice to arrest attention, “ maybe you’d be good 
 enough to let me know who you are, for I’m sure it’s none 
 o’ the common sort you are, anyhow.” 
 
 And he stood with his hat in his hand, sharp and cold as the 
 day was. 
 
 “Why, Bryan,” said Miss Markham, “ I thought you knew 
 all the quality for miles around. This gentleman is the Earl 
 $>f Effingham.” 
 
 “ The Earl of Effingham 1 ” cried Bryan, in a state of ludicrous 
 amazement, — “ the great English lord from the Castle below 1 
 — an’ me talkin’ to him just all as one as if he was only a bit of 
 a buddagh ! ” 
 
 “ Never mind, Bryan — never mind,” said the Earl, with kind 
 condescension; “you said nothing but what was very polite.” 
 
 “ Barrin’ to the ould gentleman here ; ” and Bryan nodded 
 over his shoulder towards the chaplain, who was loitering a 
 pace or two behind, examining the ancient tribute-stone, with 
 the rude sculptures thereupon. “ Now, might a body make 
 free to ask who is he ? ” 
 
 On being told, Bryan nodded sagaciously, and smiled to 
 himself. 
 
 “ Ay, ay ! I might ha’ known he was some kind of a 
 preacher — he looks for all the world as if he was fed on 
 
138 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK, 
 
 Lady Farnham’s fat bacon ! Well, God be with your honour’s 
 lordship, anyhow ! Sure, I often heard people say that you were 
 a rale gentleman every inch of you, only mighty grand, as in 
 coorse you ought to be ! Isn’t it a beautiful fine country 
 around here, my lord ? I’m sure you never seen the beat of it 
 in England beyant.” 
 
 “ Well, I cannot say I did, Bryan, though we have some 
 ‘ beautiful fine countries ’ in England too ; ” and the Earl 
 smiled. 
 
 “You have'J Well, see that, now ! But I was goin’ to tell 
 your honour’s lordship that for all so rich a country as you 
 have before you now, an’ all the fine cattle an’ sheep that’s 
 grazin’ in it, there was a time, they say, when it was all as one 
 as a desert.” 
 
 “ Oh, you mean, probably, the very early times before the 
 country w r as settled 1 ” 
 
 “No, my lord, I do not; I mane the days of Queen 
 Elizabeth, or, as we always call her, Queen Bess — that’s ould 
 Harry’s daughter, your lordship knows — the Vargin Queen — 
 ahem ! as Cobbett calls her — did you ever read Cobbett’s 
 Reformation , my lord ? ” 
 
 “ I believe not.” 
 
 “ Oh, well, now, see here, that’s the greatest book that ever 
 was prented — it ’id be worth your lordship’s while to read it, 
 an’ then you’d know all about Queen Bess an’ her ould baste of 
 a father, Harry the Eighth.” 
 
 “I shall certainly pay my respects to Mr. Cobbett at the 
 first opportunity,” said the Earl, with imperturbable gravity. 
 
 “ Queen Elizabeth was a great benefactor to Ireland,” said 
 the chaplain, his short nose curling upwards in evangelical 
 anger; “she did more to pacify this country than any 
 sovereign that ever reigned in England.” 
 
 “Well, I declare, now,” said Bryan, eyeing him with a half- 
 comical look, — “ I declare, now, if your reverence — ahem ! was 
 tellin’ lies all your life, you’re tellin’ God’s truth now — Queen 
 Bess was the greatest hand at pacifyin’ Ireland that ever tried 
 a hand at it — barrin’ Oliver Cromwell ! Sure, didn’t Bess 
 pacify the country abroad fornenst us there to that degree that 
 they say there was scarce the lowin’ of a cow or the voice of a 
 ploughman to be heard from the far end of Kerry to the gates 
 
THE RIDE HOME, 
 
 139 
 
 of Cashel. Now, that’s what I call pacify in’, your reverence, 
 bekase, you see, where the people’s all dead there’s sure to be 
 pace an’ quietness — an’ for that very raison the Rock of 
 Cashel is the quietest place in all Munster ! Oh, bedad, yis, 
 they might all throw their caps at the Vargin Queen for 
 pacify in’ — herself an’ Noll, the Divil’s butcher ! ” 
 
 “ Oh ! oh ! oh ! ” said Mr. Goodchild, holding up his hands 
 in pious horror ; “ of a surety the poison of the adder is on this 
 man’s lip, and the sting of the wasp under his tongue. Hear 
 how he blasphemes the holy ones of God ! ” 
 
 “ I deny it, sir,” said Bryan, with sharp emphasis ; “I deny 
 that Queen Bess an’ Oliver Cromwell were the holy ones of 
 God — it’s you that’s blasphemin’ to say the like ! ” 
 
 “Oh, Popery! Popery!” groaned the chaplain, as the Earl 
 took him by the arm and hurried him down the steep descent ; 
 “oh, Popery ! what a foul-mouthed beast thou art — yea, verily, 
 the beast of beasts ! — My good young lady,” to Miss Mark- 
 ham, “I am extremely sorry for having been induced to visit 
 this popish place, the locum tenens whereof is a most violent 
 and rabid Papist.” 
 
 “Now, pray, Mr. Goodchild, do not blame me,” said Harriet, 
 with mock gravity, throwing at the same time a sly look at 
 her friends; “you know that so far from ‘inducing’ you to 
 visit the Rock, which is, I admit, a very exceedingly popish 
 place, I warned you over and over that old Bryan would most 
 probably try your patience. Did I not, my lord ? ” and she 
 turned with downcast eyes to the Earl. 
 
 “You certainly did, Miss Markham,” his lordship gravely 
 replied ; “ I can bear witness that you gave Mr. Goodchild fair 
 warning of what he had to expect from the Hermit of the 
 Rock. You know, my dear sir, old Bryan is somewhat of a 
 character ” — 
 
 “ Excuse me, my lord, but his name were better Briar than 
 Bryan ! — old Briar ! — ha ! ha ! ha ! ” The really good-natured 
 chaplain laughed till his fat sides shook at what he considered 
 his excellent pun, and the smile that appeared for a moment on 
 every face he complacently accepted as the tribute of general 
 admiration. All at once came back his usual placidity. “You 
 seem thoughtful, Miss Markham,” said he, the large expansion 
 of his heart taking in at the moment all mankind, even a 
 
140 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 votary of Rome, — “thinking, doubtless, of the woeful doom 
 that hath falleu on yonder stronghold of superstition ? ” 
 
 “Not exactly,” said Harriet, with much coolness; “I was 
 thinking, rather, of that celebrated juvenile ‘little Johnny 
 Horner ’ on the memorable occasion when he 
 
 sat in the corner, 
 
 Eating his Christmas pie. 
 
 You cannot but remember, my dear sir, the highly poetical 
 lines that follow — 
 
 He put in his thumb 
 And took out a plum, 
 
 And said, ‘ What a good boy am I ! ’ 
 
 How ineffably gracious the face of Johnny Horner must have 
 looked then ! — just like yours, my dear Mr. Goodchild, under 
 the happy consciousness of Christian perfection.” 
 
 The compliment was not so graciously received as it ought to 
 have been, and the young ladies remarked with suppressed glee 
 that the chaplain moved away soon after from Miss Markham’s 
 vicinity, devoting his attention to the children, who, in all th<? 
 buoyant freshness of life’s early spring, were gambolling in 
 advance of the party, commenting in their own way on the 
 new and strange objects that came under their eyes. 
 
 At the foot of the hill the carriage was found in waiting 
 and, declining with thanks the Earl’s polite offer of “setting 
 them down,” Mary and Bella turned off in the direction of 
 Gallows Hill. 
 
 “ What ! going to visit the fairy- woman? ” said Harriet, with 
 a meaning smile, as she glanced towards the clay mansion of 
 that potent charmer, partially visible from where they stood, 
 its low thatched roof dotted here and there with the green of 
 the darnel and the chickenweed, while a tufted sallow pro- 
 jecting over the one gable which protruded into view from 
 behind a shoulder of the hill, gave it a picturesque and shady 
 look. 
 
 “Fie, fie, Harriet!” was the half - serious, half - playful 
 answer of Mary ; while Bella only shook her little clenched 
 fist at the speaker, tossed back her saucy curls, and with a 
 smiling bow to the party in general, tripped after her friend. 
 
 “ What charming young ladies your friends are, Miss Mark- 
 
THE RIDE HOME. 
 
 14! 
 
 ham ! ” said the chaplain, anxious, no doubt, to exhibit his 
 good taste. 
 
 “ They are well enough — for Romanists,’’ was the arch reply. 
 
 “ What a superb group of ruins ! ” said Lord Effingham, 
 glancing over the bold outlines of the towering walls, so stately 
 even in decay. “After all, the past greatness of Ireland can- 
 not be treated as a myth whilst such monuments as these 
 remain to attest it.” 
 
 “ Pooh, pooh, my lord ! what are those ruins compared with 
 the Acropolis or the Colosseum” — 
 
 “ Or the Pyramids ” suggested the Earl, by way of capping 
 the climax, and he smiled at the eagerness with which the 
 good man hastened to throw Cashel in the shade. 
 
 “ Or the Pyramids — precisely, my lord ! or any other of 
 the great relics of the past. But then, how could it be ex- 
 pected that an insignificant little island like this should produce 
 anything very great P’ 
 
 “Well, I must say,” replied the Earl, with caustic humour, 
 “that to be ‘ an insignificant island,’ Ireland has done wonders 
 in the way of producing things great. Now, I am decidedly of 
 opinion, my dear sir, that those buildings on the Rock of Cashel, 
 so varied in their character, so massive in their construction, 
 so romantic in their situation, so impressive in their solitary 
 grandeur, and so mournful in their utter ruin and desolation, 
 tre no whit inferior in interest even to the Acropolis itself — 
 or, indeed, to any ruin or ruins with which I am acquainted.” 
 
 Harriet Markham raised her eyes to Lord Effingham’s face 
 for one moment, and a smile of wonderful sweetness brightened 
 her pale, spiritual features ; her lips parted as though she were 
 about to speak, but, blushing, as it were, at her own boldness, 
 she resisted the impulse, and turned her eyes again on the weird 
 old walls now draped in the gorgeous noontide rays of the clear, 
 cold February day. 
 
 “I am bound to submit to your lordship’s judgment,” said 
 the obsequious chaplain, “ but I confess I was not prepared to 
 near such — such ” — 
 
 “Such classico-heretical opinions'? — say on, and fear not! 
 Well, my very dear and reverend friend, even at the risk of 
 being set down as a heretic against the received principles of 
 taste, I am free to admit that Christian ruins are at all times 
 
142 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 more interesting to me than those which date from pagan times 
 and were associated with pagan worship. ” 
 
 “ Pardon me, my lord ! ” said the chaplain, his rosy face 
 waxing crimson red ; “I should like to know what other than 
 pagan worship was practised there % ” pointing backwards to the 
 Rock. 
 
 “Nay, Mr. Goodchild,” said the Earl very gravely, “with all 
 the corruptions attributed to the Roman Church — mind, I say 
 attributed , Miss Markham — I believe it cannot be denied that 
 she is a Christian Church.” 
 
 “A Christian Church?” said Harriet, her eyes flashing with 
 the fire of a spirit that would no longer be restrained, “ say 
 rather, my lord, the Christian Church ! The Church that has 
 risen like the sun over the ruins of paganism — the Church that 
 unites all the ages and all the nations in one eternal act of 
 homage to the Almighty Ruler of the world. Look there, my 
 lord ! ” and she cast a glance of withering scorn on the crest- 
 fallen pillar of the law-church ; “ you admire those ruins as 
 noble monuments of ancient art, attesting the former greatness 
 of a now impoverished people — but think, my lord, of the ages 
 that look down from those shattered walls, from the height of 
 yon pillar-tower, and the glories that gild them with ever- 
 lasting fame. And the memories of Cashel are Christian 
 memories, Mr. Goodchild — at least, what history and tradition 
 have both preserved. That mystic tower may, indeed, date 
 from pagan times, and probably does, but all the other buildings 
 are of purely Christian origin, save and except the royal palace 
 of the Munster kings. And, indeed, for ages long th6 very 
 princes who ruled in Cashel were consecrated bishops.” 
 
 A contemptuous “ Humph ! ” from the chaplain and a cold 
 “ Indeed ? ” from the Earl would have discouraged a less ardent 
 spirit than that of Harriet Markham ; but the effect was directly 
 opposite on hers, for the bright intelligence that burned within 
 her was lit at the lamp of faith, and where the honour of re- 
 ligion was concerned she was all life and warmth. Here her 
 country and her faith were both in question, and she could not 
 sit by a passive listener. Yet she spoke with a modesty and a 
 womanly grace that at once disarmed angry criticism. 
 
 “If your lordship has no objection,” said she, looking timidly 
 at the stately peer, “I will bring from the treasure-chamber of 
 
THE RIDE HOME, 
 
 143 
 
 the past, for Mr. Goodchild’s edification, a very few of the 
 Christian memories connected with yonder ruined shrines. ,> 
 
 The Earl bowed assent. The chaplain groaned in spirit, but, 
 seeing there was no alternative short of actual rudeness, he pre- 
 pared himself to listen, fortifying his mental position with a 
 pinch of Lundy Foot’s best. 
 
 Their little ladyships, delighted at the prospect of a story, 
 bestowed sundry caresses on their “dear, sweet, darling Miss 
 Markham,” who, smiling on her pupils, entered at once on her 
 task. 
 
 What Harriet told is known, we hope, to most of our readers, 
 so we shall not follow her in her rapid and picturesque descrip- 
 tion of the historic glories of Cashel. She told of St. Patrick, 
 how he founded the first Christian church on the Eock, which 
 was royal even then, and in the shade of the old pillar-tower, 
 which had in still earlier ages “ reared the sacred flame,” rose 
 the cross-crowned roof of the Christian temple. Of Angus she 
 told, the royal convert of Patrick, with his childlike simplicity 
 of faith and most excellent humility ; of Cormac the king- 
 bishop, of whom the ancient annals say that “his loss was 
 mournful, for he was a king, a bishop, an anchorite, a scribe, 
 and profoundly learned in the Scotic ( i.e . Irish) tongue,” — 
 Cormac the historian, the elegant scholar — but, alas ! the too- 
 gentle and too-yielding prince, persuaded by ambitious courtiers 
 to enter upon the dangerous trade of war in defence of his 
 dominions, in which bloody contest he lost his life, and Ireland, 
 in him, one of her greatest sons. And of Flaherty, his successor, 
 Harriet told, who, having been one of the ill advisers of the 
 late king, was so stricken with sorrow and remorse, seeing the 
 evil which his counsels had mainly brought upon the land and 
 the people, that he speedily laid aside his episcopal office and 
 his royal state, flung from him the mitre and the crown, and, 
 retiring to an abbey which he founded in a wild and lonely 
 spot on a small island in a lake (now a bog), 1 he there ended 
 
 1 The Abbey of Monahinch, even the ruins of which have now almost 
 disappeared, was still in tolerably good preservation when Dr. Ledwich 
 wrote, some sixty or seventy years since. According to that and other 
 antiquaries, the abbey must have been both grand and beautiful, pre- 
 senting many features of extraordinary interest. It was situate on the 
 confines of Queen’s County and Tipperary, but chiefly in the latter county. 
 
Ilf 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 his life in the austerity of penance common in those days of 
 faith and fervour. “ If your lordship will take the trouble,” 
 said Harriet, “to look into Ledwich’s Antiquities o f Ireland , 
 at 4 Monahincha,’ you will be repaid, I assure you, by the very 
 interesting account he gives of the enormous labour and industry 
 evinced by the monks in conveying the materials for their 
 magnificent structures not only from the opposite side of the 
 lake, but from a considerable distance inland, the island being 
 then only accessible in canoes, hollowed, he says, out of ex- 
 cavated trees. You will then, I think, admit that the monks 
 of those mediaeval times could not have been so lazy as people 
 would have us believe.” 
 
 Blushing at her own earnestness, Harriet stopped short, and 
 glanced furtively at her auditors. There was a smile on Mr. 
 Goodchild’s face, a smile half benevolent, half incredulous, and 
 he was tapping his snuff-box with prodigious energy and 
 determination, as though the king-abbot of Monahinch were 
 bodily encased therein, and the punishment of his folly had 
 devolved on the worthy chaplain. Lord Effingham’s haughty 
 lip was curled with something very like a sneer as he coldly 
 replied — 
 
 “I should not have thought you were so much of an anti 
 quarian, Miss Markham. Your reference to Ledwich is quite 
 superfluous after your own learned description. Why, you 
 can really draw ‘sermons from stones,’ if not ‘books from 
 running brooks.’ ” 
 
 There were two islands in the lake, now a bog, and on each was situated 
 some of the monastic buildings. One was called the Men’s Island, 
 and contained an abbey and oratory ; the Women’s Island contained a 
 small chapel ; and a locality on the firm land, exterior to the bog, con- 
 tained a second abbey. “Sculpture,” says Ledwich, “seems here to have 
 exhausted her treasures. A nebule moulding adorns the outward semi- 
 circle of the portal, a double nebule with beads the second, a chevron the 
 third, interspersed with the triangular frette, roses, and other ornaments. 
 It is also decorated with chalices artfully made at every section of the 
 stone so as to conceal the joint. ... By some accident ashen keys have 
 been dropped on the walls of this building ; in a number of years they 
 have become large trees. Their roots have insinuated into every crevice, 
 burst the walls everywhere, and threaten the whole with ruin.” Henca 
 the almost total disappearance of these interesting structures. Ledwich 
 further says, “Adjoining the abbey, on the north side, was the prior’s 
 chamber, which communicated with the church by a door with a Gothic 
 arch.” 
 
THE RIDE HOME . 
 
 145 
 
 “ My lord,” said Harriet, reddening to the very temples, “ I 
 know it is not now the fashion for ladies to devote attention to 
 such matters, much less to speak of them, but my father was a 
 votary of the past, and whether it be for good or ill to me, his 
 only daughter, I was early imbued with his passionate love for 
 ancient lore and the glories that perish not with time. An 
 antiquarian I am not, my lord, in the sense in which you apply 
 the word, but simply a lover of the storied past, especially of 
 this my native land. You, an Englishman, can scarcely under- 
 stand the love that we Irish cherish for c our own loved land of 
 sorrow/ the fond pride with which we turn ever to the 
 departed glories of the fair land, and dream 
 
 Of chieftains, now forgot, who beamed 
 The foremost then in fame ; 
 
 Of bards who, once immortal deemed, 
 
 Now sleep without a name. ” 
 
 “Englishmen, like other men,” the Earl replied, “can 
 understand many things for which they do not get credit. 
 But pray, Miss Markham, is your Cashel chronicle at an end ? ” 
 
 “I see our journey is, at all events,” rejoined the lady, with a 
 smile of doubtful meaning. “I regret to deprive Mr. Good- 
 child of the martyrology of Cashel — and Cashel has literally a 
 martyrology. I am bound to crave your lordship’s pardon 
 too,” — her look was very arch just then, — “ for I know you 
 would have been much entertained by the account of the 
 various tortures and punishments, pains and penalties, inflicted 
 on divers of the archbishops of Cashel by Act of Parliament” 
 
 “ Some other time,” said his lordship, with an ironical bow. 
 
 “ Ah ! at our next visit to Cashel, perhaps,” blandly suggested 
 Goodchild, rubbing his fat hands in a small ecstasy at what he 
 considered a capital hit. He, of course, interpreted Lord 
 Effingham’s coldness according to his own wishes, and measured 
 his impressions of Cashel by his own. Perhaps he was right, 
 perhaps wrong. 
 
 The carriage had just turned into the long and shady avenue 
 *eading to the Castle — shady even then, if not with the fresh 
 foliage of the sycamore, the beech, and the poplar, at least with 
 the shadow of the dark*hued “ evergreen pine,” the laurel, and 
 the dapper spruce, planted at intervals along the double row of 
 io 
 
146 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 tall shade-trees that bordered the noble avenue. All at once 
 the little girls broke out into divers exclamations of wonder. 
 
 “Oh, do look, papa! — Miss Markham, see! see! — oh dear! 
 what strange people ! ” 
 
 Following the direction of their eyes, Harriet saw moving 
 along on the sward that fringed the carriage-way on either side 
 two figures, in whom she at once recognised Mad Mabel and 
 Shaun the piper. 
 
 “And, dear ! dear ! what an ugly little dog ! ” cried the little 
 Lady Ann, meaning poor Frisk, who was trotting in advance 
 as usual. 
 
 “If your lordship has no objection,” said Harriet, “the 
 young ladies may now have a specimen of rustic minstrelsy. 
 There is the famous Shaun the piper, and if you will only have 
 the goodness to tell William to drive slower, I know he will 
 ‘give us a tune/ as he says himself.” 
 
 The check-string was pulled accordingly, and the carriage 
 rolled slowly along the level avenue till it came within a few 
 yards of Shaun, when he all at once struck up “The Wind 
 that shakes the Barley ” with a vigour and spirit that made the 
 horses prick up their ears and champ their bits as though they 
 felt very much inclined to try what they could do at a reel. 
 
 “ What barbarous music ! ” said Goodchild ; “ it is only fit for 
 savages ! ” 
 
 “It is good enough, surely, for ‘wild Irishry ’ !” said Harriet 
 with a smile ; then, leaning her head out of the window, she 
 accosted the piper — “Many thanks, friend, for your music. 
 Where may you be going now ? ” 
 
 “ Wisha, then, I was goin’ to try my luck at the Castle. I 
 never was up there, at all, at all, an’ they say there’s a fine 
 darlin’ lady in it a-tachin’ of the lord’s daughters, that’s a great 
 friend entirely to the likes of us, an’ mighty fond of the ould 
 music.” 
 
 “Well, that is true enough, Shaun, but the lady of whom 
 you speak may not be at liberty to draw ‘ the likes of you,’ as 
 you say, about the house, seeing that she is only employed 
 there.” 
 
 “ Oh, Miss Markham, do have him come ! — oh, pray do ! ” 
 cried the two little girls in a breath. “ Papa, mayn’t he come? 
 We shall be so delighted ! ” 
 
THE RIDE HOME, 
 
 147 
 
 “Be delighted, then!” said the Earl, smiling down in the 
 eager little faces upturned to his. “ Give him a general in- 
 vitation,” he said, addressing Miss Markham. 
 
 “Lord Effingham says you will be welcome at the Castle 
 whenever you choose to come,” said Harriet to the piper. 
 
 “ And is the lord here himself ? An’ maybe you’re the beauti- 
 ful young lady that loves the ould ancient music ? ” 
 
 “ The lord is here,” laughed Miss Markham, “ and I am the 
 lady that loves the old music — but as for the beautiful lady, 
 I am sorry to say we have no lady of that description in 
 Effingham Castle.” 
 
 “ Now, don’t say that, miss ! don’t say that,” cried Shaun, 
 with much quickness. “ Sure, I know by your voice you’re as 
 fair an’ as sweet as the flowers in May. Long life and success 
 to your ladyship ! ” 
 
 “You see, my lord,” said Harriet, “our Irish piper has the 
 peerage at his finger ends ! But what have you to say to Lord 
 Effingham, Shaun?” 
 
 “ ’Deed, then, I’ve nothing to say to him but what’s good, an’ 
 very good. Sure, only he’s the right sort of a gentleman he 
 wouldn’t have the good wish of the people as he has, an’ them 
 iiot knowing much about him, at all, at all ! ” 
 
 “There, my lord, there’s a specimen of Irish heart-logic for 
 you,” said Harriet archly. 
 
 “I accept the compliment,” said the Earl, “and I thank you, 
 friend, for your good opinion. The gates of Effingham Castle 
 shall be always open to you and that four-footed friend of 
 yours.” 
 
 “I humbly thank your lordship,” said Shaun, with his lowest 
 bow, and the blood coursed merrily through his old veins, and 
 the lightness of long-vanished youth was in his step for the 
 moment as he moved on playing “ Planxty Drury.” 
 
 “But who is the girl?” said Lord Effingham, struck with 
 Mabel’s sad and singular appearance. 
 
 Harriet sighed as she turned her eyes on the poor witless 
 creature, who had been watching the inmates of the carriage 
 with the closest attention and in very unusual silence. “Ah ! 
 that, my lord, is a poor wreck of humanity — the people call 
 her Mad Mabel. She is a minstrel too, in her way. Why so 
 silent, Mabel ? Have you no news for me ? ” 
 
1 48 
 
 TIIE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 “Oh, wisha, news? — what news 'id I have? But they're 
 goin’ to hang Jerry Pierce — -did you hear that?" 
 
 “ Is it possible, Mabel ? ” 
 
 “ It's truth I tell you, — an’ listen hither," coming over close 
 to the carriage, “ Celia Mulquin an’ me is goin’ away together 
 to the well o’ the world’s end — you know where that is ? Och, 
 no ! that isn’t it," she added in a desponding tone ; “ sure, it’s 
 down at Holy Cross Patrick is, an’ I dunna where they’ll put 
 Jerry Pierce when they hang him — maybe in that dark vau’t 
 where they put young Mr. Esmond." 
 
 The carriage stopped, as if the coachman wanted to let those 
 within have the full benefit of Mabel’s wild prattle. All at 
 once Shaun changed the gay fantastic measure of his “ Planxty " 
 for the love-sweet “ Shule aroon," and Mabel, catching up the 
 strain, sang in her dreamy, unconscious way — 
 
 “ Och ! if I was on yonder hill, 
 
 It’s there I’d sit and cry my fill, 
 
 Till every tear would turn a mill, 
 
 As’ go dhi mo vourneen slaun. 1 
 
 Oyeh ! it’s little I cry now ! I used to cry a long time ago 
 before they took him away from me, but the tears are all gone 
 —all gone. Come now, Shaun ! let us be off," and she seized 
 the piper by the arm ; “the fun ’ill be all over before we get to 
 Holy Cross, an’ I want you an’ me to dance a jig on King 
 Donogh’s tomb the night — no, behind it, where I hid from the 
 men that killed ould Esmond ! — ha ! ha ! they wanted to kill 
 me that time, but I was too many for them ! — so now, Shaun, 
 put the best foot foremost, — step out, man ! — augli ! maybe it’s 
 goin’ to hang that purty lady in the coach they are — or shoot 
 her, or somethin’, an’ then she’ll be walkin’, walkin’ ever, like 
 me an’ Celia Mulquin. Ochone ! but I’m tired, tired — an’ my 
 heart is sore ! " 
 
 There was a mournful pathos in the tone and the words that 
 drew tears to Harriet’s eyes. 
 
 “A strange being, that," said the Earl carelessly, as the 
 carriage rolled away. 
 
 “ An Irish Blanche , my lord, — her story much the same, only 
 sadder still." 
 
 1 And may my love come safe. 
 
THE RIDE HOME, 
 
 149 
 
 “ By her madness hangs a tale, of course % ” 
 
 “ A tale 1 — ay, a tale of horror, of blood, and of ” — 
 
 “ Of love stronger than death ?” subjoined Lord Effingham, 
 with a chilling smile that was more than half a sneer. 
 
 “ Yes, even of that, my lord,” said Harriet promptly. 
 
 “ It were worth the hearing, if so,” said the peer in the same 
 ironical tone. “ I see the children are dying, as you ladies say, 
 to hear the story. Could you not gratify their curiosity some 
 of these first evenings — when Mr. Goodchild and I are within 
 hearing — and Mrs. Pakenham— if in humour to listen ? ” 
 
 “ Most willingly, my lord, if Mr. Goodchild will promise to 
 keep awake to hear me ? ” 
 
 “ My dear Miss Markham ! ” — began the chaplain, by way of 
 entering a protest against the implied charge. 
 
 “My dear Mr. Goodchild, I freely forgive you for steeping 
 your senses in sweet forgetfulness during my late prosy narrative,” 
 said Harriet, with a smile, — “on condition, however, that you 
 lend me your ears, as Marc Antony says in the play, when I 
 come to unfold the sad tale, not exactly of poor Mabel's wrongs, 
 but of her sorrows.” 
 
 The chaplain, ashamed of being so literally “caught napping,” 
 the more so as he detected an incipient smile on his patron’s 
 face, was but too well pleased to get rid of the subject with 
 an unconditional promise. The carriage stopping just then, 
 Mrs. Pakenham’s portly figure was soon visible in the vestibule 
 of Effingham Castle, and poor Mabel was, for the time, for- 
 gotten in the important business of “ lunching,” for which the 
 drive through the frosty air and the long visit to the Rock had 
 duly disposed the party. 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 A WAKE AND WHAT BEFEL THEREAT, 
 
 The weeks and months rolled by, the snows of February and 
 the winds of March and the soft dewy showers of April had all 
 passed away, and still Jerry Pierce was a wanderer on the 
 earth, with the brand of Cain on his brow, eluding the vigilance 
 of the police, in what way no one could tell, notwithstanding 
 that a tempting reward had been offered for his apprehension, 
 and to all appearance the popular feeling was as strong against 
 him as it ever had been. It was the last day of April, the 
 charmed May-eve, and the little boys and girls were abroad in 
 the dewy meadows gathering the golden May-flowers to strew 
 before the house-doors for the welcoming of the summer . 1 
 
 In the grey light of the closing evening sat Cauth by the 
 door, with her stocking on her arm, listening to the pleasant 
 sounds from the fields and meadows, and ever as she plied her 
 needles muttering drearily to herself, as was her custom when 
 alone. 
 
 “ Wisha, but it’s merry ye all are now,” she said half aloud 
 “as merry as crickets! — that’s right! go on with your galli 
 vantin’, make the best of it while ye can ! — I’ll go bail ye’ll 
 not be so merry this night twel’month — some o’ ye, anyhow ! 
 Ah, the poor foolish crathurs! isn’t it badly off they are to 
 know what’s before them? — most o’ them ’ill know it time 
 enough ! ” 
 
 “That’s the truest word you ever spoke,” said a man who 
 just then stood on the threshold before her ; “ it’s little pleasure 
 
 1 In Ireland the summer commences with the merry month of May — 
 the spring with February and Candlemas Day, as the Feast of the Purifi- 
 cation is there called, from the blessed candles then distributed amongst 
 the people. 
 
 150 
 
A WAKE AND WHAT BE EEL THEREAT 151 
 
 they’d expect in this world if they knew it as well as you and 
 me, Cauth.” 
 
 “Well, I declare you have the odds o’ me, honest man!” 
 gaid Cauth, startled a little by his sudden appearance. 
 
 “That may be,” said the man gruffly, “but it’s askin’ your 
 help I am, for God’s sake, an’ it matters little whether you 
 know me or not. I know you , at any rate.” 
 
 “ Wislia, God help your wit, poor man ! ” said Cauth in a 
 softened tone, “ it’s little I have to give any one. It’s a sign 
 you don't know me, though you say you do, when you ask me 
 for charity.” 
 
 “Much or little, you can give something, an’ you must, 
 too, for I have a sick child at home — at home” he repeated, 
 with something like a chuckling laugh, — “ a motherless child, 
 too, without a bite or a sup to give her, an’ she cryin’ for 
 somethin'" to ate. They tell me,” he added, with hysterical wild- 
 ness, — “they tell me it’s the hunger o’ death that’s on the darlin’ ! 
 Woman ! woman ! give me somethin’ for her, if it’s only a 
 mouthful ! ” 
 
 “ Oh vo ! vo ! ” said Cauth, rising quickly ; “ sure, I’d keep it 
 out o’ my own mouth an’ give it, if that’s the way it is with 
 you ! ” And, going to the little alcove, she took out a piece 
 of oaten cake, then poured some buttermilk into a porringer 
 ( i.e . tin cup), and gave it to the man, who had stepped inside 
 the door, and stood shivering in his tattered garments 
 waiting to receive the precious aliments, miserable though 
 they were. 
 
 “ There’s the best I have for you,” continued Cauth, as the 
 man put the bread in the wallet that hung empty over his 
 shoulder ; “ if it was a little while agone, I could give you 
 somethin’ better, but, ochone ! since the black sorrow came on 
 the poor mistress at the Hall above, there’s many a thing we 
 miss that we used to have. It’s the good lady she was, all 
 out, till that curse-o’-God villain murdhered the darlin’ young 
 master, but sure, sure, we couldn’t have the face to go next or 
 nigh her now ! Go your ways, honest man ; an’ as I gave you 
 that charity in the honour o’ God, I lay it on you to say a 
 Pather an’ Ave for Mr. Esmond’s sowl.” 
 
 “Don’t be layin’ anythin’ on me!” said the man fiercely. 
 “ I’ll say no Pather an’ Aves for the bit that’s to save my child’s 
 
152 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK 
 
 life. That’s the laste I may have ! ” And he was rushing out 
 of the hut when Cauth caught him by the arm. 
 
 “ You’re a bad man,” said she, “ or you wouldn’t say the 
 likes o’ that ! ” 
 
 “ Wisha, thank you kindly,” said the man in a tone of bitter 
 
 mockery, “an’ sure it’s a good ivoman yourself is, ,” he 
 
 named a name in a low, guttural whisper, and then darted off, 
 leaving Cauth like one spellbound. Long she stood looking 
 vacantly down on the floor, her features fixed and rigid, and 
 her long skinny arms hanging, as it were, powerless by either 
 side. At last she staggered to her seat near the door, and, 
 heaving a deep-drawn sigh, leaned her head against the wall. 
 
 “ Och, then,” she murmured sadly, “ them that ’id tell me of 
 a May-eve long ago that it ’id ever come to this with me ! Sure, 
 nobody knows what’s before them. But I thought — I thought I 
 could hide myself here, an’ I see I can’t ! I believe there’s no 
 rest for me aboveground ! ” 
 
 She was roused from her dreamy cogitations by the sound of 
 Mabel’s wild, sweet voice singing outside — 
 
 “ Och ! beware of meeting Rinardine 
 All on the mountain high ! 
 
 Wisha ! what’s come of all the snails 1 an’ the ne’er a bit o 
 yarra can I find, at all, an’ they tell me it’s May-eve, an’ what’ll 
 I do for the yarra ? ” 1 
 
 “ Lord save us ! ” muttered Cauth; “ there’s that poor cracked 
 Mabel ! I hope it isn’t in here she’d be cornin’ ! The lone- 
 some crathur ! it’s lookin’ for the yarra she is, an’ the snail 1 
 Oyeh ! oyeh ! see how she gropes along on the ground — she’s 
 for all the world like a ghost ! — an’ worse than a ghost she is to 
 me!” And she shuddered as she watched the spectral-looking 
 figure gliding in a stooping posture through the deepening 
 shades in her search for the charmed plant. 
 
 1 The pulling of the yarrow after nightfall is one of the principal 
 “charms” proper to May-eve amongst the peasant girls of Ireland. 
 Another is placing a snail (also captured after the stars are in the sky) 
 between two plates, in hopes that during the night it would trace in snail- 
 hand the initial letters of the fated name on one or other of the plates. 
 All these May-eve “tricks,” like those of Hallow-eve, are of purely pagan 
 origin, the first of November and the first of May being the two great 
 festivals of the year amongst the pagan Irish. 
 
A WAKE AND WHAT BEFEL THE RE A T. 153 
 
 “ The sight of her makes me shiver all over,” said Cauth, 
 4 ‘ an’ when she gets a-talkin’ about things, it makes me ’most as 
 mad as herself to hear her ! She’ll not get in here the night, 
 that’s for sartin ! An’ it’s a hard thing, too, to shut her out 
 bekase she’s afflicted ! But sure, I can’t help it — I wouldn’t 
 do it if I could ! ” 
 
 And so saying, she softly closed the door, whilst Mabel went 
 on with her fruitless search, singing the while™ 
 
 “ He says, my purty fair maid, I like your offer well, 
 
 But I’m engaged already, the truth to you to tell, 
 
 Unto another damsel who is to be my bride, 
 
 A wealthy grazier’s daughter down by the Shannon side.” 
 
 The next moment, as usual with her, the strain was changed 
 to that most doleful ditty — 
 
 “Och ! it’s on the banks o’ Cla-dy I’m told he does remain !” — 
 
 perhaps more in accordance with her own wild and gloomy 
 fancies. 
 
 Later in the evening, when the full moon was shining down 
 in silvery splendour on the old Eock and the ivied ruins and 
 the richly-varied plain stretching far and away beneath, Mad 
 Mabel stole with a creeping pace to the door of Larry Mulquin’s 
 cottage, and, raising the latch, glided in. Celia was alone, 
 spinning by the fire, her father and brothers being gone 
 respectively “on their cail-lie.” 1 There was a troubled look 
 on Celia’s face, and the rich bloom had faded from her 
 cheek; ever as her foot turned the wheel, and the delicate 
 flaxen thread passed lightly through her fingers, a deeper shade 
 fell on her shrunken features, and the tremulous motion of her 
 lips denoted the workings of the heart within. So wrapt was 
 she in her own sad thoughts that she heeded not the raising 
 of the latch, and the first intimation she had of Mabel’s 
 presence was her squatting on the floor beside her, looking 
 silently up in her face through the dishevelled tresses of her 
 long hair. A low scream escaped Celia at the sudden appear- 
 ance of the ghostly face and figure, but, instantly recognising 
 Mabel, she drew a long breath, and forced a smile that was 
 ghastly on her face as sunlight on a new-made grave. 
 
 1 i.e, to a neighbour’s house to spend the evening. 
 
154 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 “ Wisha, Mabel ! is it you that’s in it ? — the ne’er a bit but 
 you took a start out o’ me ! ” 
 
 “ Husht J ” whispered Mabel, raising her finger, “ don’t say a 
 word for your life — the peelers are out, you know, this purty 
 moonlight night, looking for Jerry Pierce an’ every one;” then, 
 forgetting her own injunction, she began singing — 
 
 “ Och ! it’s ziy delight of a shining night 
 In the season of the year.” 
 
 Celia shook like an aspen leaf at the mention of Pierce’s 
 name, and she cast a shrinking look around. 
 
 “ Take care now, Mabel, what you say ! ” she whispered, 
 but remembering how useless it was to warn the poor creature 
 of anything, she adopted the wiser course of turning her atten- 
 tion from the dangerous subject. 
 
 “ What did you come here for, Mabel?” said she very gently. 
 “ Did you want to speak to me?” 
 
 “Look here,” said Mabel, “ see what I brought you.” 
 
 And opening a dock-leaf she held in her hand, she showed its 
 contents to Celia, looking eagerly up in her face the while, as 
 if to note her satisfaction. 
 
 “ It’s May-eve, you know.” 
 
 “ Ah, poor Mabel ! ” sighed Celia, and she sadly shook her 
 head ; “I want no snails now, nor yarra neither. No, nor the 
 May-dew . 1 All that’s past an’ gone ! ” 
 
 “But don’t you want to see Jerry’s name on the plate jist 
 for oust before they hang him ? ” 
 
 Celia, with a groan and a shudder, covered her face with her 
 hands, murmuring, “ Mabel ! Mabel ! for God’s sake hold your 
 tongue ! ” 
 
 ‘•'I will, avourneen, I will,” said Mabel, rising. “So you’ll not 
 take the yarra, afther me goin’ out a-purpose to pull it for you?” 
 
 “ Yis, yis, I’ll take it,” cried Celia, snatching it from her, in 
 hopes of getting rid of her the sooner. 
 
 “ An’ you’ll put it under your head, achree ? an’ you’ll see 
 
 1 Another beautiful and highly poetical custom of the Irish peasant 
 girls is that of gathering the first May-dew to bathe their faces. For that 
 purpose they go out before .sunrise on “ May -morning” (as the first 
 morning of the fair month is distinctively styled) and gather the dew 
 from the leaves and flowers. 
 
A WAKE AND WHAT BE EEL THEREAT 155 
 
 the beautiful fine drame you’ll have about the hangin’. They 
 wouldn’t let me see Patrick hanging you know,” she added 
 confidentially, “ but maybe they’d let you go and see Jerry 
 when it comes his turn. If they do, be sure an’ bring me with 
 you, for I think it’s the greatest thing in the whole world to 
 see any one a-hangin’. Och ! och ! ” she added, with a piteous 
 moan, “ I wish they’d hang me at onst, an’ be done with it, for 
 I’m tired walkin’, walkin’ ever, and never gettin’ to my 
 journey’s end.” 
 
 “Where are you going now, Mabel?” Celia asked, moving 
 with her towards the door. 
 
 “I’m goin’ to the graveyard, to see if Jerry be there, an’ if 
 he is, I’ll tell him you want him.” 
 
 “ To the graveyard, Mabel ? — Lord save us ! what ’id bring 
 him there?” Celia asked, affrighted, without waiting to think of 
 the folly of heeding Mabel’s wild ravings. 
 
 “ Well, I wasn’t spakin’ to him that night I seen him at the 
 vau’t lookin’ at the letters on the front of it. You mind that 
 night, Celia? it was a purty bright night, for all the world 
 sich another as this. The sperits were all out that night in 
 the purty moonlight, an’ Patrick an’ myself walked round an’ 
 round the ould walls an’ the graves on the Rock above, an’ 
 then we went down to Hore Abbey, an’ we sat discoorsin’ there 
 a while about one thing an’ another, an’ watchin’ the fairies 
 divartin’ themselves, an’ chasin’ one another in an’ out through 
 the ould windows an’ arches an’ things, an’ then, mavrone ! off 
 we went to Holy Cross, but jist as we got there the cock 
 crew, an’ poor Patrick had to go, — but listen hither, Celia ! he 
 said Jerry Pierce was goin’ to be hung some o’ these days, an’ 
 then you an’ me, an’ Jerry an’ him, an’ all the rest o’ the 
 sperits, ’id have the finest times you ever seen ! Och, well ! I 
 must be goin’ — it’s tired I am — tired, tired — an’ the heart 
 athin me is as heavy as lead — it’s a load to carry, so it is ! I 
 wish Jerry Pierce hadn’t shot the purty young gentleman, an’ 
 made that ugly hole in his white forehead — och ! what made 
 him do it, at all ? ” 
 
 So saying, poor Mabel glided away noiselessly as she came, 
 leaving Celia well pleased to get rid of her (to her) torturing 
 prattle, which had somehow renewed all her troubles in her 
 mind, and left her a prey to the most excruciating misery. 
 
156 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 Still the silent moon shone down on the slumbering earth as 
 calmly as though no stormy passion, no gnawing grief, was at 
 work amongst the children of men. But the world never sleeps, 
 and the peaceful sheen of the cold pale moonbeams as they 
 rested on the earth and on the dwellings of men, was but a 
 mockery after all. Beneath the glittering guise which nature 
 wore that night the tide of human life was rushing on, and 
 hearts were throbbing in the wildness of grief, and burning with 
 the fever of mighty passion. 
 
 Leaving the old borough behind, with all its quaint and pic 
 turesque irregularity of outline, and its striking contrasts, and 
 the shadows lurking amongst its silent avenues, we will take 
 our way up the side of Gallows Hill to the mud cabin beneath 
 the alderbush, where the fairy-woman dwelt in charmed soli- 
 tude, her lonely hut fenced round, as it were, by popular 
 superstition. On ordinary occasions neither bolt nor bar 
 secured the door, a latch with a string being more than suffi- 
 cient for the exclusion of all without and the protection of all 
 within. Indeed, there was little in the place to tempt cupidity. 
 The hut was divided midway by a partition of wattles covered 
 with clay, which partition being only the height of the side 
 wall, left all the space to the roof open, and gave access to the 
 little room beyond simply by cutting itself some three feet 
 short, leaving the breadth of a doorway at one end. The outer 
 apartment was the kitchen, if kitchen it could be called. It 
 had neither jamb-wall nor hob, the only provision for making 
 fire being a few large flat stones loosely laid on the clay floor, 
 an opening in the roof above giving egress to the smoke, or at 
 least as much of it as chanced to take an upward direction. A 
 small pile of dry brambles lay in one corner, but the fire on the 
 hearth at this time was composed of a species of fuel probably 
 only known amongst the peasantry of Ireland. A quantity of 
 “ seeds,” that is to say, the outer husks of the oats, was heaped 
 on the stones against the blackened wall ; the front of the heap 
 was burning, emitting a much more cheerful blaze than might 
 be supposed from the nature of the fuel, and close by sat the 
 hag who owned the cabin, stirring in the fresh “ seeds ” from 
 time to time with a primitive sort of tongs formed of a piece of 
 iron hoop bent in two and brought almost close together at the 
 ends. Beyond her, next the wall, were two little children, a 
 
A WALE AND WHAT BEFEL THEREAT 157 
 
 boy and a girl, cowering over the poor substitute for a fire, 
 their half-covered bodies and their pinched faces conveying a 
 picture of the dreariest and most abject destitution. A ghastly 
 light was thrown on the group from the inner chamber, where 
 a still more pitiable sight was visible through the doorless 
 aperture in the partition. On a straw pallet, which usually 
 served for the fairy-woman’s couch, lay the dead form of a 
 young child, the face only visible over the wretched covering 
 of the poor bed. And a face of touching beauty it was, in its 
 sweet repose, though sadly pinched, and stamped with that 
 premature oldness so often seen in the children of the very 
 poor. But the pale golden hair that shaded the small fair fore- 
 head and the delicate outlines of the marble-like features made 
 a picture fair though sad to look upon. Death had there 
 nothing repulsive, nothing stern ; it was the image of rest, 
 tranquil, happy rest, no more. 
 
 Not such was the face of the solitary watcher by that bed of 
 death — a man of spare proportions, haggard features, wild and 
 restless eyes, and shaggy brows knitted into an ominous frown. 
 The garments of the man had been patched in many places, 
 but other rents here and there showed either the want of a 
 friendly hand to mend the tattered garment, perhaps the 
 increasing neglect that follows and accompanies increasing 
 misery, perhaps both. The man was the same who had asked 
 and received charity from Cauth, but the charity had come 
 too late. His child was dead when he returned all panting 
 and eager with his poor prize. One heavy groan was all that 
 escaped him when his eye fell on the dead face ; but, handing 
 the bread and milk to his remaining little girl to divide 
 between herself and her brother, who was still younger, he 
 drew a stool to the bedside, and muttering, “ Thank God she’s 
 gone at last ! ” he had never stirred from the same posture all 
 the long hours that had come and gone since then. A resin 
 dip was burning beside the bed in one of those stands impro- 
 vised for the purpose, rising some three feet from a wooden 
 block that rested on the floor. Bare and unsightly were the 
 clay walls of the little room, unrelieved by even one article of 
 furniture, save and except the straw pallet and the round three- 
 legged stool on which sat the desolate father. All was poverty, 
 sheer, unmitigated poverty, in its most cheerless aspect; yet 
 
158 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK \ 
 
 there was one redeeming quality in the squalid misery of the 
 place, and that was its remarkable cleanliness, truly remarkable 
 under the circumstances. 
 
 All at once the door opened, and another man made his 
 appearance, stooped as if beneath the weight of years, yet of 
 stout proportions withal, judging from the faint light in the 
 cabin. The stoop soon vanished when once the door was 
 closed, and the children uttered an exclamation of pleasure 
 that drew a sharp rebuke from the ancient crone. She turned 
 her head, however, and nodded to the new-comer with a curt 
 salutation in Irish. 
 
 “ Is Tim within ? ” 
 
 “ Athen, why wouldn't he? — Nelly's dead.” 
 
 “Dead?” cried the man, with a sudden start, — “little Nelly 
 dead ? You're not in earnest, vanithee ! ” 
 
 “ Maybe I'm not — go in there an' see ! ” pointing to the inner 
 room. 
 
 The children began to cry, but were speedily silenced by a 
 threatening gesture from the hag. The man passed on into 
 the room. 
 
 “I’ll slip out now, childer,” whispered the old woman to 
 her young companions ; “ I didn’t care to go and leave him by 
 himself with the corpse, but I’ll go now an' I'll see if I can't 
 get somethin’ to lay her out in. Mind you don't let the fire 
 out till I come back ; ” and, wrapping her old red cloak about 
 her, she left the cottage. 
 
 A tall and sinewy form was that of the man who now stood 
 beside the wretched pallet, looking down on the little wax-like 
 image so ineffably calm and serene. The father had only 
 noticed his entrance by a listless nod, and then sank again into 
 his gloomy reverie. 
 
 “ Poor Nelly ! ” said the tall man, as he wiped away the fast- 
 falling tears with the sleeve of his old frieze coat, — “ poor 
 girleen ! is that the way with you ? ” After a moment's silence 
 he spoke again. “Well, Tim, maybe it's best as it is. God is 
 good to us, afther all ! ” 
 
 “Good to us?” cried the other fiercely. “Where's the good- 
 ness, I'd wish to know ? It's aisy for you to talk, that doesn't 
 know what a father's heart is ! ” 
 
 “ Maybe I do as well as you ! If I hadn’t a father's heart 
 
A WAKE AND WHAT BEFEL THEREAT 159 
 
 myself for these poor childer, I wouldn't he the man I am the 
 night, an' I think you ought to know that.” 
 
 The other started to his feet, his face, late so pale, flushed 
 crimson red. “ There it is again, now ! ” he said in thick, 
 guttural tones ; “ will you never be done talkin’ that way ? ” 
 
 “ I wouldn’t talk that way, Tim, only you take it out o’ me. 
 You’re a mighty quare man, now, that’s what you are. But 
 there’s no use talkin’ an’ wranglin’. When did Nelly die ? ” 
 “There a little while after dusk, when I was down about the 
 town tryin’ to get a mouthful for her to ate. She died of 
 hunger at last ! ” His look grew darker and fiercer. “ That’s 
 another nail in his coffin ! There’s Nora yit, an’ Patsey, I’ll 
 go bail they’ll both go like their mother an’ Nelly— an’ when 
 they do we'll clinch all the nails — ho ! ho ! ho ! ” and the man 
 laughed with horrible glee. 
 
 “Tim! Tim!” said the other, “what’s cornin’ over you, at 
 all?” 
 
 “ Oh, the sorra thing’s cornin’ over me — I’m in my parfit 
 senses, an’ sure you can’t say I’m talkin’ rashly when I tell 
 you I’ll wait till the childer’s all dead wid hunger an’ want 
 before I settle with them that killed mother an’ childer both. 
 Sure, if I waited till I’d be dead myself, there ’id be nobody 
 •hen to do the business.” 
 
 “ Tim Murtha ! ” said his companion, fixing his eyes on him 
 with a wild and troubled look, — “Tim Murtha! the hand of 
 fiod is heavy on us ! Blood is blood, an’ the stain of it can 
 never be washed away, an’ the voice of it cries from the ground 
 for vengeance on the murderer ! ” 
 
 A change came over the haggard face of Tim Murtha. 
 Slowly he turned on the speaker, and the two stood looking 
 into each other’s eyes with a strange and ghastly meaning. 
 At last Tim Murtha spoke, and his voice was strangely 
 hollow. 
 
 “Blood is blood, I know, but revenge is sweet ! ” 
 
 “ God forgive you, Tim ! you have a heart as hard as a 
 stone ! Now, I’d give all the money I ever seen, an’ twice as 
 much more, if that deed wasn’t done yit, an’ you're only 
 thinkin’ of ” — 
 
 “ Nobody doubts you,” said Tim, with scornful emphasis ; “ it’s 
 your own neck that’s throublin’ you, an’ not the deed I Why 
 
100 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK 
 
 don’t you get out of the way altogether, like a man, an’ not be 
 hangin’ about here like a moth round a candle, till they cotch 
 you at last, an’ then your life isn’t worth a pin ? But I know 
 what you’re up to ! ” 
 
 “You do ?” 
 
 “I do — as well as if I was standin’ within you.” 
 
 “ Out with it, then 1 ” 
 
 “No, I won’t; but mind, I tell you, Jerry Pierce, I’ll be 
 even with you if you think to play any of your tricks on me ! ” 
 It was Jerry Pierce himself who stood there listening, with a 
 thunder- cloud on*, his brow and a lurid lightning in his eye. 
 A storm of passion was raging in his heart, and his very brain 
 throbbed and burned like molten lead ; his huge frame shook 
 like an aspen leaf ; he darted one fiery look at Tim, and the man 
 shrank back affrighted. His momentary terror brought Pierce 
 back to recollection, and he smiled a grim and bitter smile. 
 
 “No wonder you’d be afeard,” said he, “ of Jerry Pierce the 
 murderer. But don’t fear,” he added in a softer tone, “I 
 wouldn’t touch a hair of your head for all the goold in the 
 Queen’s mint — an’ all on the ’count of the weenie crathurs that 
 she left behind her. Poor Nelly!” and, stooping down, he 
 kissed the little dead face, while his tears fell over it like rain, 
 — “poor little darlin’! you that I loved best among them is 
 gone now, but I wouldn’t hurt your father, Nelly, or the man 
 that owned your poor mother ! ” 
 
 “ Give us the hand, Jerry ! ” said Tim in a choking voice. “ I 
 know the thruth’s in you, afther all ; but why, why don’t you 
 get out o’ the way ? Sure, you can’t expect to escape for ever, 
 an’ you keepin’ under their very nose.” 
 
 “ Never you mind that,” Pierce replied. “ I’ll live till my 
 time comes, in spite of them all. But why isn’t the pool 
 darlin’ laid out ? ” 
 
 “For the best o’ raisons,” said Tim, with his ghastly smile, 
 “ because there was nothin’ to lay her out ini 
 
 “ It’s not so now,” made answer the vanithee from behind ; 
 she had entered unperceived by either of the men. “ Get out 
 of the way, now, till I do what’s fit to be done.” 
 
 “ What are you goin’ to do ? ” 
 
 “What’s that to you, Tim Murtha? Do what I bid you, an’ 
 that’s all ! ” 
 
A WAKE AND WHAT BEFEL THEREAT 161 
 
 Just as the men went into the kitchen, a low tap was heard at 
 the door, and Tim Murtha, much excited, would have pushed 
 Jerry back into the room, but the old woman told him shortly 
 to “ let him be.” “ Do you think any one is cornin’ here afther 
 him ? ” she added, with the proud consciousness of power. “ Go 
 an’ open the door — it’s Ned Murtha that’s in it.” 
 
 Sure enough it was Ned Murtha, and Tim and Jerry ex- 
 changed looks at what they supposed the supernatural knowledge 
 of the vanithee. It never occurred to either that she had her- 
 self apprised him of what had happened and therefore expected 
 him to come. As Ned turned after closing the door, his eyes 
 fell on J erry Pierce, and the colour instantly forsook his face. 
 
 “The Lord in heaven save us, Jerry!” he said in a low, 
 cautious whisper; “is it here I have you? Why, it’s out o’ 
 your mind you are to be goin’ about this way ! ” 
 
 “Never mind, Ned— never mind,” said Pierce, with bitter 
 emphasis ; “ they can but hang me, afther all, an’ they can’t do 
 that, aither, till my time has come ! But what brought you 
 here ? Did you hear of poor Nelly’s death ? ” 
 
 Before Ned could answer, the vanithee came out and told 
 them all to go in and see the corpse. At the same time she 
 threw some brambles on the fire and put over it the only cook- 
 ing utensil she possessed, a small iron pot, full of water, saying 
 that she must make some “ tay.” 
 
 “Tay?” repeated Tim Murtha, — “where did you get tay*?” 
 But the rare luxury was quickly forgotten in the surprise of 
 seeing his little girl laid out in a white shroud, a neat cap on 
 her head, and a snowy sheet covering the bed, whilst two mould 
 candles were burning in brass candlesticks on the stool hard by. 
 
 The father was evidently pleased ; his pale, emaciated cheek 
 was flushed with joy, and a light seldom seen there, shone in 
 his sunken eyes. 
 
 “What do you think o’ that?” said the fairy-woman, look- 
 ing up in his face with very natural exultation. 
 
 “Well, I declare that’s great,” said Tim. “Where in the 
 world did you get all the things ? ” 
 
 “ It’s no matter to you where I got them ” — 
 
 “Where would she get them, why!” said Ned Murtha, 
 doubtless with a good intention, “barrin’ from Mrs, Esmond — 
 the ould lady,” 
 ii 
 
162 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK 
 
 Both Pierce and the vanithee tried to stop Ned’s tongue by 
 signs ; but all in vain, Ned would have his say. The effect on 
 Tim was terrible. His face was livid in a moment, and his 
 whole frame trembled with passion. 
 
 “ Is it true what he says ? ” said he, turning to the old woman 
 with forced calmness ; “did you get these things out o’ that house?’ 1 ’ 
 “ Why, then, I did — God reward her that gave them ! ” 
 
 “ An’ you went to his wife to beg a shroud for my child, that 
 he was the manes of starvin’ to death, an’ her mother too?” 
 
 “ Well, I did ; why, an’ who else ’id I go to, barrin’ young 
 Mrs. Esmond, an’ she’s too far away ? ” 
 
 “ Take them every stitch off of her ! ” 
 
 “The Lord save us, Tim ! are you out o’ your mind?” 
 
 “ Take them off, I say ! ” 
 
 “ I wouldn’t do it for all Mr. Esmond’s worth ! Is it to go 
 strip the dead you’d have me ? ” 
 
 “I’ll do it, then !” and, dashing away with maniac strength 
 even the powerful arm of Jerry Pierce extended to prevent 
 him, he tore the sheet off the bed, and, what was still more 
 awful, the shroud off the body, and even the little cap off the 
 poor dead child. The candlesticks he hurled to the floor, 
 regardless of the mischief that might possibly follow, then told 
 the old woman to stop her screeching and light the resin 
 candle, and put the old “duds ’’again on Nelly. “An’ only 
 for fear o’ settin’ the place on fire I’d make a bonfire of them 
 things,” said he ; “ but mind the first thing you do in the 
 mornin’ is to take them back where you got them, an’ tell what 
 you seen me doin’ now ! ” 
 
 “ Oh, you unnatural man, you ! ” cried the vanithee ; “ that 
 was worse than all ! You’re a hay then, so you are, an’ a Turk, 
 an’ you’ll never have a day’s luck as long as you live ! The 
 curse o’ God ’ill come down on you hot an’ heavy for that 
 black deed ! See there ! you have frightened Ned and Jerry 
 out o’ the house, an’ no wondher ! ” 
 
 It was true enough ; when the men saw that he was not to be 
 prevented from carrying out his fell design, they both rushed 
 from the room and from the cabin, fearing to look on such a 
 sight of horror. But Tim Murtha only smiled a ghastly smile, 
 and said, “Let them go! — do as I bid you!” And the 
 vanithee was fain to obey him without further parley. 
 
CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 A SUNDAY EVENING AT ESMOND HALL. 
 
 The young May moon was shedding her mild radiance into the 
 spacious parlour, or rather saloon, in Esmond Hall, where the 
 family were assembled one fair Sabbath evening with nearly the 
 same party of friends as we first saw together there on Hallow- 
 eve night some six or seven months before. Uncle Harry and 
 his wife and Aunt Winifred had dined at the Hall, and Moran, 
 and the Hennessys, and the O’Gradys, having all dropped in 
 during the afternoon, had willingly accepted Mrs. Esmond’s 
 invitation to remain for the evening. Harriet Markham was 
 there too ; indeed, she made it a rule to spend part of every 
 day with Mrs. Esmond, whose grief, never violent or demon- 
 strative, had now assumed the form of gentle melancholy, which 
 those who knew her best expected to continue during her life. 
 It was touching to see the meek, uncomplaining sadness that 
 marked her look and voice and manner, yet she seldom or 
 never recurred to the subject of her loss, and when the kind 
 friends around strove to cheer and amuse her, she smiled her 
 appreciation of their kindly efforts. But it was easy to see 
 that sorrow had set its seal on her whole nature, mind and 
 heart and all, and, as it were, dried up the well-springs of life 
 and hope and joy. Yet she loved to have her friends around 
 her, and listened with apparent interest to all they had to say. 
 
 The day was fading into night, and the moonbeams mingled 
 faint and fair with the light of parting day, gradually dispelling 
 the shadows of the twilight and ushering in the starry hours. 
 Harriet Markham and Mary Hennessy had been giving an 
 account of their meeting on the Rock some months before on 
 St. Bridget’s Day, and the lively fancy of the young ladies had 
 vividly portrayed, to the great amusement of the company, the 
 
 108 
 
164 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK \ 
 
 meeting of two extremes in Bryan and Mr. Goodehild. The 
 gentlemen laughed heartily at Bryan’s caustic replies to the 
 bland, smooth chaplain. 
 
 “ That was very good,” said Moran ; “ but not quite so good 
 as the same gentleman’s encounter with the fairy- woman.” 
 
 “How was that?” said Maurice Hennessy. 
 
 “Why, did none of you hear of it?” No, none of them 
 had. 
 
 “Well, it seems the old dame manifested a touch of 
 humanity some three weeks since, when somebody’s child died 
 in her vicinity under circumstances of great misery. She came 
 down from her perch late at night to beg what was necessary 
 for laying out the corpse.” 
 
 “I remember the night well,” said Aunt Martha; “it was 
 the child of that poor man Tim Murtha that was dead, and she 
 died of misery and want, as the old woman told me.” 
 
 “Nonsense, Martha! ’’said her husband angrily. “I think 
 you ought to know that Murtha better than to believe all you 
 hear of his destitution. He’s a lazy, good-for-nothing vaga- 
 bond, that’s what he is ! If he were not, would he take the bag 
 on his shoulder and go begging from door to door, as I hear he 
 does ? If I happen to get my eyes on him, upon my honour 
 I’ll hand him over to the police as a vagrant ! ” 
 
 “ Shame, shame, Harry ! ” said his wife. “ Do not, for pity’s 
 sake, talk so wildly ! Why, to hear you, one would think you 
 were the greatest tyrant in the whole country ! ” 
 
 “And, begging your pardon, madam, what do 1 care what 
 one thinks ? ” 
 
 “Well, well, Mrs. Esmond, don’t mind,” cried Moran; 
 “ pray continue. What more were you going to say ? ” 
 
 “ Oh, nothing, Mr. Moran, nothing — only that the old woman 
 came to our house one evening late, as you say, and, telling me 
 what had happened, asked me for a sheet and a shroud in which 
 to lay out the poor child.” 
 
 Here her husband started angrily to his feet. “And you 
 gave them, of course ? ” 
 
 “ Certainly I did. Would you have me refuse such a petition?” 
 
 “Then, madam, you did what you had no right to do, 
 knowing the feelings with which we are all regarded by those 
 wretched creatures. I forbade you before to give anything 
 
A SUNDA Y EVENING AT ESMOND HALL. 165 
 
 whatever to these people, and I think I had a right to expect 
 that my command would have been obeyed.” 
 
 “Not where Christian charity is concerned, Harry, — assur- 
 edly not ; you know yourself as well as I do that neither you 
 nor any one else has a right to command anything contrary to 
 the law of God and the law of nature.” 
 
 “Why, Aunt Martha,” said Hennessy, adopting the com- 
 mon appellation by which she was known in the Esmond 
 family, “ I gave you credit for more penetration than I see you 
 have. Now, don’t you see that Uncle Harry is only joking'?” 
 
 “ Joking ? ” repeated the old man, with his wonted vehemence 
 when excited, — “joking, did you say, Hennessy'? A pretty 
 subject for joking, truly ! Now, my wife knows as well as I 
 do how much cause we all have to love these wretched people, 
 who, after all their hypocritical lamentations for our murdered 
 Harry, will not give up his murderer to justice ! ” 
 
 “Stop, stop, for God’s sake!” cried Dr. O’Grady; “see 
 what you have done now ! ” and, following the direction of his 
 finger, all eyes were turned on young Mrs. Esmond, who had 
 fallen back fainting in her chair. 
 
 “I don’t care,” said the harsh old man ; “'she’ll get over her 
 hysterics. But I tell you all, over and over again, that if the 
 people about here weren’t as bloodthirsty as himself, Jerry 
 Pierce would be long ago in the hands of justice.” 
 
 The ladies would fain have persuaded him to retire, fearing 
 the effect that the very sight of him might have on Mrs. 
 Esmond when she began to recover, but not one inch would 
 the old Trojan move. 
 
 “ Humph ! ” said he ; “ one would think I had Medusa’s head 
 on my shoulders ! Henny is not such a puling baby as to be 
 frightened at my old phiz.” 
 
 “ Oh, you shocking man ! ” cried Aunt Winifred, as she knelt 
 in front of the death-like figure of the young hostess, holding a 
 bottle of sal-volatile to her nose, while Mary Hennessy and 
 Mrs. O’Grady rubbed her temples and hands with Eau de 
 Cologne, — “oh, you very shocking bad man ! You grow worse 
 and worse every day ! You’ll be the death of us all — as you ivere 
 of poor Harry ! ” she added, letting her voice fall a very 
 little. 
 
 “What’s that you say, Winny'i” 
 
166 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK . 
 
 “She says, my dear,” said his wife, with an admonitory 
 glance at her sister-in-law, — “she says we had better all keep 
 quiet till Henny recovers.” 
 
 “She does, eh*? — why doesn’t she keep quiet herself, then, 
 by way of good example ” 
 
 The doctors thought it the better way to have Mrs. Esmond 
 removed to her own room till such time as she had thoroughly 
 recovered, naturally fearing the effect of Uncle Harry’s harsh 
 and careless brusquerie. In a few minutes the ladies all re- 
 turned, with the exception of Mary Hennessy, bearing Mrs. 
 Esmond’s compliments to the gentlemen that she hoped to meet 
 them all at tea, if they could only continue to pass the inter- 
 vening time agreeably. 
 
 “In that case, Moran,” said Hennessy, “let us hear how the 
 fairy-woman served Parson Goodchild. Did she cast her spell 
 on that portly person h ” 
 
 “ You shall hear. It so happened that on the night to which 
 reference has bten made, the reverend gentleman, being ‘home- 
 ward bound’ from the rector’s, where he had been dining, was 
 riding along at a brisk pace towards the Castle, his mind 
 probably full of the tales of blood and murder he had heard 
 from the sapient rector and his guests, who were always sure to 
 be the truest of ‘true blue,’ — in other words, staunch haters of 
 Popery, and pillars of the new Keformation established some 
 years before by the far-famed Lady Farnhaiu on the double 
 basis of blankets and fat bacon. As young Douglas says in the 
 play— 
 
 Yon moon which rose last night round as my shield, 
 
 Had not yet filled her horn, when by her light 
 
 stepped forth, from the shadow of the tall white-thorn hedge, 
 not 
 
 A band of fierce barbarians from the hills, 
 
 but a decrepit old hag wrapped and hooded in a red cloak. The 
 horse was a little startled, perhaps so was his rider, but he 
 managed to keep the animal in subjection, and was fain to con- 
 tinue his way. Such, it appeared, ‘was not the intention of the 
 ancient dame, who, suddenly extending her stick towards him, 
 croaked out the remarkable words — 
 
 “ ‘ Stop, I command you 1 * 
 
A SUNDA V E VENING AT ESMOND HALE 167 
 
 “ All aghast and bewildered, the chaplain stopped, wondering 
 much what was to fohow. Perhaps he had some misgivings 
 that he had before him a robber in disguise. 
 
 “‘My good old woman/ said he, 4 what is your purpose? 
 What do you want ? ’ 
 
 ‘“I want some money for creatures that’s a’most dead with 
 hunger and want.’ 
 
 “ ‘ Oh, certainly/ quoth the chaplain, much relieved ; ‘it is at 
 all times a pleasant duty to relieve the wants of our fellow- 
 creatures ; ’ and out of his vest-pocket he took a silver sixpence, 
 and handed it to the old woman, saying with a smile that he 
 probably thought worth another sixpence at least — 
 
 “ ‘ Now go, my poor old woman, and provide what is needful 
 for your suffering friends or relatives. I rejoice in the oppor- 
 tunity you have given me this night of alleviating, in some 
 measure, the sorrows of the poor.’ He pulled the reins and 
 was moving on, when the hag hobbled after him and again 
 commanded him to stop, which he did, as it were, mechanically. 
 
 “ ‘ An’ is this what you’re goin’ to give me, after all the 
 talk ? ’ said she, looking up in his face. 
 
 “ ‘ My good old woman, that is really all the small change I 
 have got.’ 
 
 “ ‘ Why, then, the curse o’ Cromwell on you, you ould stall- 
 fed bullock ! isn’t it great good that ’id do any one ? ’ cried the 
 dame, much excited. ‘ Keep it, an’ make much of it — I’d scorn 
 to take it ! ’ and she flung the coin up in his face. 
 
 “‘Old woman/ said the parson, surprised out of his bland 
 acquiescence, ‘how dare you thus insult a minister of the gospel?’ 
 
 “ A scornful laugh cackled in the hag’s throat. ‘ Minister 
 o’ the gospel, inagh ! You mane the Divil’s gospel, if there 
 is such f> thing ! You talkin’ of relievin’ the poor ! I’ll 
 go bail it’s not much one of you ’ill give to the poor, barrin’ 
 you want to buy their sowls like cattle, at so much a head ! 
 then you’d find small change , an’ large change too ! Oh, you 
 set of schamin’ vagabonds ! it’s little pace or comfort there ever 
 was in the country since the first of you came into it ! Go 
 your ways now, an’ may God give you the worth of your 
 charity here an’ hereafter ! ’ 
 
 “ The biting sarcasm with which these words were uttered is 
 beyond my power to convey, but the chaplain felt it keenly, I can 
 
168 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK 
 
 tell you, and his feelings are easier imagined than described when 
 he heard the hoarse, asthmatic laugh with which the crone greeted 
 his departure as she stood in the middle of the road looking after 
 him. She was not long alone in her merriment, for a person who 
 happened to come within earshot during the colloquy, but had 
 purposely kept out of sight, just then stepped out on the road, 
 and, slapping the victorious emulator of Biddy Moriarty approv- 
 ingly on the back, laughed right heartily at the parson’s defeat, 
 and gave the rough but good-hearted old dame a trifle of change 
 that proved a more acceptable offering than that of the extra- 
 generous and more than charitable churchman.” 
 
 “ And the person 1 ?” 
 
 “The person, Maurice, was Phil Moran, your humble servant 
 to command.” 
 
 “And pray how came you there? ” 
 
 “ I have half a mind not to answer you, my good fellow, but 
 on second thoughts I will, being duly mindful of the maternal 
 legacy of Mother Eve to her daughters, some of whom I have 
 the honour to address. Know, then, that I, like the Rev. Mr. 
 Goodchild, was on my return from a dinner party, and having 
 but a short distance to go, and the weather being fine, both 
 went and came on foot. I had Sam Elliott with me till he 
 turned off at his own avenue, and while I stood a few moments 
 admiring the fine effect of the moonbeams falling through the 
 arching branches of the trees that lined the short avenue, I 
 heard the clatter of a horse’s feet coming up the road ; it proved 
 to be the portly chaplain ; and so it was that I, being myself in 
 the shade of the oaks that guard the Elliott gate, saw and 
 heard what I have had the honour and happiness of relating for 
 the entertainment of this worshipful company. Now, Miss 
 Markham, what do you think of my old woman as compared 
 with your old man ? ” 
 
 Harriet, like all the others, had been much amused by 
 Moran’s droll description of “ the encounter,” as he called it. 
 
 “Really, Mr. Moran,” she said, laughing, “your old woman 
 beats my old man hollow, and I think between the two they 
 have given our worthy chaplain a thorough understanding . of 
 what it is to ‘play with edged tools.’ Had she only the 
 traditional blanket instead of a red cloak, your dame, as you 
 describe her, might very possibly be the identical old woman 
 
A SUNDAY EVENING AT ESMOND HALE 169 
 
 who, once upon a time, was ‘going to sweep the cobwebs off 
 the sky/ ” 
 
 “If she didn’t sweep the cobwebs off the sky,” laughed I)r. 
 Hennessy, “ I’m entirely of opinion that she swept them off 
 Goodchild’s brain. Upon my honour, she must have knocked 
 his wits into a cocked hat. Excuse the vulgarism, ladies, but 
 the fact is, vulgarisms are confoundedly convenient at times to 
 a fellow like me, whose thoughts are often gone a-woolgathering 
 just when he wants to use them.” 
 
 “If I had my will,” said Mr. Esmond, “I’d make short work 
 of that same fairy-woman, as they call her. I’d have her sent 
 to Botany Bay or fairy - land — I would ! It’s positively a 
 disgrace to the country to tolerate such old beldames as she in 
 their nefarious practices — trading on the besotted prejudices 
 and blind credulity of the people. I wish I had only been in 
 Goodchild’s place; I’d have whipped her within an inch of her 
 life, the ill-conditioned hag ! ” 
 
 Before any one had time to answer this characteristic speech, 
 a request was sent up from Mulligan that his honour, Mr. 
 Esmond, would be pleased to step out to the stables to see the 
 poor roan that had something the matter with her, the creature ! 
 and the farrier was there, and he’d like to speak to his honour 
 about the beast before he went. Thereupon Mr. Esmond 
 hurried off in much anxiety for the health and safety of poor 
 Harry’s favourite saddle-horse, which was, of course, highly 
 prized by all the family. His wife took the opportunity of his 
 absence to express her fear that sooner or later something bad 
 would come of his tyrannical treatment of the poor, and his 
 harsh, overbearing manner. 
 
 “ How, I am going to tell you all,” she said, lowering her 
 voice, “what I would not dare to tell him, knowing that it 
 would but exasperate him the more against these miserable 
 creatures. You heard how he blamed me for giving those 
 things to that old woman for the laying-out of Tim Murtha’s 
 child, — well, he little knows, and I trust he will never know, 
 that the man tore that shroud and that sheet from off his dead 
 child when he learned who it was that gave them ! ” 
 
 Exclamations of horror were heard on every side, and the 
 ladies all, but especially Mrs. O’Grady and Aunt Winifred, 
 spoke loud in execration of the unnatural deed. 
 
170 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK 
 
 " But liow did you come to know this, my dear Mrs. 
 Esmond ? ” inquired Harriet Markham. “ Or have you reason 
 to believe that it really did occur ? ” 
 
 “ I cannot possibly doubt it,” was the reply, “ seeing that 
 the old woman brought back the things I had given her next 
 day, and told me what had taken place. You may be sure I 
 was dreadfully frightened, and, indeed, I cannot get the 
 thoughts of it out of my mind ever since. It was so very 
 awful, and gives one such an idea of the man’s ferocity — I am 
 sure, sure that the man who did that is capable of any atrocity.” 
 “If it were that horrible Pierce, now, that did it, one would 
 not be so much surprised,” said Aunt Winifred, “ but I really 
 didn’t think there were two such human fiends to be found in all 
 Tipperary. Oh dear ! what is going to become of us if such 
 men are prowling at large ? — no one’s life will be safe, after a 
 while.” 
 
 “ Bless me ! ” sighed Mrs. O’Grady ; “ who would have 
 thought that the doom foreshown on Hallow-eve night would 
 have fallen with such crushing weight, and so very soon ? ” 
 
 “ Doom, indeed ! ” repeated her husband. “ .Now, do you 
 mean to say, Mrs. O’Grady, that you really were, or are, so 
 foolish as to put faith in those childish superstitions practised 
 by the young on Hallow-eve, or any other eve'$ If you do, 
 you’re more of a fool than I ever took you to be.” 
 
 “Well, Doctor, I really wonder at you to talk so,” rejoined the 
 wife, “ after seeing what we have all seen since that memorable 
 night.” 
 
 “ Memorable fiddlestick ! Would you have us believe, now, 
 that it was because poor Harry Esmond put his hand in the 
 plate of clay that night that he was killed ? ” 
 
 “Not because, Edward, — oh, of course not because of his 
 doing so, — but you cannot deny that it looked very much like a 
 warning of what was to happen.” 
 
 “ I do deny it, Mrs. O’Grady ; for if it was a warning for 
 Harry, it was also one for Mary Hennessy, and what harm has 
 come to her ? ” 
 
 “ Humph ! ” said Maurice Hennessy, turning from a window 
 where he and Moran had been standing in earnest conversation. 
 “ I’d be much obliged to you, ma’am,” addressing Mrs. O’Grady, 
 “ if you’d keep those dreary notions to yourself. Now, to my 
 
A SUNDAY EVENING AT ESMOND BALD 171 
 
 knowledge, your gloomy suggestions on that same Hallow-eve 
 night rankled so in poor Mrs. Esmond’s mind that she felt 
 miserably depressed at times from that night forth — to an 
 extent, indeed, that injured her health considerably, the more 
 so as she tried to conceal what she now believes to have been a 
 presentiment. ” 
 
 “Dear me, Dr. Hennessy, what a thing for you to say ! ” 
 said Mrs. O'Grady, averting her head with a slight shudder, 
 while her husband clapped his hands and cried, “ Hear, hear i 
 bravo, Hennessy ! ” 
 
 “Now, I must request, my dear Mrs. O’Grady,” went on 
 Maurice, “ that you never mention that silly affair again, for if 
 Mary be once put in mind of it, there is no knowing but she 
 might begin to fancy herself ‘ doomed,’ and take on to moping 
 and pining, which might eventually accomplish your fairy 
 warning — or what shall I call iff? ” 
 
 “ Why, my dear Doctor,” exclaimed Mrs. O’Grady very 
 innocently, “you needn’t be the least afraid of Mary pining 
 away on that account, for I give you my word, I’ve been trying 
 ever since Harry’s death to convince her that we had a fore- 
 warning of it that night, and if you’ll believe me, she only 
 laughs at me.” 
 
 “ Well, well ! ” cried Hennessy, more annoyed than he cared 
 to show ; “after that, I need say no more. That beats Banagher, 
 and Banagher beats — we know who.” 
 
 Dr. O’Grady and Moran laughed heartily at the blank amaze- 
 ment visible on Hennessy’s face, and the former gentleman 
 subsequently told him, with as much gravity as he could 
 assume, that there was more than that in his “little wifie” for 
 the taking out. “If you press her a little,” said he, “you 
 would be apt to find out that there isn’t a thing occurs to 
 herself or any one she knows, of which she hasn’t had warning 
 one way or another. Do you know, it often occurs to me that 
 she must have some sort of telegraphic communication with the 
 other world. It was only the other day, when I was sent for 
 to Father Maguire below, for a bad cold he got, that she told 
 me she knuw something was going to happen to poor Father 
 Maguire, and that she was sure he’d never leave his bed.” 
 “Well?” said more than one of the listeners, with ludicrous 
 anxiety. 
 
172 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK 
 
 “Well, a hot bath and a good active cathartic falsified Mrs. 
 O’Grady’s prediction, and placed my reverend friend on his 
 legs as stout and staunch as ever. I’m afraid the telegraph 
 wire was broken that time — eh, Susan ” 
 
 The laugh that followed drove Mrs. O’Grady fairly from the 
 room. She made her exit in double-quick time, on the pretence 
 that she was going to see how Mrs. Esmond was. 
 
 “Well, now,” said Aunt Winifred, raising her eyebrows 
 very high, and straightening her long back to the most perfect 
 perpendicular possible, — “ well, now, you needn’t laugh so much, 
 after all, about Mrs. O’Grady ’s ‘ warnings.’ I tell you there are 
 warnings given, and I’ve had them myself before our dreadful 
 misfortune came upon us.” 
 
 “ Is it possible, Miss Esmond ? ” said Harriet, with assumed 
 earnestness, while the others exchanged looks and smiles. 
 
 “Yes, indeed, my dear, it is both possible and true. For 
 many nights before poor dear Harry’s death I heard a drop 
 falling — falling — -just outside my room door. And then the 
 death-watch — why, I used to hear it night after night at my 
 bed-head just as plain as if my watch were there, which it was 
 not, you know, for I always leave it in the watchstand on the 
 toilet- ..able.” 
 
 “ Well, that is really astonishing,” said Harriet, endeavouring 
 to keep from smiling, Aunt Winifred’s predominating acid being 
 now too well known in the circle to permit any jocose liberties 
 in her regard. The gentlemen suddenly remembered that 
 Uncle Harry was in the stables, and thought they would 
 go seek him there, as the tea-bell had just rung, and Mrs. 
 Esmond and the other ladies were descending the stairs, Mary 
 Hennessy’s pleasant voice being heard in a tone of playful 
 remonstrance. 
 
 The gentlemen had not yet returned from the stables when 
 Dr. O’Grady was summoned to a patient some miles away 
 towards Killenaule, and having to go home for something 
 he required, Mrs. O’Grady preferred going with him, feeling 
 probably a little sore from the wound that had been inflicted 
 on her oracular dignity. 
 
 Yery sad and very pale was Mrs. Esmond when she took her 
 place that evening at the tea-table, but, looking round on the 
 kind, dear friends whose faces expressed the sympathy they did 
 
A SUNDAY EVENING AT ESMOND HALE 173 
 
 not choose to speak, she smiled and made an effort to appear 
 cheerful, that the shadow of her grief might not fall on them. 
 
 Uncle Harry was unusually silent during the earlier part of 
 the meal, and at last the young men began to rally him on his 
 taciturnity. 
 
 “ May I venture to ask what are you thinking of, Mr. 
 Esmond ? ” said Hennessy ; “ the advance on fat cattle, or the 
 next presentment before the Grand Jury — eh?” 
 
 “ Or the chances of getting the 4 bang-beggars ’ banished to 
 parts unknown % ” said Moran, looking with sly meaning first at 
 Uncle Harry, then at his wife. 
 
 “ The bang-beggars ? ” repeated the doctor, catching the ex- 
 pression of Moran’s face; “why. what should Mr. Esmond 
 have to do with them ? ” 
 
 “Oh, we know that ourselves,” replied the lawyer; “don’t 
 we, Aunt Martha?” Mrs. Esmond smiled her acquiescence, 
 but her husband was in no humour for smiling. 
 
 “How, I tell you what it is, Phil Moran,” said he, setting 
 his cup down in the saucer with a force that much endangered 
 the safety of that particular piece of Mrs. Esmond’s fine old 
 Dresden, “ I’d thank you to crack your jokes on proper sub- 
 jects, and that is not one, whatever you may think to the 
 contrary. I consider it a very serious business — very serious 
 indeed, involving, as it does, the very lives of the landowners 
 of this country.” 
 
 “Hot a doubt of it, Mr. Esmond, not a doubt of it,” said 
 Moran very gravely, “and for that very reason I naturally sup- 
 posed you might be occupied in devising ways and means to get 
 rid of a fraternity so dangerous to the community.” 
 
 “You were mistaken, then,” said Uncle Harry gruffly ; “I 
 was just thinking of poor Henny here.” 
 
 “ Of me, uncle ? And, pray, what were you thinking of me ? ” 
 
 “ Why, I was just thinking that you will never have peace 
 or rest in your mind until that wretch Pierce has paid the 
 penalty of his crime.” 
 
 Every eye except Mrs. Esmond’s was turned reproachfully on 
 the harsh old man, and a murmur of surprise and indignation 
 ran round the table. Mrs. Esmond started as if an adder had 
 stung her, — her face was pale and red by turns, and the tears 
 gushed to her eyes. 
 
174 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK . 
 
 “Mr. Esmond,” said she, her voice and her lips trembling, 
 — “Mr. Esmond, I know not what I have done that you should 
 inflict so cruel a punishment upon me as to tear open so rudely 
 and so unnecessarily the yet unhealed wound in my poor heart. 
 God forgive you — God forgive you ! ” 
 
 “Well, upon my word, Mrs. Harry Esmond junior,” said the 
 old man, with a raised voice and an angry look, “ I didn’t ex- 
 pect to hear you talk so. I see you are all just the same at 
 bottom, let the top be ever so smooth and smiling. There’s a 
 touch of the tiger in every mother’s daughter of you ! ” 
 
 “ For shame, Harry — for shame ! ” cried his wife. 
 
 “That’s right, Harry!” echoed his sister; “give us all a 
 specimen of your politeness. Show how amiable you can be 
 when you like ! ” 
 
 “Mr. Esmond,” said the young widow, addressing him 
 slowly and distinctly, “what you have said I think it my 
 duty to answer, and I will, though it tear my heart-strings 
 asunder. Know, then, that I do not desire to have the*— the 
 guilty person brought to justice.” 
 
 “ You do not ? ” 
 
 “Ko — God forbid that I should ! I pray every day that he 
 may escape the penalty of his crime, as you say, for the 
 sacrifice of his life would not give me back what the grave 
 has taken from me. Let him live and repent. God will 
 deal with him in His own wise way, and in His own good 
 time. Vengeance is His, not mine.” She rose, and, taking 
 Mary’s offered arm, passed from the room. Tea was just over. 
 
 The carriage came just then for Miss Markham, and the rest 
 of the company did not long remain. Before they left the 
 dressing-room, however, the young lady of the mansion had 
 heard from Aunt Martha the strange and pitiful story of Tim 
 Murtlia’s misery and his gloomy desperation. 
 
 “And where is the unfortunate man now?” she asked, with 
 tender sympathy. 
 
 “ That 1 cannot tell you, my dear,” said Aunt Martha, as 
 she drew her sable boa around her neck and took up the 
 capacious muff of the same costly fur. “ He and his family 
 were in the hut of that old fairy-woman, as they call her, when 
 the child died, — so she told me when she came herself to ask the 
 sheet and things, — but it is quite impossible to say where such 
 
A SUNDA Y E VENING AT ESMOND HALE 175 
 
 poor wanderers are to be found at any particular time. They 
 are hardly ever two nights in the same place, you know ; for if 
 they get one night’s lodging for God’s sake, they think it 
 enough in one house, and travel on next day till nightfall 
 brings them to some hospitable door, perhaps miles away from 
 their shelter of the night before.” 
 
 “ Then you think, my dear aunt, that there would be little 
 use in trying to find this poor man out? Indeed, I feel very 
 anxious about him and his family — their case seems so very 
 hard.” 
 
 “ It is hard, Henrietta, very hard ; for the wretched man has, 
 as I am informed, never entirely recovered the effects of the 
 long illness following on his fall. They say he is a most 
 pitiable object, and I would be most happy to do what I 
 could for him and his poor children, but, you see, lie will 
 accept no assistance from me, and your uncle, on the othe 
 hand, will not allow me to give it.” 
 
 “ Poor miserable creatures ! ” sighed the gentle mourner ; 
 “their lot on earth is surely a hard one. God help the 
 poor ! ” 
 
 “ My poor Henrietta,” said her aunt, as she kissed her at 
 parting, “in all your own sore affliction your heart is not 
 closed against the sorrows of others. And yet there are those 
 who would be scandalised to hear of your expressing sympathy 
 for any of these unfortunate people.” 
 
 “ Say no more of that, my dearest aunt,” was the earnest 
 reply ; “ why should I blame all for the fault of one ? I cannot, 
 and I will not, be scandalised who may ! Good-night, dear aunt ; 
 may God bless and protect you from every danger 1 ” 
 
CHAPTER XTV. 
 
 miss markham’s story. 
 
 A week or two after that evening at Esmond Hall, Harriet 
 Markham sat by the bow-window of a summer-parlour in 
 Effingham Castle, looking out with pensive eyes on the richly 
 variegated landscape presented by the fine old park, with its 
 hill and dale, and wood and water, for a fair lake slumbered in 
 its “ bosom of shade,” visible from that end of the Castle where 
 Harriet sat. 
 
 The scene was more beautiful far to the eye 
 Than if day in its pride had arrayed it, 
 
 and, as she watched the blue mist curling upward from the lake 
 in delicate forms of beauty, her graceful fancy fashioned them 
 into naiads and fays, the guardian spirits of the silvery waters. 
 Then her thoughts began to wander back into the past, and the 
 shadowy forms of other years crowded around, mingling with 
 the mists of eve, their voices whispering, as it were, in the low 
 soft zephyr that so gently murmured by, stirring the leaves oil 
 the branches outside as with the breath of life. Notwithstand- 
 ing her flight into the realms of fancy, Harriet was not alone ; 
 the Earl and Mr. Goodchild were playing chess at the farther 
 end of the room, and near by sat Mrs. Pakenham, a large, 
 handsome woman of very mature years, and slightly overdressed, 
 watching the game with much apparent interest. The little 
 girls had made their curtseys some time before and retired with 
 their nurse, who was an elder sister of Celia Mulquin — this 
 en parenthese. 
 
 “Take care, my lord,” said Mrs. Pakenham, who, being a 
 cousin-german of Lord Effingham, had kindly taken charge of 
 
 170 
 
MISS MARKHAM'S STOR Z 
 
 177 
 
 his splendid menage since the death of the Countess some two 
 years before, — “ take care, my lord ! there goes your knight ! — 
 you have need to look after that castle ! What were you 
 thinking of that time ? ” 
 
 “That is easy told,” said Lord Effingham; “I was thinking 
 of an air I heard that poor maniac sing on our return 
 from the Rock last spring. Do you remember it, Miss 
 Markham ? ” 
 
 “ Excuse me, my lord,” said Harriet, with a start and a blush ; 
 “I — I did not hear what you said.” 
 
 The Earl repeated his question, and then hummed the first 
 part of the air. It was “ Shule Aroon.” 
 
 “It were strange indeed, my lord,” said Harriet, smiling, “if 
 I did not remember that . It was one of the airs that oftenest 
 soothed my infant slumbers.” 
 
 “I know not why it is,” said Lord Effingham, “but ever 
 since it seems to haunt me like a voice from the world of spirits. 
 It is, indeed, a fine old air. Do you know the words, Miss 
 Markham ? ” 
 
 “ I know one set of words, my lord, but perhaps not the best, for 
 there are several versions of 4 Shule Agra ’ and ‘ Shule Aroon/ 
 — as it is indiscriminately called, — sung here in Munster ; most 
 of them are in Irish, and can hardly be rendered into good 
 English so as to preserve the exceeding beauty and simplicity of 
 the original. The words I have are a sort of free translation, 
 the refrain being still sung in the old musical language of the 
 Gael.” 
 
 “ You would oblige me much by singing the song for us,” said 
 the Earl, whereupon the Honourable Mrs. Pakenham drew up 
 her portly form in loftiest state, and looked the contempt for 
 Irish music which she cared not at that moment to express in 
 words. 
 
 Miss Markham bowed her acquiescence. Mr. Goodchild 
 subbed his fat white hands, and smiled and nodded, and 
 asked if he should not have the honour of fetching the 
 guitar. 
 
 “No, no, Mr. Goodchild — many thanks for your politeness,” 
 said Harriet, laughing at the odd association of ideas; “the 
 guitar and my old song would make strange discordant melody 
 together — to borrow a lull for the occasion. Here is the song, 
 12 
 
178 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK . 
 
 my lord.” And she sang with all the sweetness and simplicity 
 of the true ballad style — 
 
 “Oil, have you seen my Norah Fay? 
 
 She’s left me all the sad long day, 
 
 Alone to sing a weary lay ; 
 
 Go dhi mo vourneen, slaun ; 
 
 Shule, shule, slnile aroon ; 
 
 Shule go sochir agus shule go cune, 
 
 Shule go tlieiv dorris agus eilig lume. 
 
 As’ go dhi mo vourneen slaun. 
 
 You’ll know her by her raven hair, 
 
 Her deep blue eye, her forehead fair, 
 
 Her step and laugh that banish care ; 
 
 As’ go dhi mo vourneen slaun. 
 
 In form you may her semblance find, 
 
 But none like her, of womankind, 
 
 If you can see her heart and mind ; ■ 
 
 As’ go dhi mo vourneen slaun. 
 
 Oh, bring to me my Norah Fay, 
 
 For hours are days when she’s away ; 
 
 The sun looks dark, and sweet birds say, 
 
 Go dhi mo vourneen slaun,” etc . 1 
 
 “ Mercy on me, what a barbarous tongue ! ” said Mrs. Paken- 
 ham. “ How in the world can you articulate such harsh, guttural 
 sounds ? ” 
 
 “ Just as easily as I do the improved Saxon which now forms 
 our vernacular. Y"ou think the Gaelic a ‘barbarous tongue/ 
 my dear Mrs. Pakenham, and yet that ‘barbarous tongue/ 
 which ought to be still the vernacular of the Irish people, was 
 once the language of a highly-civilised nation, spoken alike by 
 king and chief, and warrior-knight and noble lady. The bards 
 of Erin in the long-past ages moulded it into forms of rarest 
 beauty, and men who were great lights in their generation made 
 it the vehicle of their thoughts and their lofty inspirations.” 
 
 “ Dear me ! I should not have thought so,” said Mrs. Paken- 
 ham, with an extra assumption of dignity, “ but I suppose you 
 know best, Miss Markham. How stands the game, my lord ? ” 
 
 “ Oh, the battle is fought and won — for once Mr. Goodchild 
 has carried the day. Miss Markham, you were kind enough to 
 
 1 The above is Mr. and Mrs. Hall’s translation of one version of “ Shule 
 Aroon.” Of the Irish chorus I have elsewhere given a translation. 
 
MISS MARKHAM'S STORY 
 
 179 
 
 promise to tell us the story of Mad Mabel. Suppose you told 
 it now to while away the hours ? ” 
 
 “ With much pleasure, my lord,” Harriet replied, “ and the 
 more so, as Lady Ann and Lady Emma are not present ; for, 
 although they have frequently reminded me of it, I have 
 purposely refrained from gratifying their curiosity, as the story 
 is not exactly one that would benefit them to hear. The 
 tragical scenes I am about to describe as briefly as I can are, 
 alas ! but too common in this unhappy country, and are to 
 some extent, perhaps, Irish, owing not so much to the natural 
 ferocity of the people as the unsatisfactory relations between 
 landlord and tenant.” 
 
 “Why, Miss Markham,” said Mrs. Pakenham, opening her 
 eyes to their fullest extent, “you don’t mean to say you are 
 going to entertain us with ‘ a tale of Irish peasant life,’ do you ? ” 
 “I would not, on any account, think of doing so, Mrs. 
 Pakenham,” said Harriet, “were it not Lord Effingham’s 
 wish to hear it. So, with your permission and Mr. Goodchild’s, 
 I will proceed at once, promising, at the same time, for your 
 consolation, to make the story as short as possible.” 
 
 “Miss Markham is very good,” said bland Mr. Goodehild, 
 and he folded his plump hands athwart his goodly paunch with 
 an air of meek resignation that was altogether impressive. The 
 Honourable Mrs. Pakenham took up a Chinese fan that lay on 
 a spider-table near, and commenced fanning herself with great 
 force and admirable dexterity. 
 
 “ Your lordship has doubtless heard,” said Harriet, “ of the 
 murder of Mr. Chadwick? I believe almost every one has 
 heard of it, either at the time it occurred or since.” Lord 
 Effingham replied that he had not only heard of the murder, 
 but had known Mr. Chadwick, who had been for a short time 
 a sort of under-agent on his Irish estates, before he got pro- 
 moted to that situation which subsequently cost him his life. 
 
 “ Then your lordship probably knows what manner of man 
 he was, and how little calculated to win either love or respect 
 from the people over whom he was placed in ‘ brief authority.’ ” 
 “It was precisely on account of his excessive harshness, 
 amounting at times almost to brutality, that I was finally 
 obliged to supersede him in his office,” replied the Earl. “ 1 
 had heard so many complaints of his tyrannical treatment of 
 
180 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 the tenantry that I could not possibly allow him to continue it 
 longer.” 
 
 “Well, my lord, there is reason to fear that his more recent 
 employer cared little how he treated the tenants provided only 
 he squeezed the money out of them. He appears, indeed, to 
 have had a carte blanche , as most Irish agents have, in regard 
 to the means to be employed for that end. And yet it is said 
 in the neighbourhood, by way, I suppose, of giving the devil 
 his due, that Mr. Chadwick was not so excessively severe in 
 exacting the payment of rent as many others who are permitted 
 to live on in their heartless oppression of the poor ; but some- 
 how his manner of dealing with the tenants and the peasantry in 
 general was most insulting ; he neither understood nor cared to 
 understand the peculiar sympathies or antipathies of the people 
 amongst whom he lived, and was, therefore, continually treading 
 on their corns, as the vulgar phrase goes, taking no pains at any 
 time to conceal his contempt for them, and though fully conscious 
 that he was an object of hatred to them, taking every opportunity 
 of openly breathing defiance. He was a man of large, unwieldy 
 proportions, as your lordship doubtless remembers, and I have 
 been told that on some occasions, when he had a large number 
 of the peasantry around him, he would say in a scoffing tone, 
 as he rubbed down his huge frontal, puffing the while like a 
 juvenile whale, ‘ You see I’m growing fatter and fatter every 
 day. I’m thriving on your curses, I believe/ Then the rustic 
 dissemblers around would glance furtively at each other, and 
 force a laugh, and say, ‘Your honour is mighty pleasant, so 
 you are, an* fond of crackin’ your jokes — more power to you, 
 sir, for that same/ But deep in their hearts were rankling the 
 imprecations that fell on them from his foul tongue, and the 
 bitter mockery and contempt wherewith he treated them on all 
 occasions.” 
 
 “ Upon my honour, I do not wonder at his treating them so,” 
 said Mrs. Pakenham, all at once renewing the fanning process 
 which she had perhaps unconsciously suspended. “I really 
 think they deserve no better.” 
 
 The Earl cast one of his black looks on his stately kins- 
 woman, and she was silent. Harriet resumed, with a heightened 
 colour— 
 
 “There is no knowing how long this might have gone on, 
 
MISS MARKHAM'S STORY, \ 
 
 181 
 
 had not Mr. Chadwick commenced building a police-barracks 
 at Rath Cannon, adjacent to Holy Cross Abbey, and only a 
 short distance from Thurles. He was in the habit of boasting 
 in all companies, and even to the people themselves, that he 
 was the man to keep the Bloody Tips in order, and that he was 
 going to have a police-station at Rath Cannon for the very 
 purpose of watching them. Now this, in the peculiar state of 
 the country, and for reasons known to themselves, was just 
 what the peasantry least wished for, and, recognising in this 
 new move yet another and more convincing proof of Mr. 
 Chadwick’s hatred of them, and, moreover, an open defiance of 
 them, they accepted the challenge, and swore to each other, in 
 their secret meetings, that Chadwick must die." 
 
 “ What a horrible set of wretches ! ” cried Mrs. Pakenham, 
 now fully absorbed in the narrative. “ What fiends incarnate 
 they must be, and what a cowardly set, moreover, to conspire 
 for the murder of one man ! ” 
 
 “ My very dear Mrs. Pakenham,” said the chaplain, “ if you 
 knew this unhappy country better, you would wonder at no 
 act of baseness or cruelty on the part of the people — especially 
 here in Tipperary.” 
 
 “ You are scarcely just to this ‘unhappy country/ Mr. Good- 
 child,” said Harriet, looking at him in a way that made him 
 feel rather small, as the phrase goes ; “ even as regards 
 Tipperary, your assertion is by far too general and sweeping.” 
 Thereupon the good man began to justify himself. “ I pro- 
 test, Miss Markham,” said he, with intense earnestness, “ I did 
 not mean to censure the people — the Romanists, namely, of 
 this most miserable country ”— 
 
 At this the Earl smiled, and Harriet laughed. “ Why, my 
 dear good sir,” said she, “you are making matters worse instead 
 of better. Just allow me, pray, to continue my story, and I 
 will take your explanation for granted.” 
 
 “ Permit me to ask one preliminary question, Miss Mark- 
 ham,” said Lord Effingham : “ how can you account for the 
 widespread conspiracy entered into by the peasantry for the 
 execution of their diabolical purpose 1 ” 
 
 “Very easily, my lord. By the simple fact that the con- 
 spiracy already existed in the form of a secret organisation, 
 having revenge for one of its principal objects. They called it, 
 
182 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 and probably believed it, justice — acting on the assumption, not 
 always unfounded, that there was no justice for them in the 
 law-courts of the land ; that the oppressors — excuse me the 
 harsh word, my lord, I do but borrow it from tlieir phraseology 
 — that the oppressors had the laio in their own hands, and 
 diat they had to look for justice to themselves alone. There 
 was a time when this was true to the very letter, but the mis- 
 fortune of the people is that they do not see how times have 
 changed in the country, that a more enlightened spirit is 
 abroad amongst the gentry, and that justice is now to be found 
 on the bench — that, in fact, the partisan magistrate of a 
 former age is now almost the exception to the general rule, and 
 is frowned down by the majority of his brethren on the bench. 
 However, old prejudices, long and fondly cherished, are not 
 easily eradicated from the minds of the illiterate, and, more- 
 over, there are always some designing knaves interested in their 
 perpetration, so it is that many of our poor people are led 
 blindfold into these dangerous societies formed amongst them 
 for w r hat they consider self-defence. Many, too, who are 
 naturally peaceable and well-disposed, are actually forced, by 
 the most dreadful threats, to join these associations, against 
 their own honest convictions, and against the positive and most 
 solemn prohibition of their Church.” 
 
 “ It is truly a lamentable state of things,” said the Earl, 
 “ and the worst of it is, that legislation has no power to reach 
 the evil.” 
 
 “None whatever, my lord. Human legislation will have 
 little effect amongst Irishmen, who set Divine legislation at 
 defiance. Where the efforts of religion fail to make them 
 wiser or better men, no human power can do it. However, as 
 I had the honour of telling your lordship, it was in the mid- 
 night assemblies of these misguided men that the death of Mr. 
 Chadwick was resolved upon. The only difficulty was then to find 
 executioners for their horrid resolve. For some days this ivas 
 a difficulty, for Mr. Chadwick was knowrn to have his house 
 well provided with arms, and, moreover, to carry arms on his 
 person wherever he went. It was the old story of the cat and 
 the bell. Things did not long remain in that state, however, 
 for before the grand meeting of the secret conspirators one 
 night, in a wild gorge of the Keeper Mountains, appeared a 
 
MISS MARKHAM'S STORY. 
 
 183 
 
 stalwart young fellow, Patrick Grace by name, who enjoyed 
 the reputation of being an avenger of wrong and the sworn 
 foe of the tyrannical landlords. Without any sort of hesitation 
 he declared his willingness to undertake the execution of the 
 dread sentence pronounced on Mr. Chadwick, provided he 
 were left to do it in his own way and at his own time. Of 
 course his proposal was eagerly accepted, for, though young in 
 years, Patrick Grace was strong in courage and in resolution. 
 He had so many times proved his prowess in one way or 
 another against the landlords that he was looked upon as a 
 champion of the people’s rights. A rustic Don Quixote he was, 
 ready to do and dare all things for ‘the cause.’ A deplorable 
 instance he was, too, of that perverted sense of justice which I 
 have endeavoured to describe. What made him still more 
 popular amongst the people was his remarkable personal 
 beauty, accompanied by great sprightliness of manner, and that 
 whole-souled generosity which, above all other qualities, finds 
 its way to the Irish heart. Such was Patrick Grace when he 
 presented himself to execute the popular vengeance on Mr. 
 Chadwick — the admiration of the women and the envy of the 
 men in his own class, and the pride and boast of all. But 
 though the rustic Adonis danced with all the pretty girls, and 
 applied ‘ the blarney ’ with skill and effect, he had already 
 made his choice from amongst them, and, as the old ballad 
 says — 
 
 Placed his affections on a comely young dame. 
 
 And like that same ‘ comely young dame,’ sung by her 
 enamoured swain under the poetical title of the ‘Rose of Ardee,’ 
 and therein familiar to every rustic singer in many parts of fair 
 Ireland, the object of Patrick Grace’s love was 
 
 Straight, tall, and handsome in every degree ; 
 
 in fact, just the one to catch and fix the affections of a ‘Roving 
 Bachelor,’ 1 if they ever were to be caught or fixed. She was 
 an orphan, and lived as a servant in the house of a comfortable 
 farmer, where she was treated, as is usual amongst that class 
 here in Ireland, as one of the family. Grace was a son of the 
 
 1 Miss Markham here had reference to the name of one of the liveliest 
 and most popular dance-tunes ever “screeved'* on an Irish fiddle. 
 
184 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 family, and during the pleasant evenings that followed the 
 days of toil, the youth and the maiden, thrown together in the 
 heart-opening sunshine of rustic merriment, found themselves, 
 they scarcely knew how or why, bound together by the ten- 
 derest bonds of loyal and true affection. And if ever the 
 course of true love did bid fair to run smooth, it was for 
 Patrick Grace and this rustic beauty, who was soon his be- 
 trothed bride, their marriage being only deferred till a mud-wall 
 cabin was put up to shelter their household gods.” 
 
 “Dear me, Miss Markham,” said Mrs. Pakenham, yawning 
 wearily, “ what a very tiresome story ! ” 
 
 “ I cannot agree with you, via belle cousine” said Lord 
 Effingham ; “I find it extremely interesting. Pray proceed, 
 Miss Markham.” 
 
 “ It has a peculiar interest for me,” said the grave chaplain, 
 “from the insight it gives into the atrocious immorality of the 
 Romish system.” 
 
 “I am not aware that it does give any such insight,” 
 observed Miss Markham. “I have shown, on the contrary, 
 that the ‘ Romish system/ as you say, so far from encouraging 
 men in these secret combinations and lawless courses, is at all 
 times engaged combating their evil passions, and endeavouring 
 with all its might to suppress those occult associations which 
 are ruinous to the faith and morals of any people, but doubly 
 so to a Catholic people, because they withdraw them from the 
 saving influence of religion, and from the life-giving sacraments 
 of the Church, in which they are not allowed to participate. 
 Do I make the matter intelligible to your lordship I see Mr. 
 Goodchild is in the condition of those who, being ‘ convinced 
 against their will, are of the same opinion still/” 
 
 The Earl bowed affirmatively, and smiled at the keen sarcasm, 
 which Mr. Goodchild, luckily for himself, did not seem to 
 understand, probably in blissful ignorance of the gist of the old 
 adage quoted by Harriet. 
 
 “ Pray go on with your story,” said the somewhat petulant 
 Mrs. Pakenham ; “ supper will soon be on the table.” 
 
 “Well, Patrick Grace was, of course, loudly applauded, 
 and his proposal eagerly accepted, by the secret conclave, few 
 of whose members would have cared to risk their precious lives 
 as he did for the common good,” 
 
MISS MARKHAM'S STORY. 
 
 185 
 
 “ And did he do it, Miss Markham?” exclaimed Mrs. 
 Pakenham in a state of breathless anxiety. “Did he do that 
 wicked act ? ” 
 
 “ He did,” said Harriet, her voice sinking beneath the weight 
 of horror and of shame, — “ he did ; he promised to kill the 
 obnoxious agent, and he kept his ivord.” 
 
 There was silence for a moment, and then Harriet resumed, 
 as by an effort — 
 
 “The young betrothed of Patrick Grace knew nothing of 
 what was going on ; fearing, perhaps, her importunate entreaties 
 not to imbrue his hands in blood, or run the risk of losing his 
 own life to do the will of others, he would not venture to see 
 her till after the deed was done, and then, he expected that, so 
 far from blaming what he considered his heroic and patriotic 
 act, she would be the first to applaud his self-devotion.” 
 
 “But where — when — how did he accomplish the awful 
 deed ? ” cried Mrs. Pakenham. 
 
 “ He probably waylaid the unfortunate gentleman in some 
 lonely spot under cover of the night,” suggested Mr. Goodchild. 
 
 “ He did no such thing, reverend sir. If you will have the 
 goodness to listen, you shall hear what he did. One day, when 
 the great broad sun was shining overhead, Mr. Chadwick was 
 superintending the erection of the constabulary-barracks before 
 mentioned, talking in his loud, domineering way to the men 
 employed on the work, and little dreaming that his last hour 
 had come, when the daring youth who had undertaken the 
 execution of the fearful sentence secretly pronounced upon him, 
 walked deliberately up, with a pistol in his hand, and shot him 
 with so sure an aim that he fell dead to the ground.” 
 
 A groan of horror escaped from the lips of Mrs. Pakenham 
 — she could not speak ; the chaplain was little less agitated. 
 Lord Effingham alone preserved his composure. 
 
 “ What ! ” he asked, “in the presence of the workmen ?” 
 “Even so, my lord, and of the passers-by, relying, doubtless, 
 on the hatred wherewith Mr. Chadwick was regarded by all the 
 surrounding peasantry, and fully as much, perhaps, on the secret 
 organisation which underlay the whole strata of society. He 
 very naturally thought that no one would venture to give 
 evidence against him for fear of their terrible revenge. And, 
 indeed, it seemed at first as though he reckoned not without 
 
186 
 
 THE HERMIT OE THE ROCK. 
 
 his host, for he walked away after doing the deed unmolested 
 by any one. One man only, a mason who was standing by 
 Mr. Chadwick’s side at the fatal moment, exclaimed, perhaps 
 involuntarily, ‘ God forgive you, Patrick Grace ! ’ But Grace 
 little heeded the words, his conscience being perfectly at rest 
 with regard to the nature of the deed he had just perpetrated, 
 and no thought of personal danger from the recognition ever 
 entering his mind.” 
 
 “ What a frightful perversion of mind ! ” said the Earl. 
 
 “ And especially of the Irish mind. If your lordship only 
 knew as I know the intensity of horror wherewith the Irish, 
 perhaps more than any other people, regard the commission of 
 murder , you could then understand, in some degree, how great 
 must be the provocation, how fierce the excitement that closes 
 their hearts to pity.” 
 
 “Well, well,” said Mrs. Pakenliam, with an impatient 
 gesture, “ we can dispense with all that. But what came of it? 
 — did the horrid wretch escape? Did no one give evidence 
 against him ? ” 
 
 “ That is just what I am going to relate,” said Harriet, with a 
 quiet smile, and she resumed as follows : “ As may be supposed, 
 Grace, having no fear of being brought to trial, took no pains 
 either to conceal himself or deny the commission of a crime 
 which he considered as an act of retributive justice. The news 
 of the tragic event spread like wildfire through the country, and 
 when the veil of darkness covered the earth, the conspirators 
 came together in their secret haunts to meet their emissary and 
 congratulate him and themselves on his successful attempt to 
 rid them of their detested enemy. When asked if he thought 
 any one had seen him doing the deed, he answered carelessly, 
 ‘ Why, then, to be sure, didn’t all the men that were workin’ 
 on the buildin’ see me ? But what of that — sure, I knew before 
 I went every one that was in it, an’ they’re all the right sort. 
 Philip Mara was standin’ right alongside the ould chap when I 
 paid my respects to him, an’ more by token he said, “ God for- 
 give you, Patrick Grace ! ” when he seen Chadwick failin’.’ So 
 far all was considered safe, and Patrick Grace was the idol of 
 the hour, and enjoyed for the time, in his own limited sphere, 
 all the glory of a conqueror. Short indeed was his unhallowed 
 triumph. Early next day he was arrested on the deposition of 
 
MISS MARKHAM'S STORY. 
 
 187 
 
 Philip Mara , and whilst he and his fellow -conspirators cursed 
 the traitor, as they chose to call him, and breathed the most 
 terrible threats against him and his, they little knew what an 
 agonised struggle the worthy mason had undergone before he 
 decided on giving information in the case. Mara was an up- 
 right, honest, right-thinking man, with intelligence somewhat in 
 advance of his class, and, above all, a deep sense of his obliga- 
 tions as a Christian, which would not permit him to keep so 
 atrocious a crime secret. And so it was that, trampling under 
 foot all the suggestions of fear and prudence, and most probably 
 encouraged by the advice of his venerable pastor, the brave man 
 did what he considered his bounden duty, and gave information 
 to the nearest magistrate concerning the murder of Mr. Chad- 
 wick. The storm of indignation that burst forth amongst the 
 peasantry on hearing of what they considered Mara’s treachery 
 is beyond all conception. Those who were, like himself, under 
 the strong influence of religion, secretly applauded his self- 
 devotedness, and prayed that God and the Blessed Virgin might 
 save him from the deadly vengeance of ‘ the boys 9 who held the 
 whole population in terror. But these kindly sympathisers, 
 being the most orderly and virtuous portion of the community, 
 naturally shrank from incurring their enmity by any public 
 expression of their sentiments ; whereas the friends and up- 
 holders of the imprisoned Grace were loud and vociferous in 
 their denunciations of the ‘informer,’ as they chose to call him. 
 Indeed, there would have been little chance of Grace’s convic- 
 tion on poor Philip Mara’s testimony had he been left at large, 
 but the Government had prudently provided for his safety by 
 keeping him in safe quarters under a strong guard till the time 
 came for the trial, viz. the summer assizes, then not far distant. 
 Fear and terror then took possession of the friends of Grace, 
 lashed to fury by the consciousness of their inability to save 
 him ; but amid all the raging storm of public and private excite- 
 ment, which his family largely shared, there was one gentle 
 heart that uttered no loud complaint, but pined away in sad, 
 heart-w r earing anxiety, with scarce one gleam of hope to keep 
 the life-current flowing. That one was the betrothed bride of 
 Patrick Grace. And when at last the dreaded day came, and 
 the unhappy culprit stood at the bar, in the pride of youth and 
 manly beauty, firm and undaunted as though the shadow of the 
 
188 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 gibbet fell not athwart him, it was hard to look on him and 
 believe him guilty of so heinous a crime, so cold-blooded a 
 murder. His ‘ sweetheart/ as they would say themselves, was 
 not present, being kept away from the court by her friends 
 almost by main force, and the fact of her being absent from the 
 family group, whose presence his keen eye soon detected, was 
 an inexpressible relief to the doomed prisoner, though the sight 
 of her, as his heart whispered, would have been to him as dew 
 to the parched flower. Yet he was glad — oh, how very glad ! — 
 that she was not there to see him a manacled felon at the bar, 
 charged with a fearful crime which he well knew was about to 
 be proved home against him. And it was proved home, and 
 notwithstanding all the professional skill of the eminent 
 lawyers engaged for the defence, and the audible sobs and 
 groans and piteous entreaties for mercy, which all the exertions 
 of the police could not silence in the body of the court, the 
 awful sentence of death was pronounced on Patrick Grace, 
 unanimously found guilty of the murder of Mr. Chadwick. 
 Then the fiery spirit of revenge burst forth from the ashy lips 
 of the yet undismayed prisoner, and he said, when permission 
 was given him to speak, 4 Before a tweVmonth passes Til have 
 revenge in my grave.’ Many a heart echoed those fatal words 
 that day, and swore that so it should be. The sentence was 
 that the prisoner should be hung by the neck till dead, on the 
 very spot where his crime had been committed. And so they 
 reared the dismal gibbet within sight of the grand old pile 
 beneath whose ruined walls the royal O’Brien who raised it to the 
 honour of God sleeps in peace, ‘his warfare o’er/ — and much 
 warfare did King Donald wage, for he was a man of might in 
 his generation, and a thorn, moreover, in Strongbow’s side. It 
 was a strange scene, — the noble ruins and the sculptured tombs, 
 and the forgotten graves of the dead of other years, — and the 
 rich level fields heavy with the unreaped grain, and green in the 
 freshness of Irish verdure, —and the seething, surging, heaving 
 multitude topping ditches and walls and trees and every spot 
 that could give a view of the doleful spectacle, — and high over 
 all the dreadful apparatus that was to launch into eternity the 
 pride of Tipperary peasants. The place immediately round the 
 gallows was occupied by a large body of constabulary, their 
 bayonets glittering in the sun, and their dark green uniform 
 
MISS MARKHAM'S STORY. 
 
 189 
 
 strongly contrasted with the many-hued frieze coats of the 
 country-people in the crowd outside their serried circle. Much 
 anxiety was felt amongst the people generally as to whether 
 Grace would die penitent or impenitent ; the good hoped the 
 former ; the had, and especially his brethren of the secret society, 
 the latter, for they would consider it a triumph for the enemy 
 and an indelible disgrace to them if he ‘ gave in 9 at the last 
 moment and 4 didn’t die like a man.’ Fortunately for his own 
 eternal welfare, young Grace had been brought to a sense of his 
 condition before God, and when he appeared on the gallows 
 with the priest by his side, — 
 
 While breathless silence chained the lips, and touched the hearts 
 of all, — 
 
 he spoke in a clear, firm, manly voice, and expressed his heart- 
 felt sorrow for the awful crime which he was now to expiate 
 with his life, asking God’s pardon, and the pardon of all good 
 Christians, and, moreover, warning all who heard him to 
 beware of the evil course which had brought him to that 
 untimely and ignominious end. This was a stunning blow to 
 his late associates, but to his nearest and dearest, and to all 
 pious Christians, it was both joy and triumph — the triumph of 
 religion over irreligion and impiety. But just as the young 
 man ceased to speak, and the priest withdrew from the 
 lapboard, one wild scream of heart-piercing anguish rose from 
 the outskirts of the crowd, then a shriek of maniac laughter, 
 and people were seen to carry away a fair young girl, whose 
 wild gestures and wilder cries, mingled with strange fits of 
 laughter, told too plainly that there, indeed, was ‘ a mind o’er- 
 thrown.’ It is hardly necessary to say that this unhappy young 
 creature was the affianced bride of Patrick Grace.” 
 
 “ But how did she come to be present at such a moment! 
 Surely her friends might have anticipated such a result.” 
 
 4 ‘It is probable that they did, my lord, for they had kept 
 her at home under a close watch, but by some means she eluded 
 their vigilance and arrived just at the fatal moment.” 
 
 “And she is ” — 
 
 “Mad Mabel. You may judge what her beauty must once 
 have been when you see how much of it still remains.” 
 
 “ Poor thing ! ” said Lord Effingham in a tone of sincere 
 
190 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 compassion, — “poor thing, what a hard fate is hers! — a young 
 and a loving heart so early blighted ! ” 
 
 “It was very sad,” sighed Mr. Goodchild,- — “very sad indeed !” 
 and he refreshed himself with a pinch of snuff. 
 
 “ It was worse than sad,” said Mrs. Pakenham, rising, “ it 
 was horrible; and Pm sure I don’t know how you could sit to 
 hear it out, my lord. I hope, Miss Markham, when you next 
 undertake to tell us a story, it will be of a more entertaining 
 kind. Now let us go to supper.” 
 
 “ But what about the promised revenge ? ” said the Earl to 
 Harriet, as he gave his arm to the elder lady, who was looking 
 her loftiest at the moment. 
 
 “ That is a tale in itself, my lord ; and one more tragical 
 even than this. It would be the death of Mrs. Pakenham to 
 hear it.” 
 
 “ Pray do not tell it, then,” said the chaplain, as he offered 
 his arm, with a very low bow, and they all proceeded to the 
 supper-room. 
 
CHAPTER XV. 
 
 MIDSUMMER-EVE ON THE ROCK OF CASHEL. 
 
 It was Midsummer-eve, and the sun of the longest day had 
 just sunk beneath the western horizon ; star after star came out 
 in the blue heavens above, and fire after fire dotted the broad 
 plain below, as if a brighter reflection of the pale light shed 
 down from the glorious canopy hung on high. These were the 
 bonfires which on St. John’s Eve make all Ireland glad and 
 bright, the young uproarious in their harmless mirth as they 
 dance in merry circles round “ the bonfire,” and the old sad 
 amid the festal joys as they talk to each other of “ Auld Lang 
 Syne,” 
 
 And the summer days when they were young, 
 
 — young and blithe and light-hearted as those who have now 
 taken their places around the Midsummer-eve fires, just as those 
 Christian fires in honour of St. John, and symbolising the 
 light of Christianity, have replaced the ancient “fires of Baal ” 
 lit on the same charmed eve on the hills and in the valleys of 
 Ireland, where the sons and daughters of the land once rever- 
 enced in those “ sacred fires ” the image of their most potent 
 god, even the great Bel. 
 
 Half sad, half gay was the chat wherewith our old friend 
 Bryan Cullenan and his friend Shaun the piper beguiled the 
 tranquil hour as they sat together under the shattered arch of 
 what was once the grand portal of the cathedral. The noises 
 of the old borough and of all the merry dancers at the fires 
 round the base of the Rock came softened to the ears of the 
 two old men, and the soothing influence of the hour brought 
 that ineffable calm to their hearts which only the contented, 
 trusting, simple Christian can experience here below. Earlier 
 
 191 
 
192 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 in the evening it had been Shaun’s intention to visit some of 
 the bonfires, with a lucrative object in view, but, as time wore 
 on, and he and Bryan exchanged reminiscences of their boyish 
 days, and of friends long dead, and joys long vanished, Shaun 
 gave up the notion of going to the bonfires : “ For,” said he, 
 “ it wouldn’t be worth my while, maybe, for all I’d make, to be 
 trampin’ round from one to another, an’ that’s what I’d have to 
 do to make anything at all ! So if I’d do with it, I’ll do 
 icithout it, an’ any way I’m not badly off at the present time, 
 thanks be to God Almighty ! Now, only it ’id be drawin’ 
 them all about us from below, I’d give you a tune or two that 
 ’id warm your poor ould heart.” 
 
 “Oh, not here, Shaun agra, not here,” said Bryan in a 
 deprecating tone ; “ why, you don’t know who’d be listenin’ to 
 you ! ” And he dropped his voice almost to a whisper, and cast 
 a furtive glance around. 
 
 “ An’ what do / care who’d be listenin’ to me ? ” said merry- 
 hearted, fearless Shaun. “ There isn’t one buried on the Rock 
 o’ Cashel, I’ll go bail, that wouldn’t have a gra for the ould 
 piper that never did man or mortial any harm, but makes 
 pleasure an’ innocent divarsion wherever he goes. You needn’t 
 be squeezin’ my arm, now, Bryan; for I’m sure there never 
 was priest or friar, or bishop aither, on Irish ground — barrin’ 
 them big buddaghs of English bishops, an’ who cares about 
 them? — that hadn’t an ear an’ a heart for the ould ancient 
 music.” 
 
 “ Athen, Shaun, will you howld your whisht ? ” said Bryan in a 
 low troubled voice. “ I’ll tell you, there’s some o’ them round 
 us now ! You’re bringin’ them out o’ their graves with your 
 foolish talk.” 
 
 This staggered Shaun a little. “Wisha, Bryan,” he whis- 
 pered, “how do you know that? Do you see anything?” 
 And he began rolling his sightless eyes around as though they 
 too could penetrate the deep recesses of the ruins. 
 
 Bryan made no answer ; his eyes, wide distended, were fol- 
 lowing a dark figure that had glided out from the farther end 
 of the palace, across the little open space towards the south 
 transept of the cathedral, close to which stands the pillar-tower, 
 The old man held his breath to listen, but no sound could he 
 distinguish within or around the buildings save the dull 
 
MIDSUMMER-EVE ON THE ROCK, 
 
 193 
 
 flapping of the bat’s wing and the light breeze rustling in the 
 ivy on the walls. 
 
 “ Is there anything wrong wid you, Bryney ? ” whispered 
 Shaun anxiously. 
 
 “Well — no,” hesitated Bryan in the same low tone; “but, 
 some way or another, Shaun, ever sence the poor young master 
 came to his end in the way he did, I feel as if there was some- 
 thin’ over me ; an’ there’s times when I’m a little daunted to be 
 out afther nightfall, barrin’ I’m up here on the Rock.” 
 
 “ Wisha, Bryan, it isn’t afeard of his ghost you’d be ? ” said 
 Shaun in a tone of anxious inquiry that had fear at the bottom 
 of it. 
 
 “No, it isn’t himself I’d be so much afeard of seein’ as his 
 murderer ! ” The last word was whispered in Shaun’s ear, and 
 it made the piper shiver all over. “ I think I’d never get over 
 the sight of him now, for I seen him onst sence he done the 
 deed, an’ I wasn’t the betther of it for many’s the day afther.” 
 
 “ You seen him onst, Bryan? — no, but did you?” 
 
 “As plain as I see you now, an’ as close to me, too, in a 
 manner. Christ save us ! what’s that ? ” A cold, heavy hand was 
 laid on the old man’s shoulder, and, starting up, he saw a tall dark 
 figure close by his side, the eyes looking down on him from under 
 a cap or hat that seemed to his excited fancy of wonderful shape, 
 and one, moreover, that “ would fit Finn MacCoul,” — at least, so 
 thought Bryan. It was, or appeared to be, precisely the same 
 figure that had glided through the evening shadows a little 
 before, and, moreover, if Bryan were not much mistaken, he 
 had seen it, or something like it, more than once of late 
 flitting far off behind the pillars, or under the arches, when the 
 night shadows began to fall, or the moon’s pale ray lay cold and 
 ghastly on the place of death. 
 
 “ In the name o’ God what are you ? ” said Bryan, starting up 
 from under the stony hand, every hair on his head beginning to 
 stand on end. “ Spake, I command you, in the name o’ the 
 Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.” 
 
 Instead of answering, the figure glided away as noiselessly as 
 it came ; but Bryan, anxious for the honour of the Rock, where 
 a ghost had never crossed his path till these latter days, and 
 determined to sift the matter to the bottom, so as to ascertain 
 what manner of spirit it was that made bold to show itself in 
 13 
 
194 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK 
 
 that holy place, hastened after the apparition with all the 
 speed he could make. 
 
 “ For God’s sake, Bryan, who are you talkin’ to ? ” cried 
 Shaun, forgetting his caution in his increasing apprehensions. 
 “ Bryney, I say, Bryney ! ” raising his voice still higher ; 
 “athen, why don’t you answer me!” All was silent, and, as 
 the echo of his own voice died away amongst the ruins, a 
 chilling sense of loneliness fell like a pall on Shaun’s heart 
 and mind. “ I vow to God he’s gone ! ” said he, after feeling 
 with his hand in the place where he knew Bryan had been 
 sitting; “it’s a trick he’s playin’ on me, an’ nothing else. 
 Wisha, who’d think Bryney the Rock had so much fun in him? 
 Well, he can’t frighten ??ze, that’s one comfort, an’ to let him see 
 that, I’ll give him a tune — it’ll pass the time bravely, an’ keep 
 up one’s heart a bit till my ould chap comes back, for afther 
 all it is a lonesome place, an’ that’s God’s truth. Here goes, 
 now.” 
 
 And so saying, Shaun blew his chanter, and struck up “The 
 Dusty Miller” with a hearty goodwill, and a lusty vigour that 
 brought out the merriest tones in his bag, and made his own 
 heart as light as a feather. 
 
 “ I’m thinkin’ that’ll chase the ghosts, anyhow,” quoth 
 Shaun, warming more and more at the exhilarating sound of 
 his own music. “Now we’ll give them ‘Haste to the 
 Wedding!’” and no sooner said than done. “Well, it’s a 
 folly to talk,” said he, “there’s a power o’ fun in these same 
 ould pipes o’ mine. Hoogh ! Shaun, your sowl ! it’s a pity 
 you’d ever die ! ” 
 
 His music and his self -laudation came to an end together, 
 when Bryan rushed up breathless, and, seizing the chanter with 
 no gentle hand, pulled it from between his fingers, saying, “Are 
 you mad, Shaun? or what’s cornin’ over you, at all, to gc 
 playin’ up your jigs an’ reels among the dead on the Rock o 
 Cashel ? Didn’t I tell you not to do it ? ” 
 
 “You did, an’ then you goes off wid yourself an’ laves me 
 here all alone wid my pipes, an’ sure, what could I do but make 
 them spake to keep me company ? If I done any harm, it’s 
 you’s to blame. I didn’t expect you to do the like, Bryan 
 Cullenan, an’ you my sister Mary’s sponsor, God rest her sow 
 in glory — och, Am-en this night ! ’ 
 
MIDSUMMER-EVE ON TEE ROCK. 
 
 195 
 
 “ I couldn't help it, Shaun,” said Bryan, his voice trembling 
 with some new and strange emotion. 
 
 “You couldn’t help it ? — athen, how is that, Bryney*” said 
 Shaun in his natural tone of easy good -humour; anger or 
 vexation was but a ripple on the surface of his tranquil 
 mind. “An’ now I think of it, didn’t I hear you talkin’ to 
 some one there a while ago ? ” 
 
 “ In coorse you did,” said Bryan as composedly as he could ; 
 “ an’ if you were anywhere convaynient, many’s the time you’d 
 hear me talkin’ when there’s ne’er a one but myself.” 
 
 “I know that,” replied Shaun; “but there’s two ways of 
 talkin’, an’ more, too, if it goes to that. Come now, Bryan, 
 tell the truth, didn’t you see or hear something that time % ” 
 “Wisha, the ne’er a thing worse than myself,” returned 
 Bryan evasively; “maybe it was them weary bats I was 
 talkin’ to, for they do be flyin’ about me here in the dusk 
 when I’m at my night-prayers, or maybe sittin’ thinkin’ of one 
 thing or another — sometimes they’ll come flappin’ their wings 
 in my very face, the misc7wevous crathurs, that you’d think 
 it was makin’ game o’ me they wor. But hadn’t we best be 
 gettin’ doAvn off the Rock, Shaun agra? It must be gettin’ 
 late, for I see most o’ the fires are dyin’ out.” 
 
 Shaun assented in a tone of abstraction very unusual with 
 nim. He was not satisfied with Bryan’s explanation, and 
 wondered much that his old friend would have any reserve 
 with him. “ Howsomever,” said he to himself as the two 
 iescended the steep road from the old palace to the gate, 
 4 it’s like he- does it for the best — maybe it’s afeard of scarin’ 
 me he is, on account o’ me bein’ out so often afther nightfall.” 
 The bare supposition was more than sufficient to clear Shaun’s 
 tunny old brow of the light cloud that had settled on it, and 
 io ! Richard was himself again. 
 
 “In coorse you’ll come home with me,” said Bryan, as v 
 having locked the gate, he took hold of Shaun’s arm. 
 
 “No, no,” cried Shaun hastily ; “ I’m obleeged to you all the 
 tame, Bryan, but I’d sooner go somewhere else.” 
 
 “ Why, then, what’s that for ? ” 
 
 “Och,” replied Shaun evasively, “sure, I know you haven’t 
 any room to spare.” 
 
 “There’s room enough for you , anyhow,” said Bryan some- 
 
196 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK 
 
 what testily ; “ but if you don’t want to come, you can’t say 
 but you were asked.” 
 
 Now Shaun had a reason for declining the offer which he 
 could not, or would not, tell Bryan, yet he felt that some 
 reason he ought to give, and he was casting about in his 
 simple mind what he had best say. All at once a voice 
 spoke near him, almost at his elbow. 
 
 “ I thought you weren’t cornin’ down the night — it’s a 
 wondher you did, aither.” 
 
 Shaun uttered an exclamation of terror, and came near 
 dropping his pipes in his fright. 
 
 “Why, Shaun, what ails you, man?” said Bryan soothingly. 
 “ Sure, it’s only poor Cauth that came up the road to see if I 
 was cornin’.” 
 
 “ I know — I know,” stammered Shaun, gasping for breath, 
 “ but it took a start out o’ me to meet her in this lonesome 
 place — I mane — I mane — to meet any one at all of a suddent 
 that way.” The shudder that was creeping through Shaun’s 
 sturdy frame was not lost on either of his hearers. 
 
 A kind of nondescript sound, neither laugh nor cry, but 
 something between the two, was heard to escape from Cauth’s 
 lips, and, drawing closer around her the skirt of her drugget 
 gown which she had turned up over her head, she muttered some 
 unintelligible words, and hurried away towards the cottage. 
 
 “ Is she gone ? ” whispered Shaun. 
 
 “ She is, avick ; but what in the world came over you that 
 time ? — sure, it isn’t afeard o’ Cauth you’d be ? ” 
 
 “ Well, I dunna how it is, Bryan ; of coorse I’m not afeard of 
 anybody, leastways her, but then it’s aisy takin’ a start out of a 
 poor dark crathur like me.” 
 
 “But where are you goin’ to lodge the night?” inquired 
 Bryan, himself no little disturbed by what had passed. 
 
 “ At Johnny Farrell’s there below, if you lead me to the 
 do >r, for God’s sake.” 
 
 “ It’s myself ’ill do that, Shaun, if you didn’t ask me, at all,” 
 said Bryan, and they walked on in silence for some five 
 minutes, when he spoke again : “ Shaun,” said he, “ there’s 
 something about Cauth that’s mighty quare : you know more 
 about her than I do — I see that — an’ I’d be very thankful to 
 you if you’d tell me what and who she is.” 
 
MIDSUMMER-EVE ON THE ROCK, 
 
 197 
 
 “ It wouldn’t do you any good if I did,” replied Shaun 
 quickly. “ But I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” and he laughed good- 
 humouredly ; “ I will tell you what I know about Cauth if 
 you’ll tell me what you seen and heard this night on the Bock 
 above ? ” 
 
 “ Well,” said Bryan evasively, “sure, I seen, for one thing, 
 the best hand at ‘The Swaggerin’ Jig’ in all Tipperary, an’ the 
 pipes he has that can’t be bate any more than himself ; an’ as 
 for hearin’, why, upon my credit, Shaun, I heard what I never 
 expected to hear on the Bock o’ Cashel if I lived to the age of 
 Mathusalem, — an’ what no one ever heard there before, I’ll go 
 bail, — that’s ‘Bobbin’ Joan’ an’ ‘Haste to the Wedding.’ I’ll 
 warrant you, it ’ill be all over the town the morrow that music 
 was heard on the Bock the night, an’ they’ll be all full sure it 
 was nothing earthly that was in it.” 
 
 “ An’ there was something there that wasn’t earthly,” put in 
 Shaun. “ How, wasn’t there, Bryney ? — yis or no, like a man ! ” 
 
 “ Well, not that / seen or heard.” 
 
 “Bryney,” said Shaun, lowering his voice to a whisper, 
 “ take care, now, what you say — did you, or did you not, see 
 young Mr. Esmond’s ghost ? ” 
 
 “Mr. Esmond’s ghost?” said Bryan, with a start; “why, 
 what in the world put that in your head ? ” 
 
 “Well, but did you see him?” 
 
 “Did you see him?” retorted Bryan. “How, you seen him 
 jist as much as I did, an’ that’s God’s own truth. Here we’re 
 at Johnny Farrell’s now — but stop a minnit, Shaun ! — now 
 ’on’t you tell me afore we part what you know about Cauth ? 
 I declare I’m beginnin’ to be a little daunted myself on account 
 of the quare ways she has. Maybe it isn’t safe to have her in 
 the house — eh, Shaun ? ” 
 
 “ Pooh, pooh, Bryan ! don’t be makin’ a fool of yourself — 
 she’ll not hurt you ! ” 
 
 “ But did she ever hurt any one ? ” 
 
 “ Wisha, Bryney the Bock, you foolish ould man, you ! do 
 you think it’s murdher any one she’d do? Hot but what 
 there’s people that does worse ” — 
 
 “Worse than murdher, Shaun? Why, what worse could 
 they do ? ” 
 
 “ Many a thing, Bryan — many a thing ; though God forbid 
 
198 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 I’d ever be the man to make light of murdlier , still I say 
 there’s as bad things done — ay, and worse, that there’s no law 
 for, aither ! God be with you, Bryan, an’ I wish you may 
 never die, or nobody kill you, till you catch me again, afther 
 dark, on the Kock o’ Cashel ! ” 
 
 When Bryan entered his own cottage, he found his frugal 
 supper awaiting his coming, consisting of some few potatoes, 
 kept hot in the skillet beside the brusli-fire, and a noggin of fresh 
 buttermilk standing on the little table. Cauth was sitting on 
 her “creepy,” both her hands tightly clasped around her knees 
 and her eyes fixed in moody thought on the faintly-flickering 
 blaze emitted by the crackling brambles on the hearth. As 
 Bryan entered, she broke into a somewhat angry apostrophe 
 addressed to a harmless cricket who was warbling his merry 
 solo in some crevice about the hearth. 
 
 “ Wisha, weary on you for a one cricket ! it’s aisy seen yoi^ 
 have little to trouble you, or you wouldn’t be ever an’ always 
 deevin’ my ears wid that sharp voice o’ yours that goes through 
 my very head ! ” 
 
 “Athen, Cauth,” said Bryan, as he took his seat at the 
 table, and, blessing himself, began his supper, “what harm 
 does the poor cricket do you ? — it’s often I’d wish there was a 
 cricket near me on the Kock above. I think it’s great company 
 to hear the weeny crathurs singin’ their little song, divartin’ 
 themselves down among the ashes.” 
 
 “ Humph ! ” said Cauth, “ I wouldn’t doubt you. But 
 never mind the cricket now — I’ve news for you the night.” 
 
 “ You have, now? — and what is it, aroon ? ” 
 
 “ The young mistress was here the day, an’ she wants me to 
 go up the morrow to the big house, an’ blamed me for not goin’ 
 this while back.” 
 
 “Wisha, Cauth, are you in earnest?” said Bryan, laying 
 down his noggin, his mouth and eyes wide open to catch the 
 answer. 
 
 “Arrah, maybe it’s jokin’ I am!” said Cauth, with bitter 
 irony. “ I tell you she was here, an’ that’s all about it. But 
 och, och ! it’s the sore change that’s in her since I seen her 
 last — she looks twenty years older, you’d think, — an’ sure, sure, 
 that 8 no wondher— didn’t myself grow twenty — ay, thirty 
 years older in one week ? — oyeh ! it’s me knows what heavy 
 
MIDSUMMER-EVE ON THE ROCK. 
 
 199 
 
 grief can do ! ” and she shook her head drearily, her gaze still 
 on the fire, or rather on vacancy. 
 
 “ An’ dear knows but hers was a heavy grief, Cauth. But 
 wouldn’t it be a quare thing, now, if there was them above 
 ground that has as sore a heart about that same murder as she 
 has, God bless her for ever ! ” 
 
 Cauth started from her reverie and gave Bryan a look that, 
 as he afterwards said, “was as good as a process”— (a law 
 term this, non-Irish reader !) “ Well, Bryan, you do bate all, 
 sometimes, wid the foolish words you say ! — now, who could 
 have as sore a heart for the loss of him as his own darlin’ wife, 
 that was the flower o’ the world wid him, an’ him the same 
 wid her ? Hut, tut, man ! let nobody ever hear you say the 
 likes o’ that again ! It’s aisy seen you have no gumption in 
 you, anyhow, or you icouldn’t say it.” 
 
 “Well, now, see here, Cauth,” said the old man meekly, “I 
 know one that went to Lough Diar-og for the good of his sowl 
 not many weeks ago, an’ them not a drop’s blood to him, aither. 
 How, what do you think o’ that*?” 
 
 “Wisha, what could I think, barrin’ that them that did it 
 must have had a great wish entirely for the poor master ? How, 
 if it was one of his own a body wouldn’t wondher, but a 
 stranger to do it was past the common altogether. The Lord 
 reward them, whoever they wor that done it, for sure it must 
 be some holy pilgrim or another — maybe Barney Byrne ? ” 
 
 " Ho, it wasn’t. Guess again.” 
 
 “ Well, maybe it was Susy Eooney ?” 
 
 “Ho, it wasn’t any pilgrim at all, but”— 
 
 “ But who ? ” 
 
 “ Why, Jerry Pierce ! ” and he lowered his voice to the 
 lowest pitch. 
 
 “Jerry Pierce?” repeated Cauth, jumping fairly from her 
 seat, and in so doing upsetting the skillet, whereupon the few 
 potatoes remaining in it ran helter-skelter over the floor in all 
 directions, — “Jerry Pierce?” and she crossed herself as Bryan 
 had never seen her do before. “ How dare you mention his 
 name to me, the curse-o’-God villain ? Him to go to the Island ! 
 I wondher he wasn’t afeard o’ bein’ swallowed up in the lake ! 
 — sure, I’d be there many’s the day ago myself, only for fear of 
 vexin’ the Lord more an’ more, goin’ among good Christians 
 
200 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK . 
 
 in that blessed an’ holy place, where the best that goes 
 has to walk barefoot all the time they’re in it.” 
 
 “Well, be that as it may, Cauth, what I tell you’s true — 
 with all the watch that’s on him, that same man made his way 
 to Lough Diar-og, 1 with the intention I tould you.” 
 
 “An’ how did you know that?” asked Cauth sharply. 
 ~*Did you see him ?” 
 
 “ It’s no matter whether I did or not, — if I didn’t see himself, 
 I seen them that did.” 
 
 “ Bryan Cullenan,” said the woman, her eyes flashing with 
 a strange and lurid light, “ you’re not the man I took you for, 
 or it isn’t colloguin’ you’d be with Mr. Esmond’s murderer ! I 
 thought, if it was true to you, there was no one worse agin him 
 than yourself. I vow to God, if I could only get wind of 
 where he’s to be found, I’d go myself an’ give information to 
 the magisthrates, though I wouldn’t take a penny of the 
 reward, but jist to put him in the way of gettin’ what he 
 desarves. Hangin’ would be too good for the villain, an’ I’d 
 be glad to see him strung up like a dog the night before the 
 morrow ! ” 
 
 “I wouldn’t doubt you,” said a deep voice from outside, 
 speaking through a chink of the frail door, — “ I wouldn’t doubt 
 you, Kate Costelloe ! You’re an old hand at that business, — 
 but you'll not hang Jerry Pierce /” 
 
 The turbulent spirit of the dame was fairly overcome by this 
 mysterious salutation ; she sank breathless on a seat. Bryan 
 lost not a moment in opening the door, muttering to himself as 
 he did so, “Well, if lie's a livin’ man this night, that’s his 
 voice.” Whoever it was, there was no one to be seen outside, 
 though the moonlight was shining full on the road, revealing in 
 all the distinctness of “garish day ” the jagged outlines of the 
 great Rock, the wall, and the overhanging ruins. 
 
 “He’s not there, anyhow,” said Bryan, coming back and 
 addressing the old woman, who had by that time recovered her 
 momentary faintness; “but whoever he was, he seems to know 
 you.” 
 
 “He does,” she replied doggedly. 
 
 “ And is it thrue, then, that you’re ” — 
 
 1 This is the way in which the word Derg in this name is always 
 pronounced by the peasantry. 
 
MIDSUMMER-EVE ON THE ROCK. 
 
 201 
 
 “ Kate Costelloe I ” she said, with a look and tone, as it were, of 
 defiance. 
 
 Bryan was silent for a few moments, during which he sat 
 looking thoughtfully down on the clay floor, the woman 
 watching him with a sort of lynx-like scrutiny. At last he 
 spoke, but without raising his eyes : “ Why didn’t you tell me 
 before who you wor ? ” 
 
 “Don’t you hear it time enough V* 
 
 “Well, that’s true, but still” — 
 
 “ But still you’d rayther have known before that you had 
 Kate Costelloe on your flure ? Well, that’s a droll thing, too, for 
 I thought there wasn’t man or woman in Tipperary that ’id care 
 to have my four bones undher the roof wid them.” 
 
 This she said in a tone of bitter mockery, but all at once her 
 sharp features assumed a softer expression, her pale lips quivered 
 with a tremulous motion, and she said, as if to herself — 
 
 “ An’ sure, what wondher is it ? I am a fearsome thing, an’ 
 there’s no one more afeard o’ me than I am myself — och, 
 och ! ” And, laying her hands one over the other on her heart, 
 she groaned heavily, “ Och, och ! but it ’id be the aise to 
 me if this weary heart ’id break at onst ; but it ’on’t do that, for 
 it’s as hard as a stone — ha ! ha ! ” and how dreary was her laugh, 
 “sure, I needn’t tell anybody that , for the world knows if I 
 hadn’t a hard, hard heart I’d never a’ done what I did.” 
 
 “Well, well, Cauth — or Kate, or whatsomever you are.” 
 
 “ Call me Cauth still, for fear of any one hearin’ the other 
 name — an’ besides, I don’t want to hear it myself — oh no, no ! ” 
 she added, with sudden wildness, “ anything but that— anything 
 in the world wide but the one theij used to call me.” She 
 covered her face with her hands and lapsed into stolid silence. 
 
 “Well, Cauth,” began Bryan again after a long pause, “I 
 know there’s many a one wouldn’t wish to have you next or 
 nigh them, but — but” — he drew a long breath — “I see you’re 
 sorry for what you done, an’ — an’ — Til not be harder on a 
 fellow-crathur than God Almighty is. But what brought you 
 here at all ? ” 
 
 “Ay, that’s the question,” said Cauth, raising her face from 
 between her hands, her eyes again flashing that angry fire. 
 “ You want to know what brought me here? I’ll jist tell von 
 then : I couldn’t stay where I was, an’ the people all knowin 
 
202 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK 
 
 me, an’ where I’d have a chance of seein’ the ould man pinin’ 
 away, lonely an’ lonesome, wid the staff gone from his ould 
 age, — an’ knowin’ who took it — knowin’ who took it ! — ochone, 
 ochone ! wouldn’t I thravel on my knees to Africa to get out of 
 his way, an’ to hide myself where nobody ’id know me ? ” 
 
 “ And that’s why you came to Cashel all the way ? ” 
 
 “An’ what else ’id bring me? I thought that nobody ’id 
 know me here, but I see I was mistaken — an’ sure, I might ha’ 
 known that I couldn’t hide myself, — no matter where I’d go I’d 
 be found out, an’ the shame taken out o’ me. 0 Lord ! 0 
 Lord ! is there no place where the sinner can be at rest ? Ay, 
 there’s one place — one place” she added solemnly, — “one place 
 where the broken heart is at rest, an’ shame an’ grief an’ 
 trouble are never felt any more — that place is the grave — the 
 quiet grave under the green sod ; but sure, we must wait for 
 that rest till God plases — we can’t cut short the life that God 
 gave us ; no matter how miserable it is, we must live it out till 
 our time comes ! — an ’ we will, too , — we’ll fight the battle out, 
 come what will, an’ bear the burthen to the last.” There was 
 a hectic flush on her cheek and a bright light in her eyes as 
 she raised them to heaven, and Bryan thought as he watched 
 her that the very features changed before him, and the face 
 was not that of old Cauth, but another and a fairer. It was 
 the strong spirit of faith that shone there triumphant over 
 despair. 
 
 “Cauth,” said Bryan, “don’t fear that you’ll ever want a 
 home while I have one ; it’s a poor one, to be sure, but you’re 
 as welcome in it as the flowers of May ” — 
 
 “An’ you’ll promise me that you’ll never tell who I am — 
 unless I give you lave ? ” 
 
 “I will, Cauth. There’s my hand on it.” 
 
 “ God bless you, Bryan — God bless you ! ” said Cauth, wit\ 
 touching fervour; “it’s a comfort to know that there’s one 
 creature on the earth that doesn’t hate poor Kate Costelloe.” 
 Here a loud, sharp knocking at the door cut short any further 
 conversation. Cauth started up, alarmed ; but Bryan, calm as 
 ever, telling her not to be afraid, went toward the door and 
 asked who was there. 
 
 “It’s me — don’t be botherin’ me with your questions, but let 
 me in.” 
 
MIDSUMMER-EVE ON THE ROCK 
 
 203 
 
 The voice was that of a female, and Bryan opened the door 
 without further parley. An aged crone hobbled in, and it was 
 with no very pleasant feeling that Bryan discovered under the 
 hood of her red cloak the fairy-woman. By an involuntary 
 movement Cautli retreated, as she thought, out of sight, into a 
 dark corner. Not unseen she went, however, for the uncouth 
 visitor, striking her stick on the ground, called out in a tone of 
 the sternest authority, “Come out here, Kate Costelloe, an’ 
 put some milk in this can for me. Come out, I say ; where's 
 the use o’ you hidin' from me ? ” 
 
 The woman came forth at a snail's pace, and took the tin 
 vessel which the other held out, trembling the while like an 
 aspen leaf. “Well, I’ll give you all I have,” she faltered out, 
 “ but that isn’t much. There it is, now, an' much good may it 
 do you.” 
 
 “I don't want it to do me good,” was the sharp reply; “it 
 isn’t for me it is, at all, but for Tim Murtha, that's down with 
 the faver.” 
 
 “Tim Murtha?” cried Bryan. “The Lord save us, honest 
 woman, is it in earnest you are ? ” 
 
 “ If you come up to my fine elegant house on Gallows Hill 
 above, you’ll soon see whether I’m jokin' or not. I tell you the 
 man took bad this mornin' from the fair dint o’ hunger an' 
 misery — not but that he'd ha' got enough to keep life in him- 
 self and the childer, but somehow he couldn’t bring himself to 
 go out and ask it, barrin' of an odd time afther night, and 
 though I was willin’ to share the last bit I had wid him an' 
 the poor motherless childer he has, all I could get wasn’t 
 enough to give four of us a male a day, so it's starvin' we all 
 wor, for Tim wouldn't let me go ask the good bit an' sup where 
 I knew I’d get plenty if I went.” 
 
 “An' is he very bad?” said Bryan anxiously. 
 
 “Not as bad as he will be, but he's bad enough, an’ it’s my 
 opinion he will never stand on green grass, — but I must hurry 
 back with the milk to make whey for him. My blessin' an' 
 the blessin' o' God be in the place o' what you gave me.” 
 
 And away she stumped with her knotty stick, leaving Bryan 
 and Cauih full of compassion for the misfortunes of poor Tim 
 Murtha. 
 
CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 SUNSET ON THE ROCK, AND PHIL MORAN’S STORY. 
 
 The first July sun was sinking behind the western rim of the 
 mountains that gird the Golden Vale, when the Effingham 
 carriage was again in waiting at the foot of the Rock of Cashel, 
 whilst a liveried groom led a handsome saddle-horse to and fro, 
 the noble animal nowise content, it would seem, with the 
 restraint imposed on his light and agile limbs. On the Rock 
 above, the Earl, Mrs. Pakenham, Miss Markham and the 
 children, with a widowed sister of Lord Effingham, recently 
 arrived from England, were listening with more or less attention 
 to some of Bryan’s old-world legends. It was partly to show 
 the antiquities on the Rock to Lady Pemberton, the Earl’s 
 sister, that the party were there on that occasion, and partly 
 because Lord Effingham wished to pay the place another visit 
 before he left for England, which he proposed doing in a few 
 days. It so happened that, whilst Bryan was entertaining the 
 party with his curious descriptions and quaint reminiscences of 
 persons and things, another party came to claim his services as 
 guide, and in the new-comers Harriet recognised with pleasure 
 the two Mrs. Esmonds, Mary Hennessy, and Bella Le Poer, with 
 Uncle Harry and Attorney Moran as escort. Miss Markham 
 at once excused herself to her own party, and joined the others 
 in their exploration of the ruins, which she soon understood was 
 proposed at this particular time for the special benefit of young 
 Mrs. Esmond, with a view to divert her thoughts even for a 
 while from the dreary circle to which they were now so long 
 circumscribed. 
 
 “ Bryan,” said Miss Markham, smiling, “you can continue 
 to give your undivided attention to Lord Effingham and the 
 
SUNSET ON THE ROCK 
 
 205 
 
 ladies — I will endeavour to supply your place to that party 
 just arrived, who are my particular friends.” 
 
 “But who are they, Miss Markham?” inquired Bryan 
 anxiously, as he put up his hand to shade his failing eyes from 
 the slanting beams of the fervid sun. 
 
 “Oh, it’s the Esmonds, Bryan, and Miss Hennessy and 
 Miss Le Poer, and Mr. Moran. You know some of them 
 know the Bock almost as well as yourself, so between us we 
 shall manage to do the honours to those who are not so familiar 
 with the ruins.” 
 
 So saying, away she went, and after her tripped the two 
 little girls, never so happy as in her company. 
 
 For some time the two parties moved in different directions 
 over the Bock, but in the Hall of the Minstrels in the old 
 palace they chanced to meet, and as Lord Effingham was 
 already acquainted with Miss Hennessy and Miss Le Poer, — 
 the latter of whom he took care to present to his sister and 
 Mrs. Pakenham as a cousin of Lady Blessington, — a general 
 introduction followed, and the interchange of courteous but 
 distant civilities being duly gone through, the company pro- 
 ceeded together to examine what yet remained to be seen, 
 forming themselves naturally into such groups as taste or 
 sympathy dictated. For some time the Earl, with Lady 
 Pemberton on one arm and Mrs. Pakenham on the other, 
 accompanied Mr. Esmond, leaving the other ladies to the frank 
 good offices of Phil Moran, who, for some cause probably known 
 to himself, was in extra good-humour that evening, and more 
 than ever disposed to make himself generally agreeable. Find- 
 ing that Mr. Esmond, with all his first show of brusquerie , was 
 really a gentleman and a man of some parts, not by any means 
 unacquainted with the ways of their world, the two stately 
 dowagers began after a while to unbend somewhat in his 
 regard, and at length condescended to accept his careless 
 invitation to go back and look at some of the sculptures in 
 Cormac’s Chapel which seemed to have escaped their aristo- 
 cratic attention. 
 
 By some chance Harriet found herself alone, gazing with 
 delight on the glorious expanse of country that stretched 
 around and beneath her. Eastward, gently sloping from the 
 town upwards, lay Gallows Iiilh and Summer Hill, and green 
 
206 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 Killough, while farther to the east rose the lordly Slievenaraon, 
 and beyond it, closing in the far perspective, the undulating and 
 softly rounded hills of Kilkenny reposed in their summer 
 freshness, tinged with the faint flush of the warm sunset. Far 
 to the north lay the Slievebloom Mountains, and nearer the 
 shaggy outlines of the Devil’s Bit Hills, their wild valleys rest- 
 ing in shade; from these the eye passed on to the Keeper 
 Mountains, which look down on Limerick vales, and thence 
 wandered afar to the Clare highlands beyond the upper 
 Shannon ; westward the lofty hills that cross the country from 
 the Lower Shannon stretched away north to King’s County, 
 and as if springing from them in the far south the Castle 
 Oliver Mountains, with the magnificent Galtees standing in 
 front of them on the great champaign country nearer to the 
 Bock of Cashel. Dim and far were some of these mountain 
 ranges, yet in the clear atmosphere of the summer eve, with the 
 rich rays shining down on them, their outlines were clearly 
 visible to Harriet’s practised eye. Nearer, in a southerly 
 direction, and more distinctly revealed, were portions of the 
 Knockmeledown and the Monavoilagh mountains, and then 
 back to the base of the Bock the admiring gaze wandered over 
 the luxuriant plains of Tipperary, with all their wealth of wood 
 and water, fruit and blossom, dotted with towns and hamlets, 
 with here and there spacious demesnes encircling lordly man- 
 sions, such as Effingham Castle and the picturesque dwellings 
 of the gentry. And bright through these lovely scenes wan 
 dered the silvery Suir, winding its way to the distant ocean. 
 It was but a moment and the eye took in all this wondrous 
 panorama of richest bloom and stateliest grandeur and most 
 luxuriant beauty, and a pensive shade stole over Harriet’s 
 thoughtful face as she prepared to rejoin her companions. She 
 was arrested by Lord Effingham’s voice speaking near her, so 
 near that she started, seeing which the Earl smiled, though his 
 smile was scarce perceptible. 
 
 “ What a scene for a painter’s eye ! ” said he, glancing over 
 the splendid panorama. 
 
 “It is, indeed, my lord, a fair scene for painter or for 
 poet,” Harriet replied ; “ yet I was just thinking of what an 
 Irish poet has sung of the mournful associations that sadden 
 our loveliest scenes,” and she repeated that verse of Moore’s — 
 
SUNSET ON THE ROCK. 
 
 207 
 
 u Then if, while scenes so grand, 
 
 So beautiful, shine before thee, 
 
 Pride for thine own dear land 
 Should haply be stealing o’er thee, 
 
 Oh, let grief come first, 
 
 O’er pride itself victorious — 
 
 Thinking how man hath cursed 
 What God has made so glorious. ” 
 
 “ Truly it is a fair land,” said the Earl thoughtfully, “ and a 
 fertile land too, — strange that misery should be the lot of 
 multitudes of its people.” 
 
 “To you, Lord Effingham,” said Harriet, with an earnestness 
 of look and tone that surprised her auditor, — “to you , I should 
 think the causes, or rather the cause , of this so strange anomaly 
 might be plainly manifest ; but ” — she blushed, smiled at her 
 own thought, and said in a tone of assumed levity — “but here 
 I am talking in a way that must give your lordship a poor 
 opinion of my modesty — to say the least of it. But the truth 
 is, my lord, that I am somewhat of an enthusiast in my love of 
 this native land of mine, once so great, now so fallen — so rich 
 in memories, so rare in beauty, so pitiable in misfortune.” 
 
 “ I can understand your enthusiasm,” said Lord Effingham ; 
 “ perhaps were /, like you, of Irish birth and Irish breeding , I 
 might feel somewhat as you do.” 
 
 Harriet was silent a moment; but, as though feeling the 
 silence awkward, she hastily resumed, in a somewhat subdued 
 tone — 
 
 “There, in the vale below us, is Ilore Abbey, once a famous 
 Dominican establishment, and a dependency of the great 
 Abbey of Cashel, the two houses being connected, it is said, by 
 a subterraneous passage ; some miles beyond lies Holy Cross, 
 perhaps one of the most beautiful ecclesiastical ruins in the 
 empire, built by Donogh O’Brien, the warlike King of Munster, 
 for monks of the Cistercian order; and beyond that again, 
 away to the northward, on the confines of the King’s County, 
 lies storied Toomavara, where of old the Knights Templars 
 had a preceptory, the ruins of which are now barely visible. 
 Alas ! the soil of Ireland is covered, 
 
 From the centre all round to the sea, 
 
 with remains of ancient greatness, attesting her historic fame,” 
 
208 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 Lord Effingham’s answer, whatever it might have been, was 
 prevented by the approach of Mr. Esmond and the elder ladies, 
 obsequiously followed by Bryan. 
 
 “ We were looking for you, Effingham,” said Lady Pember- 
 ton in her cold, listless tone. 
 
 “But Lord Effingham was not looking for us,” pointedly 
 said the Honourable Mrs. Pakenham. 
 
 “Certainly not, Mrs. Thomasine Pakenham,” said the 
 Earl very composedly. “ I was well entertained by Miss 
 Markham’s account of the antiquities scattered over the wide 
 plain before us. And I was about to observe, when you came 
 up, what a pity it is that this fine county of Tipperary, with all 
 its beauty and fertility, and wealth of old renown, should yet 
 rest under the black cloud of murder and assassination.” 
 
 “Very true, my lord, very true,” cordially assented Mr. 
 Esmond. 
 
 “And poverty, my lord,” subjoined Moran, who had just 
 come up with his party in time to hear the Earl’s observation. 
 “ Mr. Esmond can tell you that the greatest plague of Tipperary 
 is beggarmen — tall strapping fellows who patrol the country 
 by night and by day with bag on back and murderous designs 
 in heart.” 
 
 “ Pshaw ! nonsense ! ” said Mr. Esmond. “ Don’t mind 
 Moran, my lord; he is always midway between jest and 
 earnest.” 
 
 “ Well, but you won’t pretend to deny, will you, that you 
 have been waging a sort of crusade against the men of the bag 
 and staff ever since a memorable night when one of them — 
 saved your life h ” 
 
 “And another wanted to take it. Well, I don’t deny it 
 Phil — I mean Mr. Moran ; you know I never deny the truth 
 But with all my crusade, as you call it, and the active exertion 
 of the entire magistracy of the county, we have never been able 
 to catch that atrocious criminal, Jerry Pierce.” 
 
 “Ho, but you caught a brace of beggarmen, and committed 
 them as vagrants — that was doing something pro bono publico.” 
 
 Lord Effingham, who had been listening attentively to this 
 characteristic dialogue, now asked Mr. Esmond how it happened 
 that the murderer of his nephew had so long eluded the pursuit 
 of the law. As he spoke, his eye fell on old Bryan, who had 
 
SUNSE1 ON TILE ROCK 
 
 203 
 
 dirust his face amongst the group with a look of intense 
 anxiety on his shrivelled features. After satisfying himself that 
 his niece was not within hearing, — a fact which Lord Effingham 
 had ascertained before putting the question, — 
 
 “ Oh, that’s easily understood, my lord,” replied Uncle Harry ; 
 
 “ it’s all owing to the d d conspiracy— I beg your pardon, 
 
 ladies — that exists amongst the peasantry. A conspiracy for 
 purposes of assassination, and also for purposes of concealment. 
 See how things went at the time of Mr. Chadwick’s murder.” 
 “Yet there was found a man, one of themselves,” said 
 Moran, “ to give honest testimony against the murderer at all 
 risks to himself.” 
 
 “Humph ! and see what came of it ! Hadn’t Philip Mara to 
 be sent out of the country after the trial ? — and you know your- 
 self, Phil Moran, how it ended with his family.” 
 
 “ Apropos to Philip Mara,” said Lord Effingham, “Miss 
 Markham some weeks since gave us an interesting account of 
 that tragical affair in which he played so prominent a part, 
 but she intimated, if I remember right, that the tragedy did 
 not end with the execution of the unhappy Grace.” 
 
 The three young ladies were at this time exploring with Mrs. 
 Esmond amongst the ruins. A shade fell on Moran’s face as he 
 replied — 
 
 “ Alas ! yes, my lord, that was but the second act in a bloody 
 four -act tragedy, the effects of which are still felt in the 
 country like the last throes of an earthquake. The first act 
 was the murder of Chadwick — the second, the hanging of Grace.” 
 “ And the others 1 ” 
 
 “It would, perhaps, trespass too much on your lordship’s 
 patience were I to tell.” 
 
 “ I should like to hear it,” said the Earl, “if Mrs. Pakenham 
 and you, Caroline,” — to his sister, — “ have no objection.” 
 “Certainly I have none,” said Lady Pemberton, with a sort 
 jf incipient attempt at animation ; “ I should like, of all things, 
 to hear an Irish story.” 
 
 “ And when you have heard it, my lady, you’ll never want 
 to hear another Irish story, I can tell you that,” said Mr. 
 Esmond, as he walked away to join the younger ladies. 
 
 “ Is the gentleman angry 1 ” said Lady Pemberton, looking 
 after him with a look of languid surprise. 
 
 *4 
 
210 
 
 THE HERMIT OP THE ROCK. 
 
 “Not at all, madam,” said Moran very gravely; “on the 
 contrary, lie is particularly amiable just now.” The court lady 
 raised her eyebrows — perhaps shrugged her shoulders a very 
 little a la Franfaise , and, seating herself on a prostrate pillar, 
 prepared to listen to the “ Irish story,” to which Mrs. Paken- 
 liam could not in politeness object, so she took a seat beside 
 her cousin. 
 
 “The story is not long,” said Moran, “otherwise I would 
 not consent to inflict it on this company,” and he bowed 
 slightly, “under these circumstances. But, to commence my 
 story where I infer from wliat your lordship said that Miss 
 Markham ended hers, at the execution, namely, of young 
 Grace : the feeling of execration wherewith Mara, the informer, 
 as they called him, was regarded by the great majority of the 
 country-people can be best understood by the fearful revenge 
 planned and executed under the auspices of the same dangerous 
 association which had authorised the death of the unfortunate 
 Mr. Chadwick. Enraged that Philip Mara had been sent by 
 the Government beyond seas, where their power could not 
 reach him, they resolved that he should still suffer in his 
 nearest and dearest, and swore a terrible revenge against his 
 three brothers, who were all, like himself, masons by trade, 
 and, moreover, engaged as he had been in the erection of the 
 fatal barracks at Rath Cannon. Quietly and sternly did these 
 dark conspirators proceed to the execution of their fell purpose. 
 The Maras were all decent, respectable men, and men, moreover, 
 who, being under the saving influence of religion, kept them- 
 selves carefully aloof from the demoralising influence of the 
 secret organisation, which like a mighty serpent had wound 
 itself round and over the bone and sinew of the country, 
 the stalwart labouring classes, crushing within them every 
 higher and nobler instinct, and changing with its poisonous 
 breath the best feelings of their nature into bitterness and 
 gall. United they were amongst themselves, as all Christian 
 families — and, indeed, most Irish families — ever are, and were 
 always happiest when together; so it was that the three 
 brothers, with a young apprentice of theirs, were returning 
 from their work one fine evening in the early autumn, little 
 thinking of the doom that was impending over them, when, 
 from a place of concealment where the gang had Iain in wait 
 
SUNSET ON THE ROCK. 
 
 211 
 
 since early morning, eight well-armed men darted on them. 
 Quick as lightning the Maras fled, and from their perfect 
 knowledge of the neighbourhood two of them managed to 
 escape the murderous attack, as did also the apprentice ; 
 the third brother, Daniel, frightened and bewildered, instead 
 of trusting to his heels and his ingenuity, like his brothers, 
 took refuge in the house of a widow close by, and the 
 murderers, forcing their way after him, killed him without 
 remorse or pity, laughing to scorn his piteous entreaties. It 
 may be that the delay occasioned by the murder of the 
 unfortunate Daniel facilitated the escape of his two brothers, 
 who succeeded in getting away from the country.” 
 
 “ What an awful state of affairs !” said Lord Effingham ; while 
 the ladies held up their hands and averted their heads in 
 horror. Still, they wished to “hear it out,” especially Lady 
 Pemberton. 
 
 “You may well believe,” resumed Moran, “that the news of 
 this barbarous murder, even less justifiable than that of Mr. 
 Chadwick, because wholly unprovoked on the par* of the 
 victim, threw the whole country into a state of the most 
 fiolent excitement ; proclamations were issued, offering rewards, 
 —even a sum of two thousand pounds was offered for any 
 information that might lead to the apprehension and convic- 
 tion of the murderers, — still, no one came forward to claim the 
 reward ” — 
 
 “Why, that is precisely the case now with regard to the 
 murder of Mr. Esmond,” said Lord Effingham, with some 
 sternness. “You say no tangible evidence has yet been ob- 
 tained to throw light on that revolting crime, and, for aught 
 we know, the murderer may be prowling round the neighbour- 
 hood in wait for some other opportunity of popping a landlord. 
 I see plainly that the people do connive with these wretched 
 criminals, and make common cause with them ; how could they, 
 otherwise, elude the vigilance of the police, and baffle the 
 power of the law 1 ” 
 
 “In the case of Mara, my lord, the non-detection of the 
 criminals for so long a time is easily accounted for, as the mis- 
 guided people made it a point of honour to conceal those 
 whom they looked upon as the champions of the people's 
 cause and the ministers of popular justice ; but as regards the 
 
212 
 
 THE HERMIT OF TIIE ROCK. 
 
 murder of Mr. Esmond the case is widely different, and I know 
 the perpetrator of that crime is as much abhorred by the 
 peasantry as by any class in the community. The feeling 
 against him is strong and universal, and I can nohow account 
 for the delay in his apprehension, except it be that he has 
 managed to leave the country. Now, however, that the 
 Solicitor - General has come down to investigate the affair, 
 something may be done to bring the assassin to justice, if 
 he be still within reach of its arm.” 
 
 The sun was just setting, and his last rays fell at the moment 
 on the mullioned window of the cathedral, where a man’s face 
 was distinctly visible to the Earl and Mr. Moran, shaded by 
 the peak of a cap, yet still broadly marked with an expression 
 of mingled cunning and drollery that would have delighted 
 Hogarth. The vision was but momentary, and the exclama- 
 tion that hovered on the lips of the two who alone saw it 
 was suppressed by a mutual glance of admonition. The Earl 
 was surprised — the attorney more than surprised ; but, fearing 
 the effect on the ladies, they made no remark, and Moran 
 resumed his story, just as Mr. Esmond and the ladies made 
 their appearance once more, attended by Bryan. 
 
 “There is no knowing,” said Moran, “how long the 
 murderers might have escaped were it not that a young fellow 
 named Fitzgerald, a well-known leader of ‘the boys,’ being 
 taken up for highway robbery, in order to save his life, forfeited 
 to the law, turned State’s evidence, and gave such information 
 relative to the murder of Daniel Mara — in which, it appeared, 
 he had been a principal actor — that several persons were at once 
 arrested, either as principals or accessaries to that awful deed. 
 The first brought to trial were two men named Walsh and 
 Lacy, the latter a remarkably handsome and intelligent young 
 man, well dressed and altogether respectable in appearance, 
 with nothing in his aspect to indicate the evil qualities that had 
 led him to the commission of such a crime. The case, as stated 
 for the Crown by the Solicitor-General, disclosed some facts 
 that evidently startled the prisoners. It was shown that these 
 men, with some others, had been brought from a distance, by 
 the friends and relatives of Grace, to do the deed, and that it 
 was to have been done a week earlier, but for some cause which 
 kept the unconscious Maras at home from their work that day, 
 
SUNSET ON THE ROCK, 
 
 213 
 
 and thus compelled their assassins to await their opportunity 
 for some days longer. It appeared that, on the following 
 Sunday, the entire band of conspirators met at the house of a 
 farmer named Jack Keogh, in the immediate vicinity of the 
 barracks, and were there hospitably entertained, a female 
 relative of Keogh's, who was also his housekeeper, waiting on 
 them at table. Early next day they all proceeded to a woody 
 hill called ‘ The Grove/ which overlooked the new barracks, and 
 where arms had been secreted ready for use. Whilst lying 
 there, waiting for the time when the doomed brothers would 
 leave off work, refreshments were brought them by the same 
 woman who had waited on them the previous day at Jack 
 Keogh's. Now, amongst the party secreted there with such 
 murderous intent were the two sons of Keogh, both of them 
 fine young men in the bloom of life, the prop and stay of their 
 old father and the pride of his heart. One of them in par- 
 ticular, John, the elder of the two, was a man of powerful 
 frame and unusually tall stature, with a placid, good-natured 
 look and comely, well-formed features. Though not so neat 
 or trim as his brother, who was of much smaller proportions, 
 J ohn Keogh was a man to be signalled out in a fair or market 
 as a fine specimen 
 
 Of that bold peasantry — a nation’s pride, 
 
 Which, once destroyed, can never be supplied. 
 
 Well, these two brothers had been arrested, with many others, 
 for the murder of Daniel Mara, and the main point now was to 
 procure sufficient evidence to convict them all. It is true Fitz- 
 gerald swore quite enough to hang them, and another of the band, 
 named Kyan, had also turned King's evidence, but both being 
 informers, or, as the people call them, * stags,' there was still a 
 hope cherished by the prisoners and their friends that some 
 other evidence than theirs would be required where so many 
 lives were at stake. It was, therefore, with a sort of dogged 
 indifference that the prisoners in the dock, Walsh and Lacy, 
 appeared to listen to the elaborate statement of the learned 
 counsel for the Crown, and his recapitulation of the evidence 
 which the two ‘informers' were to give. All at once, however, Mr. 
 Doherty paused an instant, and then, turning towards the dock, 
 held up his hand and mentioned a name — the name of another 
 
214 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCR. 
 
 witness — it was that of the housekeeper and relative of Jack 
 Keogh who had brought food and drink to the murderers whilst 
 they lay in wait for their victims, and who had heard all theii 
 plans on the previous day at Keogh’s house. The mention of 
 her name had a terrible effect on the prisoners, and, indeed, on 
 nil the country - people present , her position in the Keogh 
 family being well known, her intimate acquaintance with all the 
 circumstances preceding and succeeding the murder, made her a 
 most formidable witness; whilst at the thought of her going 
 against her people — for, of course, the evidence that criminated 
 Walsh and Lacy involved the conviction of the young Keoghs 
 and many others — ‘ curses, not loud, but deep/ were heard on 
 every side, mingled with expressions of pity for the prisoners. 
 It was here ‘ Oh, vo, vo ! they’re done for now, anyhow ! ’ 
 there it was ‘Well, well! afther that who’ll thrust anyone?’ 
 ‘ Their own flesh and blood ! oh, wirra, wirra ! ’ Still, it was 
 hoped, and all but believed, that Kate Costelloe would not do so 
 foul a deed, and this hope buoyed up the prisoners and their 
 numerous friends amongst the audience, even whilst the two 
 informers and other witnesses of minor details gave their 
 sworn testimony. At last came the moment when Kate Costelloe 
 was called, and instantly a dead silence fell on the court ; — the 
 bench — the bar — the dock — the hall — all remained in speechless, 
 breathless suspense, for all alike felt that in all probability the 
 issue of the trial — the fate, not only of the prisoners in the 
 dock, but of all who were yet to be placed in it, including, of 
 course, the two Keoghs — all depended on the evidence of this 
 woman. As the moments passed slowly away, and the death- 
 like hush continued unbroken, and no Kate Costelloe appeared, 
 the hopes of the prisoners and their friends rose higher and 
 higher ; all eyes were eagerly turned on the door by which the 
 witnesses were introduced, and the intensity of suspense was 
 becoming painful even to those least concerned in the issue — 
 when, all at once, the fatal door opened, and a small female 
 figure, closely veiled, was seen to enter, carried, as it were, by 
 two persons, who supported her on either side — she was 
 evidently unable to support herself. A groan of fierce execra- 
 tion burst from the crowd in the body of the court-house — the 
 glow of hope died away on the faces of the prisoners, and they 
 stood looking down with ghastly eyes on the diminutive 
 
SUNSET ON THE ROCK. 
 
 215 
 
 creature that was being placed on the table with their life 
 resting on her word. Never did stranger apparition burst on a 
 court of justice or occupy a witness-table. So struck, indeed, 
 were even the officials themselves, that for some moments no 
 effort was made to elicit the woman's testimony, and she 
 stood there, a veiled, muffled figure, far below the ordinary 
 stature of women, her hands, which alone were visible, white 
 and clammy and rigid as those of a corpse, and no motion in 
 her frame except once that a visible shudder shook her whole 
 body— such a shudder as accompanies and precedes the parting 
 of soul and body. At length the veil was removed from her 
 face, and such a face as that was ! I am sure no one that saw 
 it then will ever forget it. The features might once have been 
 fair to look upon, but they were then almost hideous in their 
 ghastliness — the closed eyes sunk far into their sockets, the 
 lips drawn apart in livid paleness, and scarcely a breath of life 
 stirring the pulses of the corpse-like frame : as the head rested 
 on the shoulder, a mass of long black hair fell in wild disorder 
 from under the bonnet or hood, adding to the wanness of the 
 face and the ghastliness of the appalling figure. It was some 
 time before the wretched creature could be brought to answer 
 the questions put to her, and then only when water had been 
 sprinkled several times on her face and applied to her parched 
 lips. When she did speak, her voice was scarcely audible, and it 
 was only by a single word at a time, and that at intervals perhaps 
 of some moments’ length, that she was got over the first prelimin- 
 ary statements, and on at last to the scene in The Grove, when 
 she brought refreshments to the party waiting there. But when 
 she was asked to identify Walsh — the first of the prisoners — 
 and the wand was placed in her hand for that purpose, she 
 seemed to relapse into her former death-like torpor ; the same 
 process had to be gone through to revive her, and some began 
 to hope that she could not identify Walsh, having never seen 
 him except on that one occasion. At the agonised request of 
 the prisoners, a number of others were brought from the gaol 
 and placed in the dock , 1 so as to give them at least a chance. 
 
 1 In Shell’s Sketches of the Irish Bar (edited by Dr. Shelton M'Kenzie) 
 there is a very interesting account of this famous trial. Speaking of the 
 introduction of these prisoners, the author says : “ It was now four o’clock 
 in the morning ; the candles were almost wasted to their sockets, and a 
 
216 
 
 THE HERMIT OR THE ROCK. 
 
 Then was the witness again called upon to identify the prisoner 
 Walsh.” 
 
 The whole party on the Rock had now gathered round the 
 narrator ; every face expressed more or less interest, though to 
 some of the listeners the story was not altogether new. When 
 Moran paused, as if to take breath, Mrs. Pakenham and Lady 
 Pemberton simultaneously exclaimed, “ Well, and did she do 
 it?” 
 
 “She did, after another terrific struggle with herself that was 
 visible to all the court. J ust as she was placing the rod on the 
 
 head of Walsh, a female voice in the court called out, ‘ Oh, 
 Kate ! 7 and the cry seemed to act on the miserable creature 
 like an electric shock. Still, she did her awful duty, and was 
 borne from the table and from the court more dead than alive. 
 Walsh and Lacy were accordingly convicted, and in a day or 
 two after the two Keoghs were placed at the bar, and Kate 
 Costelloe was called and brought forward as the last and best 
 witness for the prosecution. People thought that although 
 Kate had been terrified into giving testimony against the other 
 prisoners, she would never be either forced or persuaded into 
 swearing away the lives of her own relatives, with their vener- 
 able old father sitting near the dock, full in her sight. She 
 did it, nevertheless, and, strange to say, with more firmness 
 than she had before manifested. With all her faculties plainly 
 on the alert, and a quick, sharp intelligence in her eyes and in 
 all her features, she gave her evidence clearly and methodically, 
 and deliberately placed the fatal rod on the heads of the two 
 
 dim and uncertain light was diffused through the court. Haggard ness 
 sat upon the spectators, and yet no weariness or exhaustion appeared ; 
 the frightful interest of the scene preserved the mind from fatigue. The 
 dock was crowded with malefactors, and, brought as they were in order 
 that guilt of all kinds should be confused and blended, they exhibited a 
 most singular spectacle. This assemblage of human beings laden with 
 chains was, perhaps, more melancholy from the contrast which they 
 presented between their condition and their aspect. Even the pale light 
 which glimmered through the court did not prevent their cheeks from 
 looking ruddy and healthful. They had been awakened in their lonely 
 cells in order to be produced, and, as they were not aware of the object of 
 arraying them together, there was some surprise mixed with fear in their 
 looks. I could not help whispering to myself as I surveyed them, 4 What 
 a noble and fine race of men are here, and how much have they to answer 
 for who, by degrading, have demoralised such a people ! ’ ” 
 
SUNSET ON THE ROCK. 
 
 217 
 
 young men, which was the more remarkable that whispers had 
 been afloat, oven in the court-house, that there was between her 
 and the elder of the brothers a tie stronger than blood— a love 
 that was the growth of years.” 
 
 “ Love 1 ” cried several of the ladies in a breath, — “ love ? 
 Impossible ! How could she love the man whose life she swore 
 away ^ ” 
 
 “She did love him, then !” spoke a little woman who had 
 joined the group a few minutes before, her presence unnoticed 
 in the absorbing interest of the story, — “ if ever woman loved 
 man, Kate Costelloe loved John Keogh.” 
 
 Every eye was instantly turned on the speaker, but her 
 features were concealed by the deep hood of her grey cloak 
 drawn closely over her face; one was there who could have 
 told who she was, but he remained silent— as did most of the 
 party gazing on the strange figure before them. At last Moran 
 and Mr. Esmond spoke together — 
 
 “ How did it happen, then, that she swore against him, if she 
 loved him as you say ? ” 
 
 “God knows that — and she knew it — and John Keogh knew 
 it too ! But it’s no business of yours, and if you take my 
 advice you’ll say no more about it, any of you. Go home 
 wid yourselves, and don’t be draggin’ the dead out o’ their 
 graves for no raison in life only to make fools o’ yourselves, 
 talkin’ of what you know nothin’ about. Get away wid you, 
 now, out o’ this, or maybe there’s some o’ you’ll get what’ll 
 not be for the good o’ their health before they’re much 
 oulder.” 
 
 There was no use trying to reason with a creature who was 
 set down by all present as insane. The two parties had, more- 
 over, seen all they could possibly see for that time ; they there- 
 fore retired from the Rock, leaving the supposed maniac to 
 share its solitude with Bryan, who, as usual, conducted them to 
 the gate with bows and thanks for the several gratuities given 
 him. Any questions they might have been disposed to ask 
 concerning the hag in the cloak were prevented by the con- 
 tinued presence of that interesting person, who followed them 
 to the very gate, laughing occasionally in a hoarse inward way 
 that confirmed in every mind the conviction of her insanity, 
 and made some of the ladies no little anxious to have the gate 
 
218 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK, 
 
 between her and them. The gentlemen exchanged looks and 
 smiles amongst themselves, but said nothing to renew the 
 subject of Moran s story, as they exchanged their parting com- 
 pliments at the gate, and the two parties went their several 
 ways. 
 
CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 INNER LIFE IN EFFINGHAM CASTLB. 
 
 In the drawing - room at Effingham Castle the conversation 
 that evening turned principally on the wild and gloomy tale 
 heard on the Rock-— a tale so illustrative of the darkest phases 
 of Tipperary life. Mr. Goodchild was already in possession of 
 the facts, hut he took occasion to expatiate in his own smooth 
 and unctuous way on the deplorable state of a country where 
 such things could be done under cover of a system — where 
 murder was as familiar to the people as the air they breathed, 
 and human life of no account whatever. “ The people,” said 
 he, “ are all leagued together for the worst of purposes— the 
 overthrow of the landed proprietary — extermination is their 
 object, and I am of opinion that nothing less will content 
 them than the death of every landlord in the country. 
 Truly, it is an awful state of things.” 
 
 Harriet smiled, and bent her head over a volume of en- 
 gravings that lay open on the table before her. Lord Effingham 
 said with his usual coldness, amounting almost to austerity of 
 manner — 
 
 “ Do you not think, Mr. Goodchild, that the landlords them- 
 selves may be in some measure to blame % ” 
 
 “Not to any great extent, my lord, — oh, certainly not: wit- 
 ness the murder of Mr. Esmond, who was considered one of the 
 very best landlords in Tipperary.” 
 
 “Yes, but that was an exceptional case; the rule is, as I 
 understand, that those landlords who have been murdered were 
 all more or less obnoxious to the people for their oppressive 
 exactions and their harsh treatment of their tenantry.” 
 
 “ But surely, my lord, that does not justify murder — even 
 
 219 
 
220 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 admitting it were just as your lordship seems to have beer 
 informed ? ” 
 
 “ Nothing justifies murder,” said Lord Effingham, with stern 
 emphasis ; “ but it strikes me, Mr. Goodchild, that the very 
 league which you say exists to an alarming extent amongst 
 the peasantry goes to prove that there must be some radical 
 fault on the part of those who have immediate authority over 
 them, and I think it is well worth considering what chain of 
 circumstances it is that has so hardened the hearts of these 
 people, and perverted a nature not in itself wicked or ferocious 
 — how it happens, in short, that the peasantry of Tipperary, so 
 warm-hearted, so susceptible of kindness, so keenly alive to 
 justice or injustice, have become so bloodthirsty as it would 
 seem they are — so ready to take life themselves, so prone to 
 sympathise with others whose hands are red with the blood of 
 their fellow-men.” 
 
 The chaplain took out his box and refreshed his nasal organ 
 with a pinch of snuff, shook his reverend head, and declared 
 that “ he had never viewed the matter in that light, — had 
 never given much attention to the history of Ireland, — but 
 he thought the cause of all these evils was undoubtedly to be 
 found in the pernicious and soul-debasing doctrines of Home, 
 to which those unhappy people were so incurably addicted.” 
 
 “For shame, Mr. Goodchild!” said Harriet Markham, her 
 eyes flashing with the contempt and indignation she could not 
 help feeling. “ How often have I explained to you that it is not 
 because of their Romish belief, but in despite of it, that the 
 Catholic peasantry of this and other countries do at times take 
 the law into their own hands '? Were they not addicted to the 
 doctrines of which you speak, you may take my word for it 
 that Fsuch bloody acts of revenge would be ten to one — ay, 
 twenty to one what they now are.” 
 
 “My dear Miss Markham,” said the chaplain, with his most 
 insinuating smile, “ I have an insuperable aversion to contra- 
 dicting a lady, but really — ah ! — really ” — 
 
 “ My dear Mr. Goodchild,” put in Harriet, by way of filling 
 up his hesitating pause, “ I know there are many persons who 
 are afflicted with a dreadful obliquity of vision in matters Irish 
 or Catholic. If such be your case, I regret it exceedingly, and 
 will charitably suppose that you never even heard of the mighty 
 
INNER LIFE IN EFFINGHAM CASTLE. 221 
 
 and incessant struggle everywhere going on between — between 
 the Catholic Church and all manner of secret organisations, from 
 Freemasonry to Ribbonism, and all between.” 
 
 “ What a dreadful country to live in ! ” said Lady Pemberton 
 to her brother. “I wonder how Lady Jane will like it?” 
 
 “ Like it, indeed?” cried Mrs. Pakenham, with a toss of her 
 stately head. “I wonder did Lady Jane ever like anything 
 beyond herself ? ” 
 
 “ I should hope she did,” quietly and somewhat sarcastically 
 said Lady Pemberton, with a glance at the Earl, who, however, 
 appeared to take no notice. The next moment he turned his 
 keen, piercing eyes on Miss Markham, and said rather abruptly — 
 “What a singular old woman that was who broke in so 
 unseasonably on Mr. Moran's narrative ! Do you know any- 
 thing of her?” 
 
 “ I am not sure that I do, my lord, but I rather suspect. 
 For the present, however, I may not say more.” 
 
 “An old woman?” exclaimed the chaplain, — “what old 
 woman ? ” 
 
 “Not your old woman, Mr. Goodchild,” said Harriet, with a 
 meaning smile, — “ at least, I think not.” 
 
 The ladies looked surprised, but the chaplain looked as- 
 tounded, and blushed like a very schoolgirl under Harriet's 
 mischievous glance. 
 
 “ Mr. Goodchild's old woman ? ” said Mrs. Pakenham, laugh- 
 ing, — “and pray who may she be?” 
 
 “ Not one of the weird ‘ sisters three,' madam, 
 
 ‘Who met Macbeth 
 Upon the heath/ 
 
 but probably an Irish kinswoman of theirs on whom our worthy 
 chaplain has been experimentalising of late — shooting her with 
 a silver bullet , I believe, — or how was it, Mr. Goodchild ? ” 
 
 “I protest, Miss Markham,” stammered the chaplain, his 
 professional gravity entirely at fault, — “I protest — I do not 
 understand the allusion.” 
 
 “ Oh, fie, Mr. Goodchild ! fie, fie ! ” and Harriet raised her 
 finger admonishingly and smiled archly. “ You do not mean to 
 deny that you met somebody ‘ on the heath ' — well, not exactly ‘ on 
 the heath,' but — somewhere between this and the glebe-house ? ” 
 
THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK 
 
 222 
 
 The chaplain looked more and more confused, the ladies 
 more and more delighted at what they saw was a good joke, and 
 more and more urgent with Miss Markham to let them into the 
 secret. Just at that moment Lord Effingham rose, and, saying 
 he had letters to write, withdrew. Harriet glanced timidly up 
 as he passed her, and was not surprised to see a deeper cloud 
 than usual on his brow and a sterner look in his dark, proud eyes. 
 
 Half an hour after, Harriet having gone to her own apart- 
 ment for a book, chanced to pass the library, the door of which 
 was ajar, and by the dim, subdued light from a study-lamp at 
 the farther end of the spacious room, she saw Lord Effingham 
 sitting at a table, his thoughtful brow resting on his hand' and 
 a look of care and weariness impressed on every feature. 
 Harriet stopped involuntarily, with the thought uppermost 
 in her mind, “Neither rank nor riches give immunity from 
 care.” It so happened that Lord Effingham raised his eyes at 
 the moment, and looked towards the door just as Harriet was 
 gliding away. Rising hastily, he came to the door, and said, 
 “Miss Markham, will you have the goodness to favour me 
 with a few moments’ conversation 1 ” 
 
 “ Certainly, my lord,” said Harriet, with an effort to assume 
 a composure which she did not feel, her mind being full of the 
 idea that the Earl was not pleased with the freedom she took 
 in rallying his chaplain, with a still more painful fear natural to 
 a delicate mind that her having passed at that particular 
 moment might be construed into prying curiosity ; in short, she 
 felt troubled and unhappy, and her face — ever the index of 
 her thoughts — told all too plainly what was passing within. 
 She saw that her discomposure was not unnoticed, and that 
 very consciousness increased it considerably. The Earl regarded 
 her a moment with a smile so sad that she could have wept 
 under its strange and softening influence, but she mastered her 
 emotion and looked up with as calm a mien as she could 
 command. 
 
 “My lord,” she began, with some hesitation, “you will 
 pardon me if I say that I thought you seemed somewhat 
 displeased by my thoughtless badinage in relation to worthy 
 Mr. Goodchild.” An involuntary smile flitted over her face as 
 she spoke the name, but, casting her eyes down with a demure 
 expression, she stood awaiting the answer. It was longer 
 
INNER LIFE IN EFFINGHAM CASTLE. 223 
 
 delayed than she expected, and, looking up in some surprise, 
 she found Lord Effingham regarding her with the same mourn- 
 ful smile. 
 
 “ Witchcraft ! ” he muttered in a tone that was not meant for 
 her ear, yet she heard the words distinctly, — “ witchcraft ! Ay, 
 there is witchcraft that even silver bullets cannot reach. Miss 
 Markham,” he said in his usual voice and manner of cold 
 impassiveness, — “ Miss Markham, you were much mistaken in 
 supposing that I resented your — your playful attack on my 
 reverend friend — which I considered perfectly fair. Were I 
 disposed for badinage , I might perhaps say that he was more 
 to be envied than commiserated under such an attack.” Miss 
 Markham smiled, and acknowledged the courtly compliment 
 by a slight inclination. “ But,” continued his lordship, “that 
 was far from being the subject on which I wished to speak 
 with you— you are probably aware of the object of my ap- 
 proaching visit to England ? ” 
 
 “ I cannot say I am, my lord,” said Harriet after a pause, 
 during which she ran over in her mind certain words that had 
 fallen from Lady Pemberton and Mrs. Pakenham, together 
 with certain preparations going on around the Castle. 
 
 “I wonder at that,” said the Earl, “knowing how difficult it 
 is for ladies to keep secrets. You must know, then, Miss 
 Markham, what perhaps you should have known before, as a 
 valued friend rather than the mere preceptress of my children,” 
 — Miss Markham bowed somewhat haughtily, — “in a word, I 
 am about to fulfil a matrimonial engagement, entered into some 
 months since, with the daughter of an English marquis.” 
 
 “The Lady Jane , I presume, whose name I heard this 
 evening for the first time ? ” 
 
 “ The same,” said Lord Effingham, with a scarcely perceptible 
 tremor in his voice. 
 
 “Your lordship does me honour,” said Miss Markham, look- 
 ing up with a gracious smile, — “an honour for which I feel 
 deeply grateful — believe me, I do.” She was about leaving the 
 room when the Earl's voice arrested her steps, and she returned 
 to where he stood. 
 
 “ I have yet another word to say,” — he paused, then hastily 
 added, “I wish to know, Miss Markham, whether you will 
 itill remain with us— that is, with my little girls ? ” 
 
224 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 “ I see no reason why I should not, my lord,” said Harriet 
 proudly ; “ my position in the Earl of Effingham’s family will 
 be in no degree changed, I should think, by the advent of a 
 Countess of Effingham,” and she smiled with an archness that 
 well became Jier. “Unless, indeed,” she added quickly, “her 
 ladyship may object to having the young daughters of the 
 house of Cartwright educated by a Catholic. In that case, my 
 lord,” she said, with much earnestness, “I will rely on the 
 friendship you do me the honour to profess for me to give me 
 timely notice.” 
 
 “Rely,” said Lord Effingham, with more warmth than was 
 usual to him, “ on all that I can do at any time to shield you 
 from aught that would in any degree compromise your dignity — 
 your self-respect. I know the innate nobleness of your mind, 
 and rest assured, Miss Markham, it shall never be subjected to 
 any trial under my roof.” 
 
 “I thank you, my lord,” said Harriet, her voice slightly 
 tremulous ; “ you give the best proof of your good opinion in 
 entrusting me with the education of your dear children, and it 
 shall be my ceaseless endeavour to form their minds to the best 
 of my poor ability, and make them such as I know you would 
 wish to have them. In that way, at least, I can repay your 
 lordship’s kindness to — a penniless orphan whom fate has 
 throwrn almost on your bounty ! ” The last words were spoken 
 with that peculiar archness which gave such a charm at times 
 to Harriet’s speaking features, and, bowing with the grace 
 which marked her every action, she was leaving the room 
 when on the threshold she encountered Mrs. Pakenham and 
 Lady Pemberton. 
 
 “Dear me ! ” said the former lady, with a sudden change of 
 countenance; “we were not aware that your lordship was 
 engaged — that is, we thought you were writing letters, and 
 came to ask if you would spare time to join us at supper. I 
 see Miss Markham has been beforehand with us.” 
 
 “You are mistaken, madam,” said Harriet coldly; “lean 
 lay claim to no such amiable intention. I was merely passing 
 the library on my way upstairs for a book I wanted, when 
 Lord Effingham, seeing me pass, requested to speak with me on 
 a matter of business, and I stepped in.” 
 
 “And I.” said the Earl, “owe you an apology, Miss Mark- 
 
INNER LIFE IN EFFINGHAM CASTLE . 225 
 
 ham, for I just now recollect that I had not the politeness to 
 offer you a seat. The business on which I wished to speak 
 with Miss Markham affects us all, I should hope. I was 
 desirous of ascertaining, before any further changes take place 
 here, whether we might count on the continuance of her in- 
 valuable services in regard to Ann and Emma.” 
 
 Lady Pemberton, who much resembled her brother in 
 character and disposition, and also in appearance, turned at 
 once to Harriet and said, with a courteous smile, “ Surely Miss 
 Markham would not think of leaving her young charges at 
 a time when, perhaps, they most need her kind and judicious 
 care ? ” 
 
 “ That was precisely what induced me to ask her, Caroline,” 
 said Lord Effingham. 
 
 “Well, it is very true,” said Mrs. Pakenham, a little 
 maliciously, Harriet thought; “with all her beauty and sprightly 
 grace, I fear dear Lady Jane is not exactly the type of a good 
 stepmother.” 
 
 “Excuse me, Thomasine,” said Lord Effingham in his 
 coldest and sternest accents, “ I cannot permit such an inference 
 to be drawn from what I have said. Your remark is altogether 
 superfluous, and entirely irrelevant to our purpose. I asked 
 Miss Markham a simple question, and she gave me a simple 
 and direct answer — I am glad to say, in the affirmative.” 
 
 “Well, well,” said Mrs. Pakenham a little testily, “now 
 that the matter is arranged to general satisfaction, I presume 
 your lordship will honour us wi&i your presence during the 
 remainder of the evening — and in the first place, to supper?” 
 Harriet heard no more, for she quietly made her escape, and 
 took refuge in her own apartment, there to muse in silence 
 and alone on what she had heard and seen during the last 
 quarter of an hour, for no longer time had passed since she left 
 the drawing-room. Short as the time was, and unimportant 
 what had occurred, she somewhat felt as though a page had 
 been written in her life’s record, and a strange feeling was 
 knocking at her heart, but of what kind she cared not to 
 examine. Was she humbled or exalted in her own estimation? 
 Was her peace more or less than it was an hour before ? These 
 were questions that she did not trouble herself to answer, but, 
 smoothing as she best might the fair surface of her sweet face, 
 i5 
 
226 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK 
 
 she descended to the drawing-room, just in time to bring up the 
 rear of the party on their way to supper. She had ascertained 
 on her way down that the little girls were already in bed and 
 locked in the blissful unconsciousness of childish slumbers. 
 
 The conversation during supper was lively and animated, 
 and Harriet Markham was the gayest of all. Still, it could not 
 have escaped an observant eye, if any such were on her, that 
 her cheek was paler even than usual, and her eyes burning with 
 an inward fire. No one seemed to notice anything unusual in 
 her tone or manner, though all felt the ineffable charm that 
 hung around her. Lord Effingham, indeed, took little notice of 
 anything ; silent and abstracted, though condescendingly polite 
 as usual, he seemed occupied with serious thought, and took 
 little part in the conversation. He complained of a headache 
 and retired early. As Harriet caught his parting glance, she 
 said to herself, “There is a load of care on that proud, cold 
 heart — there is sorrow in the troubled depths of those deep 
 eyes. Does he feel — even he ? ” 
 
 The remainder of the evening passed away without anything 
 particular, but Harriet learned for the first time that Lady 
 Pemberton was to remain at the Castle during the Earl’s 
 absence, to preside over the general preparations, and also to 
 receive the young Countess on her arrival. The little party 
 broke up early, and Harriet Markham, with an exquisite sense 
 of relief, locked the door of her spacious and elegant apartment, 
 and threw herself in an arm-chair near the one large window of 
 a boudoir connected with her chamber which Qommanded a 
 prospect of that mingled wildness and beauty that most impress 
 a lofty, imaginative mind. The curtains were as yet un- 
 drawn, and the lady-moon shed her heart-soothing light into 
 the small apartment, so graceful in its furniture and decoration, 
 so meet for the inner home — the retreat, as it were, of a being 
 so solitary in her heart’s life as Harriet Markham. So she lay 
 in that delicious sense of rest , and the no less delicious sense of 
 solitude — of loneliness — which casts its spell over the world- 
 weary heart and the tired brain when the deep hush of the 
 solemn night is around, and the noisy, frothy, hollow, heartless 
 world shuts its bleating mouths for a while, leaving the deep 
 heart to commune with its own thoughts, to indulge for a space 
 its earnest longings, to drink in the beauty of earth and heaven, 
 
INNER LIFE IN EFFINGHAM CASTLE . 227 
 
 and commune with the dead of other years, or the loved and 
 far removed. 
 
 Such are the moments happily described by the sweetest of 
 modern poets — 
 
 When lost in the future the soul wanders on, 
 
 And all of this life but its sweetness is gone. 
 
 And Harriet Markham felt the charm of the hour and the 
 scene, and her soul was upraised to that heaven which the eye 
 of faith can see afar off through the blue ether of the midnight 
 sky — for it was verging on midnight. All at once a footstep 
 sounded on the verandah beneath her window — a light but 
 measured step, and Harriet’s heart beat — not with fear — as she 
 bent her head to listen, and furthermore raised the window 
 just enough to admit a sound from without. The measured 
 footfall continued — to and fro — now broken and irregular, now 
 firm and distinct, like that of a sentinel on duty. Occasionally 
 there came to the ear of the lonely watcher another sound, like 
 that she might have heard in dreams — it was a voice, deep, full, 
 yet subdued, humming as if for no listening ear, but the singer's 
 own heart. Oh, how eagerly did Harriet listen to catch the 
 low but musical tones, and an inexplicable feeling of delight en- 
 wrapped her senses as she recognised the air, and the words too — 
 
 “Oh, bring to me my Norah Fay, 
 
 Hours are days when she’s away.” 
 
 The voice ceased, but oh, the passionate yearning that was in 
 the rich, soft tones ! Never had Harriet heard the charm 
 of “Shule Aroon” brought out with such effect, and she 
 listened with all the intensity of her heart to hear the sweet 
 sounds again. Softly she murmured to herself- — 
 
 “Oh, not more welcome the fairy numbers 
 Of music fall on the sleeper’s ear, 
 
 When half awaking from fearful slumbers, 
 
 He thinks the full choir of heaven is near.” 
 
 “ Who can it be ? ” was the next thought. “ That was no 
 rustic — oh no, no ! Then who can be within the Castle grounds 
 at this lone hour ? ” 
 
 Then came from below the sound as of a deep, thrilling 
 voice speaking in an audible whisper, and to Harriet’s excited 
 fancy it sounded almost close to her ear. 
 
228 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK 
 
 “ 0 night ! what anguish do yon shroud full often ! — 0 
 moon ! what sights you witness in your unclouded path through 
 yon glorious heavens! — 0 heart! throbbing, bursting heart! 
 why not break and be at rest ? ” 
 
 Why was it that, unknowing who the speaker was, Harriet 
 Markham bowed her head on the window-ledge and wept tears 
 that seemed to flow from her inmost heart? A strange, weird 
 thing is human nature, and a stranger thing is the human heart ! 
 As an Eolian harp to the voices of the wind, so does the heart 
 respond to the yet more variable tones of human feeling, 
 human sympathy, human suffering. Long did the slow and 
 measured tread break the stillness of the night, and by some 
 strange fascination Harriet remained with her head resting 
 against the window till the sound ceased, and the earth below 
 was silent as the glittering stars above. Then, alone with the 
 night, her mind and heart gradually resumed their usual tone, 
 and, gazing upwards on the “ spangled heavens,” that “ shining 
 frame,” which, in the language of the poet, 
 
 Their great Creator’s praise proclaim, 
 
 her thoughts assumed the form of meditation, and in the con- 
 templation of things divine she speedily lost sight of the thorns 
 and briars that strew the path to those eternal mansions where 
 joy ineffable for ever reigns. Calmly and hopefully she knelt 
 to perform the last sweet exercise of the Christian’s day, and 
 having offered her heart to the God who made it, and to Mary 
 the Mother of faithful souls, she resigned herself to sleep — the 
 tranquil sleep of an untroubled conscience. 
 
 During the days that intervened between that night and Lord 
 Effingham’s departure, his lordship spent the greater part of his 
 time in his study, a small and very pleasant room adjacent tc 
 the library, and opening on the verandah already mentioned. 
 A solitary ride in the afternoons alone broke the monotony 
 of his seclusion, yet when the family assembled at table there 
 was no perceptible difference in his manner, always calm and 
 cold and self-possessed, at times a little abstracted, but never 
 discourteous to those around. 
 
 On the day before that fixed on for his departure, he 
 approached the bow-window in the sitting-room, where Harriet 
 occupied her favourite seat, her fingers engaged on some one of 
 
INNER LIFE IN EFFINGHAM CASTLE. 229 
 
 those pretty trifles the use whereof would puzzle any of those 
 “lords of creation ” whom “men we call,” while her eyes 
 wandered ever and anon to the graceful scene of woodland 
 beauty spread out in fair array before the window, and nearer, 
 where her young pupils were amusing themselves with hoop and 
 skipping-rope on the smooth sward outside. 
 
 “Miss Markham,” said the Earl, so suddenly that she 
 started, and, blushing, looked up in surprise, — “Miss Markham, 
 there was one trifling incident of our last visit to the Rock 
 which I forgot to mention since, though I have thought of it 
 many times. Rut why that look of surprise ? ” he added, with a 
 smile of peculiar expression. “ Does my voice grate so harshly 
 on your ear V 1 
 
 “Not at all, my lord,” said Harriet, recovering her composure, 
 and smiling pleasantly ; “but — but — I did not think your lord- 
 ship was so near, and I was just completing the erection of a 
 superb chateau en Espagne ” — 
 
 “ Indeed ? It were worth something to know what manner of 
 edifice that was which so graceful a fancy piled in airy space.” 
 
 “ Architectural details are seldom interesting, my lord. But 
 may I venture to ask what was the incident to which your 
 lordship referred just now ] ” 
 
 Lord Effingham mentioned the face which he and Mr. Moran 
 had both seen at a window of the old cathedral, adding that 
 he could not help associating it in his mind with the singular 
 apparition of the old woman in the cloak. “What is your 
 opinion, Miss Markham'?” 
 
 Harriet mused a moment before she replied in a thoughtful, 
 hesitating tone, “ That there is some mystery about both these 
 appearances, my lord, I have not the smallest doubt, but what 
 they indicate — especially the face which showed itself so 
 suddenly, and so suddenly vanished, in such a place — is more 
 than I can imagine, — perhaps it were even unwise to say it if I 
 could.” 
 
 “It is a strange country,” was the Earl’s remark, as he turned 
 to Lady Pemberton, who was reading at another window in the 
 room, and asked if she would ride out with him before dinner — 
 a proposal which she smilingly accepted, then left the room to 
 don her hat and habit. She was quickly followed by Lord 
 Effingham, and in a few moments Harriet heard their horses’ 
 
230 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK 
 
 feet prancing away over the gravelled surface of the avenue. 
 Rising, she went to a window and stood a moment looking after 
 them, till their stately figures were hidden from her view by a 
 turn in the road, then, muttering to herself some inarticulate 
 words, she went upstairs, and having tied on a broad-leaved 
 straw hat, went out to join the children at their play. 
 
 At length the day came for Lord Effingham to leave for 
 England, and, after taking a tender and kind farewell of his 
 children, his sister, and Mrs. Pakenham, he shook hands with 
 Mr. Goodchild and Miss Markham with about the same degree 
 of cordiality, and stepped into the carriage that was to convey 
 him to Dublin. 
 
 It was early morning, and Harriet retired to her own apart- 
 ment to spend in commune with her own thoughts the hour 
 that yet remained to her before entering on the duties of the 
 schoolroom. The first object that met her eye was a little 
 bunch of pansies, freshly gathered, their rich petals moist with 
 the dew of the morning ; they stood in a small crystal vase, but 
 taking them up to inhale their fragrance, wondering at the 
 same time what kind hand had gathered for her those flowers 
 to memory dear, she all at once perceived a scrap of paper 
 twisted round their delicate stems ; with a trembling hand she 
 took it off, and, carefully smoothing it out, found these lines 
 written on its fair surface — 
 
 I have sweet thoughts of thee ! 
 
 They come around me like the voice of song ; 
 
 They come like birds that to the South belong, 
 
 And wear a gayer wing and brighter crest 
 Than those that on the roof- tree build their nest, 
 
 They come more tender, beautiful, and bright 
 Than any thoughts that others can excite ; 
 
 They tell me gentle tales of thee and thine, 
 
 Of gems of truth that in thy spirit shine, 
 
 Of goodness, purity, and holy zeal, 
 
 That can for others earnest pity feel ; 
 
 Of all things beautiful in soul and heart — 
 
 And such they tell me ever that thou art. 
 
 c< The voice of the pansy” murmured Harriet, with a proud 
 and happy smile, her pale cheek flushing with a crimson glow ; 
 yet when she descended to the schoolroom the flush was gone, 
 cheek and brow were paler than ever, and her eyes were red and 
 swollen, as if with much weeping. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 KATE COSTELLOE. 
 
 A day or two after Lord Effingham’s departure, Harriet Markham 
 and Mary Hennessy, walking out to enjoy the cool freshness 
 of the evening, so grateful after the excessive heat of one of 
 the hottest of the dog-days, stopped at Bryan’s cottage, where 
 Cauth sat knitting by the door, as usual. It was not the first 
 time that either had been there, and the old woman seemed glad 
 to see them. Hastily bringing forward the only two seats 
 besides her own that the cottage afforded, she wiped them 
 carefully with her apron, and invited the young ladies to sit 
 down, adding, “ It’s not often we see the likes o’ you here, an’ 
 sure, it’s the great honour entirely ye do me.” 
 
 “Cauth,” said Miss Markham, after the young ladies had 
 exchanged significant glances, — “ Cauth, I hope you understand 
 that Miss Hennessy and I wish you well, and take a great 
 interest in both you and Bryan ? ” 
 
 “Wisha, then, it’s myself knows it well,” said Cauth, “an’ 
 good raison I have, too, for it’s ever the kind, soft word ye both 
 had for me, not to spake of the help ye gave me many’s the 
 time when, only for ye, I could hardly have the bit or sup 
 before that poor simple ould man that ’id starve to death afore 
 he’d go out to ask it, on account of the forgetful way he has 
 wid him.” 
 
 “Well, then,” resumed the young lady, “you will not 
 suspect us of being actuated only by prying curiosity when we 
 come to ask you a few questions about yourself % ” 
 
 “ About me ? ” cried Cauth, dropping her knitting and turn- 
 ing on them with a face as pale as ashes. “ Ah, then, Miss 
 Markham — ladies dear ! — what questions would ye be puttin’ to 
 me ? — God help me ! ” 
 
232 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK . 
 
 Both young ladies applied themselves to reassure her, and 
 told her that they came to her purely as friends, and that 
 whatever she told them would be kept an inviolable secret 
 unless she gave them permission to divulge it at any time, or 
 to any person. 
 
 “Well, an’ what — what do you want to know?” she 
 exclaimed in a husky voice, and with a sort of desperate 
 resolution. 
 
 Before answering, Harriet rose and closed the door, at which 
 Cauth nodded assent. 
 
 “ Cauth,” said Miss Markham, her voice more deep and 
 solemn than usual, though perhaps she knew it not herself, — 
 u Cauth, was it you that broke in on Mr. Moran’s story a few 
 days ago on the Rock ? Now answer me truly, as you hope for 
 mercy hereafter.” 
 
 “ There’s no gettin’ over that,” said Cauth gloomily, as if to 
 herself ; “ when you ask me that way, I can’t deny the thruth. 
 It was me, Miss Markham, and who else would it be ? ” 
 
 “I thought so, and so did Miss Hennessy, but we never 
 breathed a word of our suspicions to any one, — that is,” she 
 added, after a pause, recollecting what she had said to Lord 
 Effingham, — “ that is, to any one who knows you even now, or 
 in any way that could make you known. Now, having told us 
 so much, you will not, I think, refuse to tell us more ? Are you, 
 or are you not, Kate Costelloe ? ” 
 
 At the sound of the name the unhappy woman dropped her 
 head between her knees as suddenly as if she was shot through 
 the brain, one heart-piercing groan escaped her, and then all 
 was silent for a few moments, during which she might have 
 been supposed dead were it not for the quivering motion per- 
 ceptible in all her members, and the quick, irregular breathing 
 that denoted her inward agony. 
 
 At last she slowly raised her head, and, fixing her heavy, 
 bloodshot eyes on her interrogator, said, “ 1 see there’s no use 
 in hidin’ it any longer, — the earth or the say ’on’t hide murder — 
 an* sure, that was murder — the worst of murder ! I am Kate 
 Costelloe ! ” and, as if relieved to get over the confession, and 
 feeling herself a freer woman, she sat up erect in her seat and 
 looked the young ladies alternately in the face, — I am Kate 
 Costelloe . Is that all you want to know ? ” 
 
KATE CuSTELLOE. 
 
 233 
 
 “ We want to know nothing that you do not want to tell us,” 
 said Harriet, “but”— 
 
 “But you'd wish to know why I did it, an’ all about it,” 
 broke in Kate, with that keenness of perception which belonged 
 to her strange character. She laughed — a low, inward laugh, 
 as it were in scorn, fixing her eyes moodily on the ground the 
 while, and the young ladies began to fear that her next move 
 would be to open the door and bid them walk out. They were 
 mistaken, for she looked up with a milder expression, and said 
 in a voice low and mournful — - 
 
 “ There's not many livin' I’d tell it to, Miss Markham ; but 
 I'll tell it to you , an’ Miss Mary, bekase I know you have the 
 heart to feel even for me, bad as I am — an' sure, sure, but I'm bad 
 enough ! Ask me any question you like an' I'll answer you, 
 no matter what it is.” 
 
 “Tell us, then,” said Mary Hennessy, seeing that Harriet 
 shrank from putting the question, “ what was the motive that 
 induced you to give testimony against your own friends and 
 relatives ? ” 
 
 “Friends and relatives'?” repeated Kate, with strong and 
 disdainful emphasis. “ God help your wit, child ! — that wasn't 
 the worst of it, though it was bad enough, too. That wasn't 
 what tore the heart out o’ me, an' left me ever since without 
 e'er a heart, at all.” 
 
 “ What was it, then ? ” whispered Harriet, awed by the 
 intensity of passion that breathed in every lineament of the 
 withered face before her. 
 
 “ What was it ? — ha ! ha ! ha ! — what was it ? ” And, thrust- 
 ing out her head till her face almost touched that of Harriet, — 
 though both young ladies drew back instinctively, — she said in 
 a low, hissing whisper, “ It was the love that was in my heart for 
 John Keogh ! ” 
 
 “You loved him?” exclaimed both her hearers in the same 
 subdued tone, — “you loved him, yet you hung him — and his 
 brother too ? ” 
 
 The woman drew back, raised her head to the highest, and 
 flashed a look of fierce intelligence into the eyes of her 
 astonished hearers. “Ay, I hung him ; but I couldn't help it — 
 it was his own fault. I didn't want to hang e'er a one — e’er a one, 
 at all — an' them , leastways ; but he took it out o' me — he dared 
 
234 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 me to do it ! ” Slowly she arose from her seat, and stood look- 
 ing down at her silent and, as it were, spellbound auditors, with 
 the eye and mien of a pythoness. “ Ay, he dared me to do it — 
 and I did it,” — her voice sank to a hoarse whisper, — “ but I 
 wouldn’t have done it, even for that, only he taunted me with 
 — with — no matter what, but I knew it was his sin and shame 
 as well as mine — an’ I knew how many bitter tears I cried 
 many’s the night an’ many’s the day for that same misfortune 
 that came over me — an’ then I thought of all the promises he 
 had made, an’ broke them all — an’ how I forgave him everything, 
 everything, everything, bekase I loved him — an’ how I kept my 
 shame an’ my sorrow locked up in my own heart, an’ never said 
 a hard word of him even to his own father, ever an’ always 
 hopin’ for the best ; but when he said that word to me, before 
 he was taken, when I tould him that I had his life, an’ Patrick’s 
 life, in my hands, an’ asked him wouldn’t he put the marriage- 
 ring on my finger — when he said that word to me, back again, 
 an’ made as little o’ me as if I was the dirt undher his feet, — 
 then,” she almost shrieked, throwing up her arms like a maniac, 
 — “ then — then the love went out o’ my heart, an’ I said to my- 
 self, though I didn’t say it to him, ‘If you had fifty lives, 
 they’re not worth a sthraw — the gallows is your doom 1 1 That 
 was the last sight of him I ever got, till I seen him in the dock, 
 an’ then I made him shiver with the one look I gave him 
 when I put the rod on his head — ha ! he looked at me then 
 with such a pitiful look in his eyes, all as one as if he said, 
 ‘Kate, is it you that swears my life away?’ But I didn’t care 
 for his looks then, — that time was past, — an’ I did what was in 
 my mind to do, an’ in my heart, an’ showed him what I could 
 do when I was put to it, though he thought I’d never bring 
 myself to do it. Och ! och ! och ! sure, it was no wondher 
 he’d think it, for he knew how I loved him ! — fareer gar , he 
 did ! ” and, breaking into a passionate flood of tears, she sank 
 heavily on her seat, burying her face in her hands. 
 
 Harriet and Mary exchanged glances — they dared not speak, 
 fearing another outburst of passion from the unhappy woman ; 
 they would gladly have effected their retreat, but they could 
 not bring themselves to leave the poor creature without a word 
 of consolation, so they sat patiently and silently awaiting the 
 moment when the calm would follow the storm, in order to say 
 
KATE COSTELLOE, . 
 
 235 
 
 some words of kindness and encouragement before they left the 
 unfortunate victim of passion to the companionship of her own 
 dreary thoughts. They rose, nevertheless, and the motion, 
 slight as it was, brought Kate back to consciousness. 
 
 44 I see you’re for goin’, ladies,” said she, rising too ; “ an’ sure, 
 it’s glad you’ll be, I know myself, to get me out o’ your sight. 
 The Lord in heaven forgive me ! ” — she raised her clasped 
 hands and swollen eyes to heaven, — 44 the Lord in heaven 
 forgive me ! sure, it’s thinkin’ of my poor sov/1 1 ought to be, 
 an’ askin’ pardon night an’ day on my bare knees for all the 
 harm I have done. Och, then, ladies dear, isn’t it a poor thing 
 an’ a misfortunate thing to forget God ? — for, sure, when we do 
 once there’s no tellin’ what we’ll come to, — them that ’id tell 
 me onst that I’d ever do what I done, or be the thing I am 
 this night, oyeh ! but it’s me that ’id give little ear to them.” 
 
 44 But, Kate ” — 
 
 44 Call me Cauth, , if it’s plasin’ to you, miss. I’d wish to for- 
 get, if I could, that I ever was Kate Costelloe.” 
 
 44 Well, then, Cauth, what was it brought you to this part of 
 the country, for I know the sad events to which we have been 
 referring took place in another part of the county ? ” 
 
 “ Why, then, I’ll jist tell you that, as if I was at the priest’s 
 knee this minnit. I couldn’t bear to live where I knew every- 
 body hated the ground I walked on. Besides that, the ould man 
 was there — the lonesome ould man, that never raised his head 
 afther hearin’ the sentence, but went about like a wanderin’ 
 sperit among the good Christians that had the heart to pity 
 him. The sight o’ me would a’ kilt him entirely, so I left the 
 place altogether, and came where I thought nobody ’id know me. 
 But sure,” she added, “ there wasn’t even that comfort for me , — 
 I’m as well known here as the town-pump, God help me ! — an’ if 
 I happen to say a sharp word to any one, it’s nothing but 4 Kate 
 Costelloe ’ here an’ 4 Kate Costelloe ’ there wid them all round, 
 till I’d sooner be dead than livin’ — if it wasn’t for my poor 
 sowl ! ” 
 
 44 Speaking of that,” said Mary Hennessy, 44 does the Dean or 
 Father Sheehan know who you are ? — have you been to your 
 duty since you came here ? ” 
 
 44 Well, to tell you the truth, miss, I was not. Many’s the 
 time I got ready to go, but somehow or another, the shame 
 
236 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK 
 
 always got the better o’ me, an’ though I knew well enough it 
 was the Evil Sperit that was keeping me back, I couldn’t bring 
 myself to go.” 
 
 Suddenly the latch was raised, the door was flung open, and 
 in the aperture stood, leaning on her staff, an old woman in a 
 red cloak, whom Harriet recognised at once as the original of 
 Moran’s graphic sketch of the Reverend Mr. Goodchild’s courte- 
 ous friend of argentine notoriety. Peering up into the faces of 
 the two young ladies, as she stood resting both hands on her 
 staff, her little black eyes began to twinkle with a brighter 
 meaning. 
 
 “ Ho ! ho ! ” she croaked. “ I came here to invite Kate 
 Costelloe up to my place — and a nice place it is, too,” — she 
 paused, and the pause was filled up by a despairing groan from 
 Kate, — “not that I expected much from her , for, like myself, 
 she isn’t much the bettlier of all the bad she has done in her 
 time, — but here’s two grand ladies — one of them from the lord’s 
 Castle beyant, no less, an’ the other Dr. Iiennessy’s purty 
 sister — an’ the world knows that’s what she is, only not so pale 
 or so grand - lookin’ that way as the other— bekase why, th$ 
 ould- quality blood isn’t in her— the blood of the Markhams 
 that were great people onst, an’ even in my own memory.” 
 These latter clauses of the speech were spoken in an undertone, 
 and by way of soliloquy, though they reached every ear within 
 hearing, as the acrid dame probably intended they should. 
 “ Come now, ladies,” — and she pointed with her stick over her 
 shoulder, — “come and see the fine sight 1 have at home for the 
 quality. Come, when I bid you ! ” she added in a tone of 
 authority ; “ I leant ye up above there at my castle, an’ I know 
 there’s naither o’ yell be sorry for cornin’ when you get up.” 
 
 “My good woman,” said Mary Hennessy, after exchanging 
 some whispered words with Harriet, “ we have no objection to 
 go with you, if we can really do you or any one else a service. 
 But we should like to know where, or for what purpose, you 
 would have us go.” 
 
 “Ah, then, where would you be takin’ them to?” said Cauth 
 in a confidential whisper. 
 
 “ To the house above, to tell their fortunes,” was the short, 
 ironical answer. “ Now, don’t be keepin’ me here, I tell ye, but 
 come along this minnit, — do ye think it’s for harmin’ ye I’d be?” 
 
KATE COSTELLOE, 
 
 237 
 
 “I think ye’d best go,” whispered Cauth. “She has odd 
 ways wid her by times, but her hark is worse than her bite — 
 she’ll do ye no harm, I’ll go bail.” 
 
 This and their own reflections decided the young ladies to 
 follow the crone, who was already hobbling down the road, 
 nothing doubting, it appeared, that they would comply with 
 her singular mandate. Cauth stood at the door looking after 
 them till they had all three disappeared at a turn of the road ; 
 she turned then, and looked up at the Rock, wondering whether 
 Bryan would come down to his supper, yet hardly expecting 
 that he would, the night being so rarely beautiful. 
 
 “Well, to be sure, but it’s the quare life he leads,” said she 
 to herself, “ scrapin’, an’ sweepin’, an’ patchin’ up ould walls 
 all day long, an’ every day of the week, jist as if he was 
 paid for it, — which he isn’t, an’ never will be — in this world, 
 anyhow, let it be as it may with the other. Och, och ! see 
 what it is to have a good conscience ! — it’s aisy seen that poor 
 Bryan never harmed the livin’, or he’d be more afeard o’ the 
 dead. Now there’s me, an’ barrin’ it w T as in broad daylight, an’ 
 plenty o’ company to the fore, I darn’t set my foot up there 
 among the graves and tombstones, an’ the ould crazy walls 
 that’s in it — nor I ivouldn’t , if they gave me the best estate in 
 Tipperary. Ochone ! it’s the dismal place to spend one’s nights 
 an’ days in. But sure, afther all, didn’t I hear Father Riordan — • 
 God be good to him !— tellin’ on the althar one Sunday, many’s 
 the year ago, about St. Anthony, how he went an’ lived among 
 the tombs, jist to be away from the livin’ altogether, and wash his 
 hands of the dirty, wicked world. An’ all the fine ould hermits 
 his reverence used to tell us about, when we w r ere lamin’ the 
 Catechise in the chapel — ould ancient men with great long 
 5 cards, that went aw r ay to the desert to live all alone with God, 
 or in caves in the rocks, or mountains. Well, it’s a folly to 
 talk, but I think our Bryney is jist as good a hermit as any of 
 them, barrin’ that he hasn’t the beard. I’m sure he prays as 
 much as e’er a one o’ them, an’ even the odd night that he’s in 
 his bed, don’t I hear him, when he thinks I’m asleep, prayin’ 
 for the sowls in purgatory, an’ for the convarsion o’ sinners? — 
 an’ sure, myself begins to cry when I hear that, thinkin’ that 
 Tm the greatest sinner goin’. But whisht ! who’s that?” 
 
 She had just perceived a female figure, with a shawl drawn 
 
238 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 closely around her head, moving stealthily in the shadow of the 
 Bock, on the opposite side of the road, moving in the direction 
 of the gate leading to the sacred enclosure. The motions of the 
 person, whoever it might be, were so cautious, so stealthy, that 
 it was quite clear to any observer that there was, there must be, 
 some strong motive for concealment, and Cauth stood leaning 
 forward, peering with her keen dark eyes into the deep gloom 
 after the object of her curiosity. Moved by some unaccount- 
 able impulse, she at last followed her with the same stealthy 
 pace ; on and on moved the silent and muffled figure, on and on 
 moved Cauth after her, as if impelled by invisible agency, till 
 the gate had opened and closed a second time, with a few 
 moments’ intermission, and both were within the sacred precincts, 
 gliding up the steep ascent to the once stately portal of the 
 cathedral. Here Cauth’s courage failed her ; she remembered 
 her soliloquy of a few moments before, and all the terrors of 
 superstition, heightened by the fears of a troubled conscience, 
 came back with overwhelming force. Frightened even at her 
 own boldness, she stood in harrowing uncertainty as to what 
 she had best do ; advance she dared not, and retreat was little 
 less formidable, — if she could only reach Bryan, but God 
 knows where Bryan was, as she said to herself, and to raise her 
 voice on the Eock of Cashel, with the dead all around her, was 
 something not to be thought of. Timidly and fearfully she 
 glanced around, almost certain that some shape of horror would 
 present itself to her aching eyes. In her terror she had half 
 forgotten the immediate object of her almost involuntary 
 intrusion on the lone place of death ; she had vanished from 
 her view round an angle of the palace wall, but all at once she 
 caught sight of her again, crossing the broad strip of moonlight 
 to the hall of the vicars-choral, then gliding along by the wall 
 of the cathedral — 
 
 Where buttress and buttress alternately 
 Seemed framed of ebon and ivory, 
 
 as the light figure flitted past them. Cauth watched her with 
 fear-distended eyes, the cold sweat oozing from every pore of 
 her body, and her tongue, as it were, glued to her burning 
 palate. All at once another figure appeared on the scene, and 
 to Cauth’s inexpressible relief it proved to be Bryan. Some- 
 what encouraged by the sight of another living creature, and 
 
KATE COSTELLOE. 
 
 239 
 
 that, too, the good old guardian of the ruins, she drew back a 
 little farther into the shade, where she could see what passed, 
 herself remaining unseen ; for she began to suspect, seeing 
 Bryan and the supposed ghost approaching each other, that it 
 might after all be a creature of flesh and blood like herself. 
 Then came distinctly to her ear the following colloquy : — 
 
 “ Why, an’ is this yourself, Celia ? What in the world brings 
 you here, my poor girl, at this time o’ night ? ” 
 
 “I wanted to see him” was the reply in a low, earnest 
 whisper that only half reached Cauth’s ear. 
 
 “ Him ? — why, who do you mane ? ” 
 
 “ Nonsense, Bryan ! you know well enough. He’s here now 
 — I know he is — an’ I must see him ! For God’s sake, Bryan, 
 don’t be keepin’ me ! ” And the voice spoke louder, in increas- 
 ing agitation. 
 
 Before Bryan could answer, a man’s arm was stretched out 
 from one of “ the broken arches, black in night,” that yawned 
 close beside them, and, catching the female by the arm, whis- 
 pered a word that arrested the scream on her pallid lips. 
 Then Bryan and the young woman entered the arch, and 
 Cauth managed to get so near them, creeping along in the 
 black shadow of the walls, that she could hear their low, 
 cautious tones as they all three conversed in whispers. 
 
 “Jerry,” said the girl, her voice trembling with eagerness, 
 “for the love of God get down to the vau’ts or somewhere; 
 the peelers is out lookin’ for you, with that stag, M ‘Go wan” — 
 
 “ Well, an’ what if they are ? Weren’t they often out before, 
 an’ they didn’t catch me yit ? ” 
 
 “ Ay ! but M‘Gowan ! — an’ you know there’s some great 
 Crown-lawyer or another down from Dublin.” 
 
 “ So I hear.” 
 
 “ So you hear ? — an’ is that the way you’re takin’ it, an’ me 
 ’most frikened out o’ my wits? If you heard about the 
 Counsellor, maybe you didn’t hear what M‘Gowan swore? ” 
 “No. What did he swear ? ” 
 
 “That you were hidin’ somewheres about the Bock.” 
 
 “There now, Jerry, didn’t I tell you that?” said Bryan 
 anxiously. “ I knew it ’id be found out at last that you were 
 here, an’ now I’ll have the whole country again’ me for 
 harbourin’ — for harbourin’ ” — 
 
240 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK 
 
 “ A murderer,” put in the other, with some bitterness, — “out 
 with it, Bryan, like a man ! ” 
 
 “ Well, it’s an ugly word -to say, anyway, but you know 
 what I mane — an’ the raisons, too, that made me give in to 
 you, — but what will the people say ? Yo ! vo ! myself an’ the 
 Rock’s disgraced for ever.” 
 
 “Never mind, Bryan,” said the other man quickly; “you 
 done it for the best, you know yourself, an 7 God knows it, an 7 
 I know it too, Bryan, an 7 it’s hard if we don’t clear you an 7 
 the Rock between us three. Never mind, Bryan; you stood 
 my friend when I most needed one, an’ you’ll not be sorry 
 for it. Go home now, Celia astore, an’ make your mind aisy 
 — with God’s help an’ Bryan Cullenan’s they’ll not catch me 
 this time aither ; I could hide here for a month, if all the 
 peelers an’ the army from here to Clonmel was afther me, 
 barrin 7 they’d blow up the Rock entirely. There’s so many 
 vau’ts an’ places that nobody knows anything about, barrin 7 
 Bryan an’ myself, that got into the knowledge of them this 
 while back. So go home, darlin’, an’ don’t be frettin’ ; if 
 M‘Gowan an 7 the peelers comes here afther me, there’ll be 
 the greatest game of hide-an’-go-seek that ever was played 
 about Cashel town, or Rock aither. 77 
 
 “Ob, oh, oh ! the Lord save us ! 77 and Celia began wring- 
 ing her hands. “ Arrah, Jerry, what’s cornin’ over you, at all? 
 Is it losin’ your senses you are, to be talkin’ that-a-way ? Och 
 wirra, wirra ! what’ll I do, at all 1 ” 
 
 “ Why, you foolish girl, it’s you that’s losin’ your wits. I 
 tell you I’m no more mad than I ever was in all my life. Go 
 home now, when I bid you, but take care would anybody see 
 you goin’ down from here at this hour o’ the night. But 
 that’s true. Tell me before you go, did you hear since mornin 7 
 how poor Tim Murtha is ? ” 
 
 “Well, no, Jerry, I didn’t hear. God help him for one mis- 
 iortunate man, but it’s him has the hard times of it one way 
 an’ another, an’ a harmless poor crathur he ever an 7 always 
 was. 77 
 
 “True for you, Celia. I suppose, now, you’re thinkin’, only 
 you don’t wish to say it, that it’s strange how God afflicts the 
 innocent, and lets the wicked escape— at any rate, for a while? 
 Come now, can’t I guess well ? ” 
 
KATE COSTELLOE . 
 
 241 
 
 The girl was silent and a little confused, seeing which Jerry 
 laughed a low, bitter laugh. “ I knew it,” he said, “but still I 
 don’t wondher at it — amn’t I odious before God an’ man, an’ 
 how could I expect any one to excuse me, or to feel for me ? 
 Go home now, an’ God be with you ! ” So saying, he 
 plunged into the inner darkness, and Celia saw him no more. 
 She was turning to address some agitated words to Bryan, 
 when from out the same darkness came a melancholy voice, 
 singing— 
 
 “Out of Lady Nancy’s there grew a red rose, 
 
 And out of Lord Lovell’s a briar — iar — iar — 
 
 And out of Lord Lovell’s a briar.” 
 
 “Lord bless us, who’s that?” cried Celia, staring into the 
 thick gloom. 
 
 “ Why, don’t you know the voice ? ” said Bryan. 
 
 Before Celia answered, cut glided a ghastly figure wrapped 
 in what appeared to be a sheet — a winding-sheet it was to 
 Celia’s affrighted fancy. But lo, a look at the face, only 
 partially visible under the shroud-like covering, reassured 
 poor Celia ; for it was Mad Mabel, who went on quite uncon- 
 cerned with a snatch from another old ballad, no less quaint 
 and sad than the other — 
 
 “ My father married me to a knight, 
 
 My stepmother owed me at a cruel spite — 
 
 She sent three robbers that very night, 
 
 They robbed my bower, and slew my knight. u 
 
 “ Celia Mulquin, I want to tell you a saycret ! ” and she 
 put her head close to that of the shrinking girl. “ I’m goin’ to 
 bring Petticoat Loose to friken them all here — husht ! I’m 
 thinkin’ she’s in there now,” — peering curiously into the 
 ruined aisles, where the moonbeams were now falling in 
 silver sheen 
 
 Through slender shafts of shapely stone, 
 
 By foliage tracery combined. 
 
 14 Didn’t you hear something ? But maybe it isn’t her — hush 
 — h-t ! ” — holding up the attenuated finger of one hand, while 
 the other held the ghostly drapery under her chin, — “ husht ! 
 maybe it’s Patrick that’s in it, or Walsh, or Lacy, or one o’ the 
 Keoghs.” 
 
 16 
 
242 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK 
 
 A wild scream of horror suddenly broke the awful stillness of 
 the dreary place, and whilst all the three, even Mabel, were 
 struck dumb with amazement, not to say fear, Cautli emerged 
 from the shade of a buttress, and joined the group, catching 
 old Bryan by the arm with convulsive energy, and a force that 
 made his frail body quiver. 
 
 Before any one had time to speak, she was drawing Bryan 
 towards the gate with a strength which he could not resist, 
 at the same time urging the others to follow. 
 
 “ Come on, now, I tell you,” she cried, in great excitement ; 
 “ let us all get out o’ this before worse comes of it. Celia 
 Mulquin, it’s you I may thank for all this.” 
 
 “ Me, Cautli ? Why, dear bless me ! what did I do ” 
 
 “ You know well enough what you did — an’ more’s the 
 shame an’ the disgrace for a dacent girl like you to be 
 runnin’ aftlier a murdherer — ay, an’ the worst of murdherers, 
 too ! I wouldn’t b’lieve it, Celia, no, not if it was sworn to 
 me on all the books that ever was shut an’ opened, that you’d 
 be havin’ anything to say to that unlucky vagabone, Jerry 
 Pierce ” — 
 
 “Whisht, whisht, Cauth ! somebody ’ill hear you.” 
 
 “No, I’ll not whisht, Bryan Cullenan, an’ I tell you it’s a 
 sin and shame for ye both to be keepin’ him from the gallows 
 where he ought to be many’s the day ago. If God spares me 
 till the morrow mornin’ I’ll go before a magistrate, an’ I’ll go 
 bail I’ll put them in the way of catchin’ him.” 
 
 “God forgive you, honest woman ! ” said poor Celia, as they 
 stopped for Bryan to lock the gate. 
 
 “I’m not an honest woman !” said Cauth fiercely, “but I’m a 
 thankful woman, an’ I’ll hang the murderer of Mr. Esmond 
 if it cost me my life.” 
 
 “ God in heaven forgive you ! ” said Celia again, and she 
 burst into tears. 
 
 “Never mind her, Celia,” said Bryan soothingly; “she only 
 wants to frighten you. Doesn’t she know, an’ don’t you know 
 too, that Jerry Pierce is not fool enough to stay long in the 
 same place ? The country’s wide, an’ it’s hard to say where 
 he’ll be the morrow night, or the morrow mornin’ aither. So 
 go your ways home, my poor girl ! an’ sure, it’s my heart bleeds 
 to see your father’s child in sich sore trouble.” 
 
KATE COSTELLOE. 
 
 243 
 
 “Much about her trouble,” said Cauth, as she entered the 
 cabin, ‘ ‘ what is it to Mrs. Esmond’s 'l ” 
 
 “Are you goin’ to take Mabel home with you ?” said Bryan, 
 seeing that Celia had taken the poor maniac by the arm. 
 
 “ In coorse I am, Bryan, if she’ll only stay when I get her 
 there.” 
 
 “Poor Jerry Pierce!” muttered Mabel, as they went off 
 together; “she’ll hang him, I know well, an’ then myself and 
 Celia ’ill be walkin/ walkin’ till the Day o’ Judgment all alone 
 — alone — alone 1 ” 
 
CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 AN APPARITION AT ROSE LODGE. 
 
 It was no idle threat of Kate Costelloe’s that she would give 
 information to a magistrate of having seen Jerry Pierce on the 
 Rock, and it was with great difficulty that Bryan could persuade 
 her from going off at once to Rose Lodge with that amiable 
 intention. 
 
 “Do you think,” said she, “that Fm goin’ to screen th<s 
 villain that dipped his hands in the blood of the poor young 
 master? If I did, wouldn’t I be jist as bad as he is, an’ worse, 
 too, in a manner? Now, I tell you, Bryan, there’s no use 
 talkin’ to me, an’ it makes my blood boil, so it does, to hear you 
 tryin’ to excuse the bloodthirsty villain ” — 
 
 “ I’m not tryin’ to excuse him — how could I ? ” 
 
 “Well, how came you to harbour him on the Rock above, 
 as I see you did? Tell me that, now, you hard-hearted, un- 
 grateful ould man, you ? ” 
 
 “ God forgive you, Cauth aroon,” said Bryan mildly, “ for 
 all the bad names you’re callin’ me ! Sure, if the man did 
 hide himself of a time on the Rock, it wasn’t me that harboured 
 him. Scores of people might hide in the crypts an’ places 
 away underground without me ever seein’ or hearin’ one o’ 
 them. An’ another thing, I’ll warrant you Jerry Pierce has 
 more gumpshin in him than to go tell me or any one else what 
 place he was hidin’ in.” 
 
 “Well, anyway, I hope it’ll never come to Mrs. Esmond’s 
 ears that he teas up there ” — 
 
 “ An’, to be sure, it’ll come to her ears if you go an’ tell the 
 ould gentleman. But, anyway, say your prayers an’ go to bed, 
 an’ maybe you’ll not be so hot on it in the mornin’ as you are 
 now. Pray to God to direct you ! ” He was going to add, 
 
 244 
 
AN APPARITION AT POSE LODGE. 245 
 
 “ I think you ought to he the last woman to do such a thing, 
 afther all the misery you brought on yourself before,” but, 
 knowing by experience the probable effect of any such allusion, 
 he prudently kept the thought to himself. 
 
 Next morning Cauth declared her intention of going to Rose 
 Lodge, and all Bryan could obtain from her in the way of 
 concession was a promise not to go till after nightfall. 
 
 “ Very good,” said he, “an’ Til go with you myself for com- 
 pany.” So the matter rested between them for that day, and 
 Bryan went up to the Rock, after swallowing a hasty breakfast. 
 
 We will now introduce the reader to the parlour of Rose 
 Lodge on the evening of that same day. It was a pleasant 
 loom on the first floor; and the breath of flowers, the faint 
 sweet perfume of the jessamine and the honeysuckle, was 
 wafted in from the creeping plants trained around the windows, 
 mingled with the rich odour of mignonette and wallflowers in 
 tasteful green boxes on the sills. The evening sun was sinking, 
 and the evening breeze was sighing amongst the leaves and 
 flowers, giving a tremulous motion to their fantastic shadows 
 within the room. Without, all was peace — within, trouble 
 and unrest, for of those assembled in that handsome apartment 
 perhaps not one at that feverish moment 
 
 Enjoyed and blessed the lovely hour. 
 
 There was the master of the house striding to and fro the room 
 with that quick, irregular pace which denotes not thought, 
 but passion. There was his wife watching him with anxious 
 eyes ; and Aunt Winifred, rigid as ever, but with more colour 
 than usual on her cheek, while a certain twitching of the mouth 
 and a tremulous motion of the eyelids denoted some inward 
 emotion not very common with her. Opposite her, near one of 
 the windows, sat young Mrs. Esmond, in her deep mourning 
 robe and widow’s cap, her eyes red with weeping, and her lips 
 and cheeks colourless as those of a marble statue. Her tearful 
 eyes were fixed on a half-length portrait of her husband which 
 nung on the wall opposite, and gradually her look became 
 abstracted, as her thoughts wandered back into the blessed 
 past — the sunny years and days of “Long Ago.” And Mary 
 Hennessy was there, and Dean M‘Dermot, the latter evidently 
 trying to reason Mr, Esmond out of some desperate purpose. 
 
246 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK \ 
 
 How anxiously Aunt Martha kept glancing from one to the 
 other, hoping, doubtless, from the friendly remonstrances of the 
 good pastor what she could not dare to attempt herself. As 
 yet his arguments appeared to have had but little effect. 
 
 “ I tell you, Dean,’ 7 said Mr. Esmond, stopping suddenly in 
 his march, and planting himself before the priest, with his 
 thumbs in his vest-pockets, — “ I tell you there’s no use trying to 
 persuade me from it ! I know it’s Matty there that put you on 
 the scent, and it may be that she and you are both right, but 
 I’ve made up my mind, and the Pope himself wouldn’t persuade 
 me from it. I’ll go out this night, with M‘Gowan and the 
 police, come what will, and see if we don’t trap the fellow ” — 
 
 “ But, Mr. Esmond ” — 
 
 “Not a word, Dean, not a word, — begging your pardon, 
 and meaning no disrespect, none whatever, — but I’m of opinion 
 that if I had gone out myself now and then from the first, the 
 villain would have been caught long ago. I know my duty, 
 sir, and I mean to do it. Yes, sir, I mean to do it ; for the 
 blood of my murdered nephew cries to me from the ground, 
 and sleep or rest I cannot take for thinking of him. Blood 
 must have blood, and it is a crying shame that the hardened 
 ruffian who so wantonly shed my poor Harry’s should have so 
 long escaped detection, and that at our very door, as people say 
 — why, it makes me mad — yes, sir, mad — to think of it ! ” 
 “Well, but, my dear Harry” — began his wife; but he 
 quickly stopped her. 
 
 “ Silence, you, Matty, — one’s enough at a time, you know.” 
 “I was going to remind you,” said Dean M‘Dermot, “that 
 we do not any of us wish you to desist from any lawful means 
 of securing the arrest of the unhappy culprit — that is, if he be 
 still in the country, which I doubt.” 
 
 “ In the name of God, then, Dean M‘Dermot, tell me what 
 you do wish ! ” cried Mr. Esmond almost fiercely. 
 
 “I have told you, sir,” was the calm but dignified answer; 
 “ I have endeavoured to prove to you that your going out with 
 the police and this informer ” — 
 
 “ Informer? What do you mean, sir?” 
 
 “Well, we shall not quarrel about a word,” said the Dean, 
 smiling ; “I mean this new witness you have got. I have 
 endeavoured to prove to you, I repeat, that your going out at 
 
AN APPARITION AT ROSE LODGE. 247 
 
 the head ot the party was by no means necessary, and might 
 possibly be a very dangerous proceeding on your part.” 
 
 “ Oh, as for the danger,” said the old man curtly, “ that’s 
 my own affair. Ill attend to that. So, if you have no other 
 reason to advance, I will bid you good-evening at once, as 
 M ‘Go wan and Mr. Moran and some others are waiting in the 
 office.” 
 
 “ Oh, Uncle Harry, Uncle Harry,” said the young widow, 
 speaking for the first time, “ I beseech you, risk not your own 
 life in perhaps a vain effort to arrest the — the ” — Sobs choked 
 her voice — she could say no more. 
 
 “ Let him go,” said Miss Esmond, with bitter mockery, — “ let 
 him go, — of course he has his life well insured. He knows he 
 has the goodwill of the people, and probably thinks that if 
 any danger did threaten him, some stalwart beggar would haply 
 advance to the rescue.” 
 
 “For mercy’s sake, Winifred, don’t speak so ! ” whispered her 
 sister-in-law. 
 
 Just at that moment, and whilst Mr. Esmond was clearly 
 meditating some savage retort on his sister, the door opened, 
 and in walked Phil Moran, followed closely by just such a 
 “ stalwart beggar” as Miss Esmond’s biting sarcasm had 
 indicated. 
 
 Every one looked astonished, the more so as the man kept 
 his caubeen on his head, as though he had been my Lord 
 Kenmare himself. 1 
 
 Moran anticipated the angry question that was coming in 
 thunder from Uncle Harry’s tongue. “ Here is a man,” said 
 he, “ Mr. Esmond, who wants to see you on business so import- 
 ant that it will not brook delay.” 
 
 “And why the d 1 don’t you take him to the office? 
 
 Don’t you know well enough, Moran, that this is no place for 
 business ? ” 
 
 “Well, to tell the truth, I didn’t bring him here. He 
 came into your office with that queer genius of a clerk of mine, 
 Ned Murtha, whom I left in my office hard at work, and, 
 
 1 There are few of our readers, it is presumed, who are not aware of the 
 high privilege enjoyed from time immemorial by the Barons of Kenmare, 
 that of remaining covered in the presence of royalty — the reward of 
 some leal service rendered in the stormy days of old. 
 
243 
 
 THE HERMIT OE 1HE ROCK 
 
 according to Ned’s statement, he is prepared to give evidence 
 against ” — 
 
 “ Against Jerry Pierce ! ” cried Mr. Esmond, coming eagerly 
 forward. “ Why, that’s capital good news, upon my honour ! ” 
 and he rubbed his hands fast and furiously. “ We’ll have no 
 lack of evidence now. But tell me, honest man, why did you 
 not come forward before if you knew anything about this 
 wretched business 1 How did it happen, I say, that you kept 
 the secret so long ? ” 
 
 “I’d keep it longer,” was the gruff answer, “if it wasn’t for 
 the reward. I may as well tell you the thruth at onst.” 
 
 “ What a barefaced villain ! ” whispered Moran to Mary 
 Hennessy, beside whom he somehow managed to find himself. 
 
 “ There is something in his voice that I don’t like,” was the 
 young lady’s reply at the same time. 
 
 The younger Mrs. Esmond turned to the window to hide her 
 tears, and perhaps still more to avoid seeing the man, whose 
 presence was distasteful to her, she knew not why. Luckily 
 for her purpose, Mad Mabel suddenly appeared outside, and, 
 after glancing with the wild look of her unhappy class at each 
 of the persons within the room, her eyes rested on the beggar- 
 man, and she sang in her usual way — 
 
 “One of my false comrades did me betray, 
 
 And for one bare guinea swore my life away.’* 
 
 “ Hush ! hush ! ” said Mrs. Esmond in her sweet, gentle 
 voice. 
 
 “ Ocli ! why wouldn’t I sing, ma’am ? Sure, it’s ‘ The Croppy 
 Boy,’ you know — 
 
 In New Geneva this young man died, 
 
 And in Killeevin his body lies ; 
 
 All ye Roman Catholics that do pass by, 
 
 Pray the Lord have mercy on the Croppy Boy ! 
 
 Poor Patrick ! sure, I pray for you, anyway — och ! no, I don’t 
 — I can’t pray now, at all — 
 
 Five hundred pounds then they would lay down, 
 
 For to see me walkin’ through Wexford town. 
 
 Ah ! the poor Croppy Boy ! Sure, they hanged him, aftlier 
 all, an’ they’ll hang J erry Pierce, and what’ll Celia do then ? ” 
 
AN APPARITION AI ROAE LODGE. 249 
 
 “Will you send her off out of that?” cried Mr. Esmond, 
 stamping his foot in a towering passion. 
 
 “Don't be angry with me, Mr. Esmond,” said Mabel, with a 
 frightened look. “ Sure, / didn't say I'd kill ould Esmond that 
 night in the abbey — it was Tim Murtha, an' — an' ” — 
 
 Here she was dragged away by a gardener, whom Mrs. Esmond 
 had seen passing, and beckoned to approach for that purpose. 
 
 “ Speak out, you, fellow ! ” said Mr. Esmond, his face some- 
 what paler than usual, and a visible tremor in his voice. 
 “ What’s your name, in the first place ? Cbrcfound you ! why 
 don't you answer me ? — who are you ? ” and, in his eagerness to 
 know, he caught hold of the man's coat by the collar and gave 
 him a shake. 
 
 “ Take your hand off my collar, Mr. Esmond,” replied the 
 man in a tone half fierce, half sullen, “then I’ll tell you who I 
 am.” The hand was removed accordingly, and he moved a 
 step or two back, then said in a loud, distinct tone — 
 
 “I'm Jerry Pierce! I heard you were goin' out wid the 
 peelers to take me, so I came to save you the trouble.” 
 
 The sound of his familiar voice, evidently disguised before, 
 and the mention of a name so hated by all, had the effect of an 
 electric shock on all present. The Dean started to bis feet, and 
 opened his mouth to speak, but remained as if spellbound by 
 the man's audacity. One simultaneous shriek burst from the 
 ladies, and young Mrs. Esmond fainted away in her chair. 
 As for Uncle Harry, stout and stubborn as he was, he reeled 
 back some paces, till the Dean caught him by the arm ; every 
 drop of blood forsook his cheek, and his eyes rested with a wild 
 and haggard stare on the face now exposed to view by the 
 removal of the caubeen. 
 
 Before another word was spoken, the parlour door opened, 
 and a servant appearing, said that the old man of the Rock, and 
 a woman he had with him, wanted to see his honour on very 
 particular business. 
 
 “ Let them go to — Halifax ! ” cried Mr. Esmond, his rage 
 concentrating on the unhappy man who stood so unblushingly 
 before him. 
 
 “You’d best let them in,” said Pierce coolly. “ I b'lieve it’s 
 cornin’ to lodge information agin me the woman is — to let you 
 know where you'll find Jerry Pierce.” 
 
250 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 “ Silence ! ” roared Mr. Esmond, and he motioned to the 
 ervant to show Bryan and Cauth into the office. 
 
 “ Why not have them in here, Harry ? ” said Miss 
 Esmond. 
 
 “Ay, that’s always the way with you women,” snapped 
 her brother; “you want to see and hear everything.” 
 
 “Well, I confess,” said Dean M c Dermot, “I was just going 
 to make the same request ; however, if you have any particular 
 objection ” — 
 
 “None in the world, Dean. Though I really cannot under- 
 stand why any of you should wish to have these old people 
 brought in, you shall be gratified by a sight of them. Show 
 them in, Dick. Mr. Moran, have the goodness to send word 
 to the barrack for Captain Dundas to send some men 
 immediately.” 
 
 “Well, if it’s plasm’ to your honour,” said Pierce, twirling 
 his hat between his hands and looking at it sheepishly, “I 
 would wish to have the business settled as soon as convaynient — 
 in regard to the reward that’s promised for the takin’ of J erry 
 Pierce.” 
 
 The ladies, more than ever disgusted by the man’s audacious 
 hardihood, raised their hands and eyes in horror, and uttered 
 exclamations of terror and amazement, with the exception of 
 young Mrs. Esmond, who, having somewhat recovered, stood 
 up, and, taking Mary Hennessy’s arm, prepared to leave the 
 room, carefully avoiding the sight of Pierce. Moran, as if for 
 getful of the important commission given him, stood motionless 
 in his place ; Uncle Harry, between rage and astonishment, 
 found himself incapable of uttering a word; Dean M‘Dermot 
 stood with folded arms watching the unhappy criminal from 
 between his half-closed eyelids with an undefined expression of 
 intense interest. As Mrs. Esmond passed him with tottering 
 steps, he calmly and quietly laid his hand on her arm and said 
 in a significant tone — 
 
 “ I think you had better remain.” 
 
 “ Oh, Dean, I cannot — I cannot ! — it would kill me — indeed, 
 indeed it would ! Oh, my God ! ” and she burst into a passionate 
 flood of tears, “ to think of me being in the same room with the 
 murderer of my darling, darling Harry ! ” 
 
 “But, sure, you’re not, Mrs. Esmond dear ! — sure, you’re not 
 
AN APPARITION AT ROSE LODGE. 251 
 
 in the same room with him, at all ! ” It was Pierce himself 
 that spoke, and his voice was broken and tremulous. 
 
 “ Oh, the mur.dherin’ villain, hear to what he says ! ” cried 
 Cauth from the corner where she and Bryan had placed them- 
 selves, — “the murclherin’ villain ! Isn’t it a wondher the earth 
 doesn’t open an’ swallow him up afther tellin’ that black lie, 
 %n’ his reverence to the fore, an’ the poor mistress ? ” 
 
 “Silence!” cried again the stern voice of Mr. Esmond; 
 “leave the wretch to me.” 
 
 “Well, but, your honour, Mr. Esmond,” persisted Cauth, 
 “ doesn’t the whole counthry know he done the deed ? An’ 
 didn’t I come here myself a purpose to let you know that I 
 seen him last night on the Bock above? An’ wouldn’t I a’ 
 travelled every fut o’ the road to Dublin an’ back again, to 
 prove agin him, the unlucky vagabone ? ” 
 
 Mr. Esmond was turning fiercely on Bryan to ask how it 
 happened that Pierce came to be seen on the Bock, when he 
 and all present were struck dumb with amazement by the 
 sudden change that had come over his niece. From the 
 moment that Pierce spoke those strange words she had stood 
 as if transfixed, her soft hazel eyes dilating with wonder as 
 they penetrated farther and deeper into the soul of the sup- 
 posed murderer of her husband, through the big bold eyes that 
 never quailed a moment under that searching glance, but 
 seemed rather to invite it. 
 
 There the two stood — face to face — immovable — mute as 
 statues — gazing into each other’s eyes, whilst nor word nor 
 breath from any of the spectators broke the awful silence. At 
 xast Mrs. Esmond drew a long sigh, like one recovering from a 
 swoon, her pale lips opened, and some broken, tremulous words 
 were faintly heard — 
 
 “Do you mean to say, Jerry Pierce, that you are not the 
 murderer of my husband ? ” 
 
 And Pierce answered with the same unshrinking confidence, 
 “ I do, Mrs. Esmond — that’s what I mane to say, an’ I take God 
 to witness this blessed day, — an’ sure, His beautiful bright sun 
 is goin’ down there behind the mountains,” he raised his arm 
 solemnly and held it aloft, — “that what I say is truth an’ no lie ! ” 
 
 “Great God! is it possible ?” cried Miss Esmond. “Dear! 
 dear ! ” said he? sister-in-law. Mary Hennessy said nothing, 
 
252 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 she was too much intent in watching the principal actors in 
 the deeply-exciting scene. Moran rested his hand on the back 
 of a chair, in a position to examine Pierce’s countenance, him- 
 self partially hidden by the goodly bulk of Mr. Esmond. The 
 latter stood trembling like an aspen leaf with the fierce passion 
 that was brewing within him. 
 
 “Then you didn’t murder him, Jerry Pierce 1” said the 
 widow in softening accents, — “you didn’t murder your good 
 master ? ” 
 
 “If you don’t b’lieve me, ma’am,” said Pierce, the tears 
 choking his utterance, “ ask his reverence there — I’ll engage he 
 doesn’t misdoubt my word.” 
 
 Almost involuntarily every eye was turned on the Dean, and 
 Mrs. Esmond in particular fixed an anxious look on his bene- 
 volent face, where some deep emotion was setting every muscle 
 in motion. 
 
 “I believe him, Mrs. Esmond,” said the venerable man, with 
 that calm dignity which never forsook him ; “I believe in my 
 heart he tells you what is true.” 
 
 “/ don’t believe him, then,” cried Mr. Esmond vehemently ; 
 “I’d as soon believe the father of lies, that was a murderer 
 from the beginning ! ” His voice was hoarse, and his fac<? 
 livid with rage. “ I tell you both he’s an incarnate fiend, that 
 same Jerry Pierce, and it’s burned he ought to be — burned 
 instead of hanged. But hanged he’ll be, if there’s law or justice 
 in Tipperary ! I’d — I’d hang him myself if there was no one 
 else to do it. I would, by ” — The oath that was on his foam- 
 ing lips never passed them — it died away unspoken, beneath 
 the stern glance of the Dean. 
 
 “Well, all / can say is this, Mr. Esmond,” said Pierce in a 
 firm, manly tone, “ that if you knew but all, you’d be the last 
 man alive to say that of Jerry Pierce.” 
 
 “ What do you mean, you villain ? ” thundered the enraged 
 magistrate. 
 
 Here the elder Mrs. Esmond uttered an exclamation of sur- 
 prise and looked significantly at Moran. 
 
 “I mane this, your honour — that only for poor Jerry Pierce, 
 villain an’ all as he is, you wouldn’t be here now to call him 
 so, but moulderin ’away in the vault above, beside my poor dear 
 master — God rest his soul in glory 1 ” 
 
AN APPARITION AT ROSE LODGE. 253 
 
 “ This is more of your atrocious lies ! ” cried Mr. Esmond. 
 “ Do you take me for a fool, you scoundrel ? ” 
 
 “ Well, I don’t, Mr. Esmond, bekase them that ’id buy your 
 honour for a fool, ’id be apt to lie a long time out o’ their 
 money. Howsomever, you ought to remember me of all people, 
 for if I hadn’t been out on my tlu’amp the night your horse 
 wanted to put you an’ the mistress in the quarry beyant, an’ 
 one that wasn’t a horse, but a poor heart-broken man, had a 
 pistol in his hand at the limekiln , I’m thinkin’ it’s little trouble 
 the world ’id be to you now. An’ listen hither, Mr. Esmond,” 
 he added slowly and emphatically, “ that pistol was the very one 
 that shot your nephew , — the light of heaven to his soul! — an’ 
 the same hand that pulled the trigger that black an’ dismal 
 night was goin’ to pull it then, an’ would, too, Mr. Esmond, 
 only for the voice that said ‘ Remember 1 ’ and that voice was 
 Jerry Pierce’s.” 
 
 Various exclamations of astonishment escaped the listeners, 
 the younger Mrs. Esmond alone remaining silent. She had 
 sunk on a chair opposite Pierce, and sat with her hands clasped 
 and her head bowed down beneath the crushing load of newly- 
 revived sorrow. 
 
 “ Do you hear that, Mrs. Esmond i ” whispered Mary Hen- 
 nessy. “ You see it wasn’t poor Pierce that did it, after all.” 
 
 “I heard it, Mary, I heard it,” she listlessly replied; “ but it 
 makes little difference to me who did it. Some one did it- — 
 that’s certain.” 
 
 For several moments Mr. Esmond and Jerry Pierce stood 
 looking at each other in silence — the one with a look of blank 
 amazement, in which a certain tinge of incredulity was strangely 
 mingled — the other with the same unshrinking confidence with 
 which he had before confronted the widowed wife of young 
 Harry Esmond. The Dean and Moran exchanged significant 
 glances, intimating to each other the prudence of keeping silent 
 for the present. 
 
 When the old man spoke again his face was paler than its 
 wont, and there was a husky tone in his voice, yet he laboured 
 hard to keep up his usual sternness of voice and mien. “I 
 know it doesn’t hurt you much,” said he, “to trump up a 
 story ” — 
 
 “ Harry,” said his wife, suddenly breaking silence, “ he didn’t 
 
254 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 trump up that story, anyhow, — he saved our lives that night, 
 as true as he’s standing there. I suspected as much the moment 
 he came into the room in that costume, and I would know 
 among a thousand the tone of the voice that uttered that word 
 4 Remember I ’ for it has rung in my ears ever since, sleeping and 
 waking.” 
 
 44 And who was he,” resumed Mr. Esmond in the same half- 
 incredulous tone, as if scarcely noticing the interruption, — 44 who 
 was he that, according to your showing, would have made away 
 with another of the Esmonds? You are not going to keep liis 
 secret, are you ? ” 
 
 There was a long pause, during which the heavy features of 
 Jerry Pierce were convulsed as by some inward struggle. 
 Every ear was strained to catch the answer, every eye was 
 fixed on the man’s face — even Henrietta Esmond had started 
 into sudden animation as the important question reached her 
 ear, and she leaned eagerly forward, with her very soul in 
 her eyes. Moran and the Dean shifted their positions so 
 as to get a fuller view of Pierce’s countenance, but neither 
 spoke. 
 
 Slowly at last spoke Jerry Pierce, and his lips and his cheeks 
 were ashen white as he hissed out the name of Tim Murtha, 
 then covered his face with his hands, as though to conceal the 
 shame of that moment. 
 
 44 Tim Murtha ! ” was repeated from mouth to mouth in tones 
 of horror and disgust, while each one looked into their neigh 
 hour’s face to read the effect of the announcement. 
 
 44 Take care how you answer me, fellow !” said Mr. Esmond 
 speaking with difficulty, some strange emotion quivering in his 
 frame ; 44 are you sure — sure it was Tim Murtha?” 
 
 44 As sure as I am that there’s a God in heaven !” answered 
 Pierce solemnly and reverently. 
 
 44 Dean, or you, Moran, question him,” said the old man in 
 a choking voice. 44 1 — I can’t go on with it and he sat down 
 beside his niece. 
 
 The Dean motioned to Moran to speak, for even he was more 
 agitated than he cared to show. Moran bowed assent. 
 
 44 Then we are to infer from what you say,” said he, 44 that it 
 was Tim Murtha who shot young Mr. Esmond ? ” 
 
 44 Wisha ! God pity him an’ me, it was, sir ! ” — and the tears 
 
AN APPARITION AT ROSE LODGE . 255 
 
 came trickling from between the big, hard, sinewy fingers that 
 still covered Pierce’s agonised face. 
 
 Moran raised his hand gently to enjoin silence on the 
 listeners. 
 
 “And what motive,” said he, “induced him to perpetrate so 
 foul a murder 1 ? What ill feeling could he have against Mr. 
 Esmond ? ” 
 
 Here Mr. Esmond raised himself in his chair and fixed a 
 look of searching scrutiny on Pierce. And Pierce, before he 
 answered, turned a deprecating, almost a compassionate look on 
 the old man. 
 
 “He had no motive, at all, in killin’ him , Mr. Moran,” he 
 slowly replied, “ nor no ill-will that ever man had, — an’ he no 
 more meant to kill him that night than he did to kill me or 
 you.” 
 
 “ Great God ! how was it, then ? ” 
 
 “ He mistook him for another.” 
 
 “ Ha ! ” cried Miss Esmond, starting to her feet, “ I knew 7 it 
 — I knew that no one ever meant to kill our darling Harry.” 
 
 “ Glory be to God ! ” cried Cauth, advancing a step or two 
 from her corner. 
 
 Still the widow stirred not, nor did Mr. Esmond. 
 
 “ But how — how,” said Moran, after an embarrassed pause, — 
 ‘how did — such a mistake occur?” 
 
 Jerry Pierce avoided looking at Mr. Esmond, though he felt 
 Jhat his piercing glance was on him, reading his very soul. 
 
 “It was the horse he rode — an’ the name he had — that 
 caused his death — an’ saved another ! ” 
 
 “Merciful Heaven!” cried Aunt Martha, as her own secret 
 misgivings and the often-hinted suspicions of her sister-in-law 
 were thus to the letter justified. 
 
 Moran came to a dead pause, turned a troubled, anxious look 
 on Mr. Esmond, and seemed as if uncertain v 7 hether he ought 
 to continue. 
 
 “Go on,” said Mr. Esmond, rightly interpreting his 
 hesitation. 
 
 “ Pardon me, Mr. Esmond,” said the kind-hearted lawyer, 
 would it not be better to postpone the further hearing of 
 this strange and mournful tale ? ” 
 
 “Go on I tell you,” was the stern reply. “Ask him how 
 
256 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 it happened. It will all he soon known to the whole 
 country.” 
 
 “ You hear what Mr. Esmond says ? ” said Moran, addressing 
 Pierce. 
 
 “I do, sir, an* if he wants to hear it I’ll tell it, though I’d 
 sooner not.” But still he hesitated, looked askance at young 
 Mrs. Esmond, wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his coat, 
 coughed, looked again, then fairly burst out crying, and said 
 as well as he could for the choking in his throat, “ There’s no 
 use try in’ any more — I can’t do it — an’ the mistress to the fore ! 
 — I can’t — it ’id kill her dead, so it would ! ” 
 
 Mrs. Esmond raised her head and looked at him with a 
 ghastly smile, as she replied, “ No fear of that, Pierce ! — it is 
 pretty hard to kill me ! — and I must hear what — what you have 
 to tell, one day or another, so in God’s name tell it now while 
 I am able to listen.” 
 
 Here the tramp of marching men was heard outside ; the 
 parlour door was opened stealthily, and the cadaverous visage of 
 Ned Murtha made its appearance, followed by his lank body. 
 He looked at no one, seemed to think of no one, but Jerry 
 Pierce, who stood near the door, and to him he whispered in a 
 tone of horror and alarm — 
 
 “The peelers, Jerry! — the peelers is without, an’ Sargint 
 Eellett ! ” 
 
 “Well, what o’ that?” said Pierce, though his cheek 
 blanched at the dreaded name. “Didn’t I know they’d be 
 takin’ me, an’ didn’t I give myself up ? ” 
 
 “Sure I know, Jerry dear — I know; but — och, och ! Lord 
 help us ! ” 
 
 “ Leave the room, sir ! ” cried Mr. Esmond sternly. “ How 
 dare you come in here unbidden ? ” 
 
 “ Perhaps it were well to let him remain,” suggested Moran ; 
 “we may want him.” 
 
 “Humph! want him? ’’’growled the surly old man, not in 
 dissent, however. “ Go on, you, Pierce ! — Mr. Informer, I 
 suppose we may call you now — giving up your associate in 
 crime to save your own worthless life — eh ? ” 
 
 The evil spirit was coming back on him, and Pierce glared on 
 him like a tiger preparing for a spring. Fire flashed from his 
 eyes, and his face was suffused with a burning glow. Words 
 
AN APPARITION AT ROSE LODGE. 257 
 
 sharp and bitter were on his lips, when young Mrs. Esmond 
 rose, and, approaching him, to the surprise of all present, laid 
 her hand on his arm. 
 
 “ Pierce,” said she, “ there’s something telling me that you 
 have spoken truly denying the murder of my poor husband — if 
 you were not accessory to it, tell us, I beseech you, what you 
 know about it, and how you came to know it.” 
 
 “ I will, ma’am, as I have God to face, I’ll tell you all about 
 it,” said Pierce, more firmly than before, as though braced 
 up to greater hardihood by the wanton attack of Mr. Esmond. 
 “I said before that it wasn’t my poor master Tim Murtha 
 meant to kill, but ” — 
 
 “ But his uncle 'l ” put in Mr. Esmond, with a bitter sneer. 
 
 “ You’ve jist guessed it, Mr. Esmond,” said Pierce, turning 
 on him almost fiercely ; “it was his uncle an’ nobody else. An’ 
 if the truth was known, maybe it was no great wonder. Any- 
 how, the whole country knew that Tim had it in for you, an’ 
 maybe more than Tim, for that matter.” 
 
 “ Villain ! scoundrel ! ” cried Mr. Esmond, starting up in a 
 rage. 
 
 “ Take it aisy now, Mr. Esmond,” said Pierce coolly, and 
 with an impressive motion of his hand, “ if you want to hear 
 the story before I’m taken off to gaol. Don’t be callin’ people 
 sich ugly names till you know whether they desarve it or not. 
 I said every one knew that Tim had it in for you, an’ I was 
 tryin’ all I could to put the evil thought out of his head, but 
 jist as soon as I’d get him persuaded to lave it all in the hands 
 o’ God, Mr. Esmond here was sure to do something to stir up 
 his blood worse than ever ” — 
 
 The old gentleman was again breaking in with a fierce 
 objurgation, but the Dean, laying his hand on his arm, begged 
 him to remain quiet, or that otherwise they might as well give 
 up hopes of hearing the sad details. 
 
 “ He never got right over that hurt,” resumed Pierce, “ an’ 
 so he wasn’t able to work, an’ there was nothing for it but to go 
 out an’ take to the road at onst, an’ when himself an’ the 
 childer ’id be goin’ their rounds he met Mr. Esmond of an odd 
 time, an’ though he never asked him for anything — he’d scorn 
 to do it — still he always gave him the height of abuse, an’ 
 called him a ‘ lazy dog,’ and all sich names, an’ many’s the time 
 i7 
 
258 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK . 
 
 he threatened to horsewhip him, till at last he had the poor 
 fellow ’most beside himself, an’ he said the two o’ them couldn’t 
 live any longer, that one o’ them must die ! Well, afther that, 
 sure myself was night an’ day on the watch for fear he’d have 
 the misfortune to do it, and things wore round till that unlucky 
 day that the poor master went to Rose Lodge ” — 
 
 “Merciful Heaven !” cried young Mrs. Esmond; “he went at 
 my urgent request to warn his uncle of the danger to which 
 he was exposed.” 
 
 “I know that, Mrs. Esmond. It was Cauth there that told 
 you of it, and Cauth can tell you who told her , and put her up 
 to tell you.” 
 
 “Well, sure enough it was your four bones, Jerry Pierce,” 
 said Cauth, with a groan ; “ there’s no denyin’ that, anyhow ! ” 
 
 “An’ I was watchin’ Tim all that day,” went on Jerry, “an’ 
 havin’ others watchin’ him too, both him and ould Mr. Esmond — 
 ay, an’ the young master too, for some way or another I had 
 a fear over me about him, though I couldn’t tell what it was for, 
 or how it came. At last, when it was wearin’ on near evenin’ 
 I made up my mind that I wouldn’t stand it any longer, but I’d 
 go to Tim an’ get him to go with me, himself an’ the childer, 
 to some other part o’ the counthry, where I’d work for them all, 
 an’ keep poor Tim out of the way of doing the bad that was in 
 his heart to do.” 
 
 “And that was the object of your leaving, Jerry?” said Mrs. 
 Esmond in a tremulous voice. 
 
 “Surely it was, ma’am; but, as I said, there was something 
 over me, and when I heard that the master — God rest him! — was 
 goin’ to Rose Lodge, well, do you know, but my flesh began to 
 creep, an’ I went out to Mulligan, an’ says I to him, ‘ Tom, 
 I’m afeard there’s something bad goin’ to happen ; ’ an’ Mulligan 
 laughed at me, an’ says he, ‘ I have to go in to give the bit of 
 this bridle a rub, for it isn’t as bright as I’d wish, an’ do you be 
 gettin’ the roan saddled while I’m away, for you see the master’s 
 in a hurry.’ ‘ I will,’ says I, an’ sure enough I tried to do it, 
 but somehow I was so through-other in myself, an’ my hands 
 was tremblin’ to that degree, that I couldn’t get on as I’d wish, 
 an’ when Tom came in a great hurry to take out the roan, he 
 was as mad as a March hare when he found I hadn’t it done, 
 an’ I b’lieve it’s angry enough the poor master was at havin’ to 
 
AN APPARITION AT ROSE LODGE. 
 
 2 59 
 
 wait so long. Well, lie got off, anyhow, an’ afther I went in 
 an’ said some words to the mistress before I’d go, I went off as 
 fast as my legs ’id carry me towards the Lodge. Not a sight o’ 
 Tim could I see up or down, an’ there I kep’ walkin’ backwards 
 and forwards along the road near the Lodge, sometimes takin’ 
 to the fields for fear any one ’id notice me, till at last it came on 
 night, and then says I to myself, 4 He!\ 1 not be goin’ out the 
 night, I’m thinkin’, when he wasn’t out before ; an’ sure there’s 
 no danger of my master, anyhow,’ so with that I was makin’ the 
 best o’ my speed to Larry Mulquin’s, where I had a little 
 business o’ my own, when, jist as I got to Mr. Elliott’s gate ” — 
 Here a singular interruption took place, the nature of which 
 we will describe in our next chapter. At the window again 
 appeared Mabel, chanting still the tragic fate of 44 The Croppy 
 Boy 
 
 “Five hundred pounds then she would lay down, 
 
 For to see me walkin’ through Wexford town. 
 
 Farewell, father, an’ mother too, 
 
 Sister Mary, I have but you — 
 
 44 Och, wirra ! there’s the peelers ! ” and, with an unearthly 
 scream of terror, she fled like a lapwing. 
 
CHAPTER XX. 
 
 "WHO KILLED MR. ESMOND. 
 
 Jerry Pierce had just reached the most critical point of his 
 narrative, as we have seen, when loud voices were heard in the 
 hall, the door was flung open, and an old woman in a red cloak 
 planted on the floor, first herself, then her staff, with angry 
 determination, and a fierce exultation that was explained by 
 the sheepish look of a servant in livery, who had been 
 vainly endeavouring to keep the dame from entering the 
 parlour. 
 
 “Be off wid yourself, now ! ” cried she, turning and shaking 
 her stick at him ; “ you don’t know what it is to anger me, but 
 I’ll make you know it afore you’re many days oulder ! — be off 
 now, when I bid you ! ” and she slammed the door in his face, 
 then turned again and faced the company, her two hands resting 
 on her stick, and her keen old eyes peering sharply from under 
 her deep hood. 
 
 “Where’s Jerry Pierce?” said she. “I want Jerry Pierce.” 
 
 “ Here I am, vanithee,” said Pierce, close beside her ; “ what’s 
 wrong wid you ? ” 
 
 “ There’s nothing wrong wid me ” she said, drawing close to 
 him, and looking up in his face with an undefinable expression 
 of interest; “but there’s everything wrong wid you , an’ I come 
 to stand your friend, bekase I know you want one. What are 
 they all doin’ here ? And what’s the peelers doin’ there abroad ? 
 They didn’t take you, did they?” 
 
 “Ho; but I took myself, vanithee — I gave myself up.” 
 
 “ God help you, then ! for it’s you was the foolish man to do 
 it — you’ll be sorry for it, mind I tell you, an’ I often tould it 
 to you before. But, past counsel past grace” 
 
 Her# Mr. Esmond rang the bell furiously, and ordered, the 
 
 260 
 
WHO KILLED MR . ESMOND. 
 
 261 
 
 servant who appeared to remove the woman immediately. 
 Hearing that, she faced him like a lioness. 
 
 “No, nor you’ll not remove me,” she cried, mimicking his 
 tone. “Here I am, an’ here I’ll be as long as lie's in it,” 
 nodding sideways to J erry Pierce. “ When he goes I’ll go, an’ 
 not till then.” 
 
 “ We shall see that. Tell Sergeant Kellett to send in some of 
 his men.” 
 
 This soon changed the woman’s tone, and she addressed her- 
 self in piteous terms to those present. “ Oh, Mrs. Esmond, you 
 were always good to me — an’ the poor young madam ! Oh, 
 ma’am dear, sure, you' 11 not be hard-hearted, anyhow ! — ’on’t you 
 put in a word for me ? 0 Lord ! here they’re cornin’ ! Father 
 
 M‘Dermot, I know you’re not pleased with me, an’ sure it’s 
 little wondher, God He knows ; but I’m not so bad as they say, 
 your reverence ! Och, take pity on a poor ould erathur, an’ 
 don’t let the peelers take me !-— I want to stay wid Jerry here.” 
 
 “But, my good woman,” said the Dean kindly, but coldly, 
 “what business have you here? This is no place for you, and 
 you ought to know that.” 
 
 “ And sure I do know it, your reverence, sure I do know it 
 well — but isn’t it my own son that’s here to the fore, an’ the 
 peelers abroad to take him for murder — though he’s as innocent 
 of it as the child unborn ! ” 
 
 “You his mother? You Jerry Pierce’s mother?” was heard 
 on every side, and no one appeared more surprised than Jerry 
 himself, who was actually struck dumb with amazement, and 
 stood looking at the woman with eyes wide distended. 
 
 The door opened, and Mr. Esmond made a sign to the two 
 policemen who appeared to take the old woman from the room. 
 Involuntarily J erry Pierce put his great strong arm round her, 
 and her piteous cry drew an earnest remonstrance from the 
 ladies. Dean M c Dermot approached Mr. Esmond and whis- 
 pered a request that the wretched creature might be suffered to 
 remain, whilst Moran took it upon himself to dismiss the 
 policemen, telling them to remain in the hall. 
 
 None of these movements escaped the keen eye of the 
 vanithee, and as Moran passed her she whispered, without 
 moving her head, “ Come to my house this evening after dark, 
 and I’ll tell you something you’ll be glad to hear.” He turned 
 
262 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 in surprise to look at her, but she was looking another 
 way. 
 
 “If you are to remain, then,” said Mr. Esmond sternly, 
 “mind you don’t open your mouth to speak — if you do, out 
 you go, and off to the black hole.” 
 
 “ Long life to your honour, I’ll be as quiet as a mouse ! ” 
 
 Jerry Pierce was then ordered to resume his sad tale, which 
 he did in these terms — 
 
 “I said I had just got to Mr. Elliott’s gate, an’ you all know 
 what a dark place it is on account o’ the big trees that spreads 
 out over the road — well, something put it into my head to stop 
 a little so as to take a look round, for the moon was jist be- 
 ginnin’ to rise, an’ it was as purty a night as ever you seen. 
 You’d wondher how any one could have murdher in their heart 
 sich a night as that ; but, ochone ! the Divil cares little for 
 purty nights or purty days ! Well, anyhow, I was only a 
 rninnit or two standin’ wid my back to one o’ the gate-piers, 
 when I hears a horse’s foot cornin’ dashin’ up the road from 
 Rose Lodge, an’ says I to myself, ‘ If the master’s above ground 
 now that’s him/ an’ sure enough it was, an’ didn’t my heart 
 jump to my mouth when I seen him as plain as I see any of 
 you now, an’ sure enough he was goin’ like the wind, ’most at 
 a gallop ” — 
 
 “My poor darling ! my poor Harry !” sobbed Mrs. Esmond; 
 “ true enough you said it, * Nine o'clock or never ! ’ ” And she 
 buried her face in her handkerchief. The other ladies were all 
 in tears. 
 
 “Jist as he passed me,” resumed Jerry, “I heard a voice 
 among the trees sayin’, ‘There’s the roan now, an’ Harry 
 Esmond — but stop, stop ! it’s young Harry ! ’ The last words 
 came too late — a shot was fired at the sound of the name — and 
 before I could get out a word I heard my poor master sayin’, 
 ‘ My God ! I’m killed ! ’ and he fell sideways off the horse ; but 
 he didn’t fall on the ground — I cotched him in my arms ! ” 
 
 Here poor Jerry’s voice failed him, and, after many ineffectual 
 efforts to master his emotion, he burst into tears and cried as if 
 his heart would break. ISTo one spoke — the mighty grief of 
 some, the deep sympathy of others, the compassion of others, 
 kept all silent. 
 
 At last Pierce spoke again, after clearing his voice divers times — 
 
WHO KILLED MR. ESMOND. 
 
 263 
 
 “ The horse galloped away towards the Hall, an’ I sat down 
 on the roadside and laid my poor master's head up again' my 
 breast an' strove all I could to bring him to ; but sure, what 
 could I do when death was there? — all I could do was to staunch 
 the blood wid a bit of a liandkercher I had, — an', indeed, I have 
 that same liandkercher away in a little box wid his blood on it, 
 —the vanithee can tell you that, — an' I mane to keep it, too, 
 though it's a poor keepsake, but it's all the keepsake poor 
 Jerry Pierce has. Well, while I was sittin' there, afeard to 
 lave him for fear there might still be a chance of him cornin' 
 to, who should start out to me but Tim Murtha, an' he says to 
 me, 4 Why, sure, sure, it isn't your master 'id be in it ? ' an' says I 
 to him, 4 It's nobody else that’s in it, God look down on his poor 
 wife this night, an' the little weeny crathurs he left afther him ! 
 — an’ God forgive them that spilled his blood ! for it's the 
 heavy curse I’m afeard '11 come down on them ! ' To tell God's 
 truth, poor Tim was as much troubled as I was in a manner, an' 
 he didn't attempt to deny that it was him done it, but all the 
 satisfaction I could get out of him was that it was ould Harry 
 Esmond he meant to shoot. 4 But do you think he is dead ? ' 
 says he, loanin' over him. 4 As dead as a door nail,' says I, 
 
 4 God help us all this night ! ’ 4 Amen ! ' says he, 4 amen ! an' 
 
 sure, God He knows I'd sooner be lyin' there where he is this 
 night, than to think I'd have the hard fortune to shoot him ! 
 But och, och ! it was all the fau't of that unlucky bird, Thady 
 Mulrooney, that I set to watch for the ould chap.' (Don't be 
 vexed at me , Mr. Esmond, I'm only sayin’ what he said.) 
 ‘But,’ says I, ‘you misfortunate man, didn't you know the 
 master was at Rose Lodge, an' that it wasn't likely the ould 
 gentleman 'id be goin' to the Hall at that hour o' the night ? ' 
 ‘Well,' says he, 4 1 declare to you, Jerry Pierce, I didn't 
 know your master was at the Lodge, however I chanced to miss 
 seein' him, an' the groom at the Lodge tould Thady, an' him 
 ladin' the roan up an' down, that Mr. Esmond was goin' to the 
 Hall, an' Thady never thought of askin' which he meant* 
 knowin' well that the roan didn't belong to young Mr. 
 Esmond ; sure, myself never misdoubted but it was the ould 
 lad was goin,' an' I thought I'd do the business at onst an' have 
 it over.' " 
 
 Here the widow's emotion became so violent that she was 
 
264 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 taken from the room by Mary Hennessy and Aunt Martha, 
 both of whom soon returned, as she begged to be left alone. 
 
 “Go on with what you were saying,” said Mr. Esmond 
 sharply; “we have no time to wait for your crocodile tears to 
 dry ! — go on, I say.” 
 
 “ Ah, you ould rap ! ” muttered the vanithee between her 
 teeth ; “ it’s a pity it wasn’t you was in it, an’ not your nevy ! ” 
 
 “ Now, I’ll tell you what it is, Mr. Esmond,” said Pierce, 
 with manly firmness, “ if you don’t keep your tongue off me, I’ll 
 keep my mouth shut, an’ you may bring in the peelers as soon 
 as you like.” 
 
 “Pray go on, Pierce,” said Dean M‘Dermot, anxious to 
 prevent Mr. Esmond from speaking the still harder words that 
 were on his lips. 
 
 “I will, your reverence, when you bid me,” said Pierce, “but 
 I wouldn’t do it for him. Anyhow, there isn’t much more to 
 tell. I was tryin’ hard to get Tim away before any one ’id 
 come, but someway or another I couldn’t get him insensed into 
 the danger of stayin’ there ; he was so stupefied when he seen 
 what he had done, an’ that Mr. Esmond wasn’t cornin’ to, that 
 you might as well talk to a big stone, an’ I was ’most out o’ my 
 mind wid grief an’ trouble, dreadin’ every minnit that somebody 
 ’id come an’ catch the misfortunate man, an’ still watchin’ for some 
 one to help to take the poor master home. God only knows 
 what I went through in that little while, till Tom Mulligan an’ 
 Barney Breen came up on the look-out for Mr. Esmond. They 
 w T ere passin’ us by, as one or two others did before, on account 
 o’ the dark shadow of the trees over where we were, when I 
 called out to them, an’ they came over, an’ och, och ! but 
 there’s where the cry in’ an’ clappin’ of hands was, when 
 they found the poor master, that we all had our hearts in, lyin’ 
 there dead — dead — dead in my arms. An’ when they asked 
 who done it, at all, sure myself, thinkin’ to screen poor Tim, 
 said I didn’t know, that it was somebody from behind the 
 fence, what do you think of Tim but he spoke out an’ said, 
 ‘Now, don’t be tellin’ lie*s, Jerry Pierce! — you know well 
 enough who done it. It was me ,’ says he to Tom ; ‘ I’m the 
 unlucky poor crathur that shot him— thinkin’ it was the ould 
 fellow I had, on account o’ the horse, — / shot him, an’ I’m 
 willin’ to die for doin’ it, for hangin’ is too good for me!’ 
 
WHO KILLED MR. ESMOND. 
 
 ^65 
 
 V Youll not die now, then/ says Tom Mulligan back to him; * I see 
 plain enough that it wasn’t him you meant to shoot, an’, any- 
 how, it wouldn’t bring him back to life. So go off wid yourself, 
 now, an 3 quit the country as fast as you can, you poor, un- 
 fortunate man ! — God forgive you this night, for you’ve done a 
 bad deed ! — but I’m not the man to prove agin you when I see 
 you’re troubled enough.’ Barney Breen said the same, an’ be- 
 tween us we persuaded Tim to go off an’ hide somewhere till 
 we’d see how things ’id go. * Och, och ! ’ says he, goin’ away, 
 
 ‘ if it was only the ould fellow was in it, what ’id I care — what 
 ’id I care ? — but him of all men — him that was so good an’ kind 
 to every one!’ Well, sure, Tom Mulligan wanted me to go 
 back home wid them, but I tould him what I had in my mind 
 in regard to doin’ for my sister’s poor little orphans, an’ that 
 now they’d need some one to do for them more than ever they 
 did, on account of their father havin’ to go away from them 
 altogether. ‘ But,’ says Tom, ‘ if you don’t come home,’ says 
 he, ‘ an’ if you keep out o’ sight that-a-way, how do you know 
 but it’s yourself they’d be suspectin’ V ‘ Is it me ? ’ says I ; c is 
 it anybody ’id suspect me of shootin’ my own master, an’ the best 
 master, too, that ever a poor boy had ? — oh, bedad, Tom/ says 
 I, ‘ there’s nobody ’id be fool enough to think o’ that.’ ‘ I don’t 
 know/ says he, shakin’ his head. So then I ups an’ I tells him 
 how I wanted to screen poor Tim on account o’ the childer, an’ 
 made him an’ Barney promise that they’d never let on that 
 they knew anything at all about who fired the shot, or how it 
 happened, until I’d give them lave. Tom was mighty loath to 
 promise, but at last he did. And then he says to Barney, 
 
 6 Barney/ says he, ‘run across the fields there to Jack Phelan’s 
 an’ tell them what has happened, an’ let them bring the wheel- 
 car wid some straw an’ a quilt or somethin’ over it. Och, 
 wirra, wirra ! ’ says he, ‘ but it’s the poor home-cornin’ for the 
 master — the glory of heaven to his sowl this night ! ’ So with 
 that we heard some of the others that were out on the sarch 
 cornin’ up the road, an’ I got away into the wood afore any 
 more o’ them ’id see me. Sure enough, next day the 
 whole countryside had it that it was Jerry Pierce shot Mr. 
 Esmond, an’ though it was worse than death for me to lie 
 under sich a black deed, an’ to have people cursin’ an’ hatin’ 
 me for a murder I had no more to do with than the priest of 
 
266 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 the parish, still I made up my mind — ay, an’ I swore it. too — 
 that Td never make any one the wiser for what I knew myself, 
 an’ that I’d get away out o’ the country as soon as I could, if 
 Tim ’id only stay wid the childer an’ keep his own saycret. It 
 was hard to get Tim argued into it, but still I did, myself an 
 Ned Murtha, my cousin there, an’ Tim’s cousin too,*— an’ he 
 can tell you as well as myself that it’s God’s truth I’m tellin’ 
 ye all.” 
 
 “An’ sure I can, Jerry,” blubbered Ned, his eyes streaming 
 over ; “ an’ sure, Mr. Moran — long life to him! — can bear witness 
 that I gave him a hint of it when he wanted me to make out 
 the warrant for you, Jerry. But I wouldn’t make it out, 
 J erry. I couldn’t write a line of it, if I was torn in pieces for 
 it, bekase I knew it ’id be a black sin, an’ a burnin’ shame.” 
 
 “I remember your strange conduct very well, Ned,” said 
 Moran kindly, “and even the hint you speak of — a hint that 
 often puzzled me then and after. So, Jerry, you got Tim per- 
 suaded to keep his secret and remain in the country ; but how 
 did it happen that you remained yourself too, as it appears 
 you did ? ” 
 
 “Well, I’ll jist tell you that, sir,” Pierce promptly replied. 
 “ Somehow or another I always had a sort of a notion that God 
 would see me rightified in His own good time, an’ there was 
 some I didn’t care to lave behind me.” Here he began twirling 
 the caubeen again. “ An’ another thing, Mr. Moran, that made 
 me stay here wid my neck in the halther was the black thought 
 that was still in Tim Murtha’s mind.” He glanced at Mr. 
 Esmond, and saw that there was a thunder-cloud on his brow 
 and a livid lightning in his eyes. But -still he went on — 
 
 “I have tould ye already how I saved Mr. Esmond’s life 
 twice in one night, but I didn’t tell ye that there was another 
 night, when he knew nothing about it, that he was jist as near 
 death as he was that night, only for one that dashed the 
 pistol out of Tim’s Murtha’s hand, an’ knocked himself down 
 — that was me again, an’ it happened the very night, Mr. 
 Moran, that you were part of the way wid his honour there, 
 cornin’ from Dr. Hennessy’s in Cashel, till you turned off from 
 him at the cross-roads.” 
 
 Here looks of surprise and consternation were exchanged 
 between Esmond and Moran, but neither spoke, and Jerry 
 
WHO KILLED MR. ESMOND. 
 
 267 
 
 went on : “ God Himself only knows how grieved I was for the 
 poor master, an’ the mistress, an’ her little orphans. I was 
 walkin’ round an’ round the outside o’ the house, like a ghost, 
 the first night o’ the wake, watchin’ my opportunity to slip in 
 an’ get a sight of him before he’d be put in the coffin, an’ at 
 last I ventured in ” — 
 
 “ Liar ! ” cried Mr. Esmond furiously ; “ you impose on our 
 indulgence in listening so long to your lying story.” 
 
 “ I’m no liar,” said Jerry proudly ; “ an’ I think there’s one 
 in this room that seen me there that night.” 
 
 Here Bryan Cullenan advanced, and, placing himself between 
 Mr. Esmond and Pierce, raised his hand solemnly and said — 
 
 “ Before God, Mr. Esmond, I tell you he speaks the truth. 
 I was kneelin’ beside the bed that time when the quality all 
 went into the other room abroad, when J erry Pierce came in, 
 wid the cape of his coat over his head, an’ stood a little 
 while lookin’ at the corpse, an’ heavy grief was on him, I could 
 see that, though the life was ’most scared out o’ myself, an’ me 
 takin’ him for a sperit till I got sight of his face at his off goin’ ; 
 an’ another thing I can tell you, Mr. Esmond, that Jerry 
 Pierce went to the Island an’ made his station there for the 
 benefit of his poor master’s sowl. How, what do you think of 
 that ? ” 
 
 “I think you’re an old fool to believe it, that’s all.” 
 
 “ Mr. Esmond,” said Dean MJDermot, “ it is not for me to 
 say whether a man is guilty or innocent, when I only know him 
 in the confessional, but I can certify that Jerry Pierce did go 
 to Loch Derg this summer, and with the very intention Bryan 
 has just stated.” 
 
 “ Wisha, glory be to God ! ” cried Cauth again from her 
 corner, and she clasped her hands and looked upwards. 
 
 “ How,” said the vanithee, with an exulting nod and a 
 fierce look at Mr. Esmond, “ there’s a nut for you to crack. 
 Liar, inagh ? it’s yourself is the liar to say it to one that never 
 tould a lie — never, never ! ” 
 
 With difficulty the excited old woman was silenced by the 
 pitying kindness of the Dean and Mr. Moran ; as for Esmond, 
 he looked from one to the other with a glazed and half-conscious 
 stare that was more frightful than his previous burst of 
 passion. 
 
268 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 “And do you really mean to say, Pierce,” said Moran very 
 earnestly, “that you have borne for so long a time the shame 
 and the obloquy of such a crime, merely to screen the father of 
 your sister’s children ” 
 
 “That’s what I say, Mr. Moran, an’ as I have God to face, I 
 say the thruth.” 
 
 “ And were you never tempted to betray him all that time, 
 or rather, to clear yourself ? ” 
 
 “ God knows I was, many an’ many’s the time ! He had an 
 ugly way wid him of late, poor Tim had, an’ he’d say things to 
 me that ’id cut me to the very heart, but then I forgave him, 
 for I knew it was the trouble that done it all. The night he 
 tore the things off his dead child bekase Mrs. Esmond gave 
 them, I was mad enough to kill him ” — 
 
 “ How — what ? ” cried Mr. Esmond. “What’s that you say 1 ” 
 
 Mrs. Esmond by a look and a sign warned Pierce to give no 
 explanation on that point, but Mr. Esmond imperiously re- 
 peated his question, and whilst Pierce was hesitating, looking 
 from one to the other, uncertain how to act, the vanithee burst 
 into a wild and rapid description of the awful scene, calling on 
 Ned Murtha to verify her account, which he did. The hearing 
 of this strange tale of deadly passion had a different effect on 
 Mr. Esmond from what his wife, at least, expected. During 
 the recital he stood with his eyes cast down, his chest heav- 
 ing, and the muscles of his face working after a strange fashion ; 
 when the cracked voice of the fairy-woman ceased, and Ned 
 Murtha had confirmed her wondrous tale, the old man sank 
 heavily in his chair, and heaved a long deep sigh then closed 
 his eyes wearily. 
 
 Meanwhile Moran hastened to finish the examination, if such 
 it could be called. He suddenly assumed a sternness little 
 usual with him, and said to Pierce — 
 
 “And are we to understand that after all this forbearance 
 and patient endurance, you have at length made up your 
 mind to turn King’s evidence against Tim Murtha, and give 
 the gallows its due ? ” 
 
 Pierce’s face was crimson in a moment. He turned on 
 Moran with the fierceness of a roused lion, while the aged 
 crone at his side laughed loud in scorn. 
 
 “ Mr. Moran,” said Pierce, “you’re a gentleman, an’ I’m only 
 
WHO KILLED MR. ESMOND. 
 
 269 
 
 a poor man — a very poor man. You can say what you like to 
 me, so, but it’s aisy seen you don’t know much about me, or 
 you wouldn’t say the likes o’ that. No, sir, I’m not turnin’ 
 King’s evidence, for only I know that Tim Murtha is out of the 
 reach of the law, it isn’t here I’d be now.” 
 
 “Why, where is Tim Murtha?” 
 
 “ Oh, bedad, sir, that’s more than I can tell,” said Pierce, with 
 a grim smile ; “ but anyhow, he’s where the peelers can’t catch 
 him ” — 
 
 “ Why, surely the man is not dead, is he ? ” 
 
 “He is, sir — as dead as ever you or I’ll be. He died last 
 night of the faver, an’ more by token, he left it on me be- 
 fore he died, that I’d come this very day an’ give myself 
 up, an’ tell all about the murder. The vanithee here, that 
 says she’s my mother, though I never knew I had a mother 
 livin’, — which is remarkable, but I suppose she knows best, — 
 myhow, her an’ Ned Murtha was to the fore when — when Tim 
 lied.” 
 
 “ That Tim Murtha is dead,” said Mary Hennessy, “ I can 
 bear witness, for Miss Markham and myself were conducted 
 yesterday evening by this good woman, whom Pierce calls the 
 vanithee, to her little cottage on Gallows Hill, where the poor 
 fellow had died a little before in the greatest misery and desti- 
 tution.” Here Mr. Esmond groaned audibly and moved un- 
 easily in his chair. 
 
 “And do you mean to say, Jerry,” said Mr. Moran, “that 
 you would never have given information against Murtha had he 
 still lived ? ” 
 
 “ Is it me, Mr. Moran,” and Pierce turned on him with a 
 flashing eye and a burning cheek — “ is it me ’id give information 
 against my sister’s husband, an’ the father of her poor little 
 orphans? — No, not if I was to be hung myself for the murder, 
 — an’ sure, that same was what I laid out for myself, an’ 
 nothing else ! ” 
 
 “And you were content to bear all the shame of so foul a 
 crime rather than betray the real culprit?” 
 
 “Well, I’ll not say I was content , your honour! — oh, bedad, 
 I wasn’t content at all, for it went to my very heart to have 
 e’er a one, an’ especially the poor dear mistress, thinkin’ me 
 guilty of aich a crime — me of all men livin’, — but still I’d 
 
270 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 rayther lie under it than have poor Kate’s little ones left with- 
 out their father. That was the short an’ the long of it, an’ I’d 
 have died without ever let tin’ on who done it.” 
 
 “Then you would have died with a lie in your mouth ?” It 
 was the Dean who spoke this. 
 
 “No, your reverence, I wouldn’t— hut Vd have kept my mouth 
 *huty an’ then I’d tell neither lies nor truth. But in regard to 
 Mr. Esmond — that’s my master — barrin’ Mrs. Esmond herself, 
 [’ll take my book oath on it there wasn’t one livin’ that his 
 death was so sore a crush to as it was to me. An’ sure, didn’t I 
 watch the vault ever since he was put into it, an’ keep the grass 
 smooth an’ green on the top of it above, an’ the place all about 
 it as clane as a new pin ? An’ didn’t I say my prayers there for 
 his poor sowl, many an’ many’s the night when you were all 
 asleep in your beds ? ” 
 
 “Poor Jerry!” said young Mrs. Esmond, who had entered 
 just in time to hear the last words, — “ poor Jerry ! how much we 
 wronged you ! and how glad I am to find not only that it wasn’t 
 you — one of our own household — that — that fired the fatal shot, 
 but that no one ever meant to kill my dear husband. It is 
 true my loss is the same, but it is something — oh, much, much ! — 
 to know that he was not killed designedly.” 
 
 “And pray, madam, where’s the difference?” cried Mr. 
 Esmond sharply. “ Didn’t the villain mean to shoot me> only he 
 happened to shoot Harry instead? Wasn’t his crime all the 
 same ? Tell me that, now ! But I see how it is, — / — see — how 
 it is,” — and his passion began to rise — “ my life is of no account 
 amongst you — if I had been shot, as the villain intended I 
 should, I don’t believe one of you would have cared a rush ! 
 Well, here I am, you see, in spite of the murderous crew, and 
 for all Jerry Pierce’s fine story I’ll have blood for blood before 
 all’s over. Now that his partner in crime is out of the way, he 
 thinks to get out of the scrape by lying, but he’ll find that 
 lying won’t save his neck.” 
 
 “But if he has good evidence, Mr. Esmond,” suggested 
 Moran. 
 
 “ He evidence ? ” repeated the old man scornfully. “ He has 
 no evidence that will be worth a button — that I’ll answer for ! ” 
 
 “Haven’t I Tom Mulligan an’ Barney Breen? — you’re for- 
 gettin’ that, Mr. Esmond.” 
 
WHO KILLED MR. ESMOND, . 
 
 271 
 
 Here the sound of carriage wheels was heard without, and 
 Aunt Winifred, going to the window, said, “‘Talk of — some - 
 ivdy, and hell appear/ — there’s Tom Mulligan now, come with 
 ihe carriage for Henrietta.” 
 
 “Bring him in, then, at once,” said young Mrs. Esmond. 
 
 “But do you hear, you, Pierce,” said Mr. Esmond, “not a 
 word — not a look at Mulligan — mark me, now ! ” 
 
 Pierce had only time to nod assent when the door opened, 
 and in came Tom Mulligan, looking confused and bewildered. 
 He had heard nothing of what had occurred till he drove up 
 and saw the police at the door, then learned from a groom, in 
 answer to his brief inquiry, that “Jerry Pierce was within.” 
 That was the amount of his knowledge when the summons to 
 the parlour came to complete his bewilderment. What he 
 saw there was not calculated to reassure him. His eye 
 fixed first on his former fellow-servant, and he involuntarily 
 exclaimed — 
 
 “Ah, then, Jerry, my poor fellow, is this the way wid you at 
 last ? — sure, didn’t I tell you how it ’id end if you didn’t take 
 advice ? ” 
 
 Pierce made no answer, but Mr. Esmond called out in his 
 sternest tones— 
 
 “Never mind Pierce, but tell us what you know of the 
 murder of your master.” 
 
 This put Mulligan all in a tremor. 
 
 “ Is it me, your honour ? — is it me know anything of the 
 murder ? — Lord save us an’ bless us ! what ’id I know of it ? ” 
 
 “ Come, come, now, Mulligan, tell the truth,” said Mr. Moran 
 gently but firmly. “We know that you have some knowledge 
 of how it happened, and we must hear it.” 
 
 Still Mulligan spoke not — his great round eyes vainly seeking 
 some instruction from those of Jerry Pierce, but Jerry Pierce 
 took care to look every way but at him. 
 
 “Dolt!” cried Mr. Esmond, stamping on the ground, “why 
 do you not speak ? ” 
 
 “Why, then, that I mayn’t sin, Mr. Esmond!” began poor 
 frightened Mulligan, then, by a sudden impulse, he addressed 
 himself to Jerry — “Wisha, Jerry, man alive! what’ll I say at 
 all?” 
 
 “Tell the truth, every word of it,” said Pierce in his deep, 
 
272 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK 
 
 rpiiet voice, “ as if you were goin’ before your God ! Tim's dead 
 note himself , an’ he laid it on me to tell all.” 
 
 “Tim’s dead?” shouted Mulligan, much excited; “an’ they 
 can’t hang you bekase you’re as innocent as the child unborn ! 
 Oh, then, it’s myself ’ill tell every word of it now — an’ no 
 mistake \ ” 
 
 “Compose yourself now,” said Dean M‘Dermot, “and tell 
 us what you saw and heard the night you went out to look-< 
 look for your master.” 
 
 “ I will, your reverence ; I’ll tell it word for word as if it was 
 at my confession I was.” 
 
 He then proceeded to narrate the occurrences of that fatal 
 night as far as they came under his knowledge, and his account 
 was found to tally in every, even the smallest particular, with 
 that of Jerry Pierce. With the single exception of Mr. Esmond, 
 all present testified their satisfaction, and openly expressed their 
 conviction of Pierce’s innocence. 
 
 True to his own harsh character, Mr. Esmond gruffly com- 
 manded Mulligan to leave the room. The poor fellow obeyed, 
 not unwillingly but very timidly. As he closed the door he 
 heard Pierce say, “Mr. Esmond, I hope you’re not vexed with 
 Mulligan?” 
 
 “ That’s my business — not yours,” was the answer. “Have 
 you any more to say ? ” 
 
 “Not a word, your honour — not a word more.” 
 
 “ In that case, Moran, you may as well tell the sergeant to 
 step in.” 
 
 Here an angry chorus of remonstrance arose from the ladies. 
 
 “My goodness, Harry! you’re not going to send him to 
 prison ? ” said his wife. 
 
 “ If you do, I’ll never forgive you, Harry Esmond, never — 
 never ! ” cried Miss Esmond. 
 
 “Dear me, Mr. Esmond, how could you think of such a 
 thing ? ” from Mary Hennessy. 
 
 Henrietta Esmond arose, though with difficulty, from her 
 seat, her face now pale, now flushed — every eye was fixed upon 
 her as she crossed the room in the now deepening twilight. 
 She stopped in front of Jerry Pierce, and then spoke in a voice 
 broken and tremulous as the ripple of the ocean wave — 
 
 '‘Jerry Pierce,” said she, “as the party most concerned in 
 
WHO KILLED MR. ESMOND. 
 
 273 
 
 the sad story you have told — as the widow of Harry Esmond— 
 I think it right to assure you that I believe every word you 
 have spoken ; I believe you did what you could to avert the 
 dread catastrophe which your fears foresaw, and for that you 
 will accept my heartfelt thanks. I knoiv , too, that but for you, 
 another Esmond would have gone to his account as suddenly as 
 my poor husband— for that too I thank you ” — She paused, 
 and Dean M‘Dermot spoke. 
 
 “And for the honour done our common nature by your heroic 
 fortitude — your generous devotion to your guilty relative and 
 his family — I thank you, Jerry Pierce;” and taking his hand 
 he shook it warmly, whilst the tear that trembled in his eye 
 told the depth and sincerity of his emotion. 
 
 “ Well,” said Kate Costelloe, coming forward, “ if everybody 
 thanks him for something or another, I have to thank him for 
 not killing the young master , because there’s one black villain 
 less than I thought. And, J erry Pierce, before all the quality, 
 I humbly ax your pardon for all I said to you, and all the 
 hard names I called you this while back, an’ for cornin’ here a 
 purpose to get you taken.” 
 
 “An’ was that what brought you here?” screamed the 
 vanithee. “ Oh, the curse o’ the crows on you for an ould rap ! 
 Wasn’t it enough for you to hang” — 
 
 “Mother! mother!” said Jerry Pierce, laying his hand on 
 her mouth, “ don’t talk that way. Let the poor woman alone ; 
 sure, she was only doin’ what she thought she had a right to 
 do— an’ she would, too, if I had been guilty, as she thought I 
 was — let her alone now an’ for ever ! ’* 
 
 “I will, Jerry. I will, aroon, when you bid me,” — and the 
 crone wiped her eyes with a dilapidated old apron ; “ but— 
 but ” — she darted a fiery look at Cauth — “ but— Til not forget 
 it to her ! ” 
 
 “Couldn’t I say a word, Mr. Esmond?” inquired Bryan 
 timidly. 
 
 “Yes; what have you got to say? But mind, Pve a crow 
 to pluck with you for harbouring Jerry Pierce on the Rock 
 when you had every reason to suppose him guilty of horrible 
 murder.” 
 
 “ But sure I didn’t suppose him guilty, Mr. Esmond,” said 
 Bryan anxiously; “indeed, I didn’t, your honour! He knows 
 
 18 
 
274 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 himself that the first time I got sight of him there I was 
 frightened 'most out o’ my wits, jist for fear he’d be hidin’ him- 
 self there. I followed him from place to place among the 
 ruins till I came on him at last, an’ then he tould me how it 
 was — only makin’ me promise that I’d never give information 
 again’ poor Tim. From that out, I own I did give him the 
 run of the Rock, an’ I’m not sorry for it now, though I ask 
 your honour’s pardon, Mr. Esmond, if you think I done 
 wrong.” 
 
 “ Humph ! I see I’m left in a minority of one,” said Mr. 
 Esmond, looking round with a scowl of defiance; “still, I’ll do 
 my duty. Here, Sergeant Kellett,” — that personage had just 
 appeared at the door, — “here is your prisoner,” pointing to 
 Pierce, who made no effort at resistance as the rigid policeman 
 placed his hand on his arm. 
 
 “Go home, mother,” said he to the old woman, “and don’t 
 fear for me — if man is ungrateful, God is not, and He’ll protect 
 me ! Hot a word, now — for my sake, I ask it.” 
 
 He was led away to prison in virtue of the warrant issued 
 months before for his apprehension. The party left behind were 
 proceeding to comment on the strange scene just witnessed, 
 lamenting in no measured terms that Jerry Pierce should have 
 been sent to prison. They were silenced by a stern “It 
 couldn’t be helped,” from Mr. Esmond, who soon after left the 
 oom, and appeared no more that evening. 
 
CHAPTER XXL 
 
 PHIL MORAN TRIES HIS LUCK 
 
 That same night, when the stars were in the sky and the 
 shadows deep and dark on the earth, a gentleman knocked at 
 the low door of the fairy-woman’s hut. No answer was re- 
 turned. The knock was repeated, and, after another brief 
 delay, the door was opened very softly, and the stooping figure 
 of the vanithee was visible by the dim light from the crackling 
 brambles on the hearth. 
 
 “So you came?” said she. “Well, stay where you are — 
 there’s death and poverty inside, an’ maybe the faver too — so 
 don’t come in.” Stepping out on the road, she closed the door 
 after her, and moved close up to her visitor, who was no other 
 than Phil Moran, as the reader will probably have surmised. 
 
 “Well now, vanithee,” said the lawyer, dropping his voice 
 to a whisper, “ what have you got to say to me ? — or was it to 
 me you spoke when you said ‘ Come to my place this evening’ 1 
 I had half a mind not to come, but still I thought I -would — 
 though it does seem foolish, after all.” 
 
 “Foolish, inagh?” said the hag sharply; “maybe you’ll not 
 think it so when you hear w T hat I have to tell you, an’ it’s only 
 a word or two.” 
 
 “In the name of God, what is it, then?” 
 
 “ Put down your head here, an’ I’ll whisper it in your ear 
 You don’t know who may be listenin’.” 
 
 Smiling to himself at the absurdity of his position, and rathei 
 by way of humouring the old woman than anything else, the 
 ^oung man bent his head to a level with her face, and she 
 whispered ‘ something in his ear, then drew back and fixed her 
 keen eyes on his face through the gloom of the summer night, 
 as if to mark the effect of her words, 
 
 275 
 
276 
 
 THE HERMIT OE THE ROCK 
 
 And the effect was like magic. Moran started, gasped foi 
 breath, and caught the hag by the arm with a force that made 
 her reel. 
 
 “ Say that again ! ” he exclaimed in a thrilling whisper ; “ or 
 did I hear you right ? ” 
 
 “ You did — an’ 111 not say it again — I said it onst, an’ that's 
 enough.” 
 
 “But how — where — when — I mean, how do you know 
 that ? ” 
 
 “ 'No matter to you how I know it. If you don't find it true, 
 never b’lieve me again — that’s all. You put in a word for me 
 this evenin' at the Lodge below, an' I thought I’d do you a 
 good turn. Away wid you now from here, an' see if you don’t 
 find my words come in true. If they do, I know you’ll be 
 thankful to the ould vanithee, an' I hope you’ll do what you 
 can for that poor boy of mine.'' 
 
 “In any case, my good woman, I will do that; but have no 
 fears for him — with God’s help there is no doubt but his 
 innocence will be established.'' 
 
 “ God bless you for that word, anyhow ! " And, dashing 
 away the tears that were gathering in her eyes, the old woman 
 hobbled back into the hut, leaving Moran to retrace his steps 
 down the hill in a state of mind very different from that in 
 which he ascended it. 
 
 Whether it was accident or design that led his steps to the 
 old house in Friar Street it is not for me to say ; but it so hap- 
 pened that some twenty minutes after, Attorney Moran plied 
 the heavy, old-fashioned knocker on Dr. Hennessy’s door with 
 such good effect that admission was almost instantaneous, 
 and our friend was ushered into the parlour, where, “ as luck 
 would have it,'' he used afterwards to say, Mary Hennessy 
 sat alone, with a volume of Lingard’s England in her hand, 
 and a cloud of some kind shading the sunny brightness of her 
 features. 
 
 Very natural was the inquiry, “Where is Maurice?'' and no 
 less natural was the answer, “ Gone to Kilbraa, or somewhere 
 there, on professional business.'' But not so natural was the 
 pause that followed, a pause which seemed rather embarrassing 
 to both, though why it should be so nerhans neither could 
 tell. 
 
PHIL MORAN TRIES BIS LUCK 
 
 277 
 
 At last Moran spoke. “ Perhaps I ought to apologise, Mary — 
 Miss Hennessy, I mean — for interrupting your studies. May I 
 ask what you were reading ? ” 
 
 “A very sad story,” said Mary, drawing a long breath, as if 
 much relieved, “the story of that unhappy wife and most 
 admirable woman, Catharine of Arragon. What a strange fate 
 it was that gave her to that inhuman monster, Henry the 
 Eighth ! ” 
 
 “Very strange indeed,” said Moran, so absently that Mary 
 smiled; but the greater his abstraction the more rapidly she 
 talked on, gliding from one subject to another, in the vain hope 
 of drawing him into conversation on some ordinary topic. The 
 piano stood open, and all at once Moran said— 
 
 “It’s a long time now since I heard you play, Miss Hen- 
 nessy, — won’t you play something now, pending Maurice’s 
 return ? ” 
 
 “ Certainly, Mr. Moran,” was the cheerful answer, though 
 the round, rich voice trembled a very little. Several pieces 
 were played, — noisy, showy pieces, too, — and then Mary turned 
 with an arch smile on her face and asked, “ How do you like 
 that, Mr. Moran 1 ?” 
 
 “I don’t like it at all, Miss Saucebox,” said Moran, laughing, 
 “and you know that as well as I do. Why not play some of 
 my old favourites, and keep those show-off affairs for those who 
 like them ? ” 
 
 “True enough, Mr. Moran, if I only could remember your 
 favourites — what were they ? — oh, now I have one ! ” and she 
 started off at the full speed of her nimble fingers with “ I’m the 
 boy for bewitching them ! ” at which Moran laughed heartily, 
 and said, “ I wish I teas the boy for bewitching them — I know 
 one I’d bewitch, anyhow.” 
 
 Is it possible ? ” 
 
 “ It is possible, Miss Prim ; and I have just made up my 
 mind to try my luck this very night, and know for certain 
 what I have to expect.” 
 
 “As how?” 
 
 “ As how ? Oh, the pretty innocent ! Mary Hennessy can’t 
 possibly guess who it is that has stolen the heart out of Phil 
 Moran ! Now seriously, Mary,” — and he drew his chair nearer 
 to the music-stool on which she sat, — “now seriously, how long 
 
278 
 
 THE HER Ml 2 OF THE ROCK. 
 
 is this to go on? You know as well as I do that I love you 
 better than I do myself, and yet you continue to appear as 
 innocent of the fact as — well, no matter what ! But human 
 patience — even Phil Moran’s patience — can’t possibly last for 
 ever, and I’m determined to know the worst, or the best, before 
 I leave this house to-night.” 
 
 Mary laughed, but she blushed too, and besides, her laugh 
 was not the light, careless, ringing laugh that was wont to come 
 straight from her merry heart. 
 
 “By Jove!” said Phil to himself, “the hag maybe right 
 after all,” and his eye brightened and his fresh cheek grew 
 ruddier still. 
 
 “ Mary,” said he, “ I know you’ll not deceive me, but give 
 me a straight answer to a straight question.” 
 
 “I’m entirely obliged to you for your good opinion, Mr. 
 Moran,” archly said Mary, and she began twisting the hand- 
 kerchief in her hand into various comical shapes. 
 
 “You are, eh? — well, I hope you’ll prove yourself worthy of 
 it. Now, answer me this little question — what do you think 
 of Phil Moran ? ” 
 
 “Why, of course, I think very well of him,” laughed Mary. 
 “ He’s a good fellow enough in his way — for an Irishman — 
 and as a limb of the law ” — 
 
 “ But what would you think of him for a husband ? ” and Phil 
 shut one eye inquisitively, and turned his head to one side. 
 
 “ Oh, a husband ? That is quite a different thing. Having 
 never seen the gentleman in that capacity, I am not prepared 
 to give an opinion.” 
 
 “Well, but, badinage apart, Mary, I wish to know what I 
 am to expect at your hands. It is for you to make me the 
 happiest or the most miserable of men ? Will you share my 
 fortunes for good or ill ? Can you love me ? ” 
 
 The colour came up brighter than ever in Mary’s face, and 
 she cast her eyes down to hide the moisture that began to 
 suffuse them. 
 
 “ Mr. Moran,” she said, “ if you come to speak so seriously, 
 I suppose I must answer you as seriously. I do not think I cai? 
 love you in the sense to which you allude — but be content with 
 friendship , and I will love you — yes, as a brother.” 
 
 “Friendship?” quoth Phil in huge disdain; “who cares for 
 
PHIL MORAN TRIES HIS LUCK 
 
 279 
 
 friendship 1 in the sense to which you allude * — ahem ? Eut I’ll 
 tell you what I’ll do — no, confound it ! I can’t tell it — but I’ll 
 make Tom Moore tell it for me ; ” and forthwith he began 
 singing in a voice that was pleasant to Mary’s ear, from the 
 many pleasant associations connected with its rich liquid 
 tones — 
 
 “*A Temple to Friendship,’ said Laura, enchanted, 
 
 ‘I’ll build in this garden, the thought is divine.’ 
 
 The Temple was built, and she now only wanted 
 An image of Friendship to place on the shrine. 
 
 “Just like you, Mary ! 
 
 She flew to a sculptor, who set down before her 
 A Friendship the fairest his art could invent, 
 
 But so cold and so dull that the youthful adorer 
 Saw plainly this was not the god that she meant. 
 
 “ Just like me, Mary ! ” 
 
 “A novel refrain you are adding, surely,” said Mary, with a 
 smile bright as a houri’s. 
 
 “ Never mind, it suits my purpose. 
 
 ‘Oh no, then, I never could think of enshrining 
 An image whose looks are so joyless and dim, 
 
 But yon little god upon roses reclining, 
 
 We’ll make, if you please, sir, a Friendship of him ! ’ 
 
 “ Shall I go on?” 
 
 “As you will, Mr. Moran.” 
 
 “The bargain was struck, with the little god laden 
 She joyfully flew to her shrine in the grove, — 
 
 ‘Farewell !’ said the sculptor; ‘you’re not the first maiden 
 Who came but for Friendship and took away Love ! ’ 
 
 “ Now, what if the image you have enshrined should turn out, 
 after all, to be the sly ‘ little god upon roses reclining,’ instead of 
 the other, ‘whose looks are so joyless and dim,’ — eh, Mary? 
 Suppose you look into the shrine in the grove, and by the light 
 of my burning heart examine the features of the image afore- 
 said ? ” 
 
 Mary laughed again at the oddity of the conceit ; she paused 
 a moment, looked down on the floor, coloured violently, tapped 
 with her little foot on the carpet, and at last looked up in 
 Moran’s face with the brightest smile in the world. 
 
280 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 “Well?” said Phil, smiling too, and managing to get 
 possession of her hand. 
 
 “Well, I’ve been to the shrine you speak of” — 
 
 “ And there you saw ” — 
 
 “No, I didn’t! There’s knowledge for you! Be good 
 enough to convey yourself home now, Phil Moran, for another 
 word I shan’t speak to you to-night — except two — Good-night ! 
 cm revoir ! ” 
 
 And before Moran had recovered from the bewildering effect 
 of her words, and still more of her looks and gestures, she had 
 bounded off like an antelope, leaving the delighted lawyer to 
 compose his thoughts at leisure, and bless his stars and the 
 fairy-woman to his heart’s content. He was too happy just 
 then for ordinary conversation, so, leaving a message for Maurice 
 that he would see him some time next day, he retired to in- 
 dulge the thick-coming fancies which the newly-awakened hope 
 of happiness will conjure up at eight-and-twenty ! A happy 
 man was Phil Moran that night, and as his eye scanned the 
 uncertain future, not one cloud could he detect on his life’s 
 horizon. All was fair and bright and glad as the image that 
 smiled over all. 
 
 That same evening, about the same hour, Harriet Markham 
 and Lady Pemberton were walking to and fro in the verandah 
 off Lord Effingham’s study, engaged in that desultory sort of 
 conversation common between persons whose minds have but 
 small affinity one to the other. A sort of intimacy had sprung 
 up since the Earl’s departure between the two ladies, notwith- 
 standing the ten or twelve years of seniority on the part of the 
 noble widow. Her ladyship seemed to have taken a fancy to 
 her brother’s governess, especially since she found that the 
 Markhams were not unknown to heraldry, and had quarterings 
 on their shield from the peerage itself. 
 
 Lady Pemberton had been speaking of her brother’s late 
 wife, and she said, “View the matter as I may, I cannot see 
 how Fergus ever came to marry her. It is true my father had 
 arranged the affair for him when he was still a minor, and I 
 suppose he had not the courage to resist, for my father was a 
 man who ruled all around him, if not with a rod of iron, at least 
 with a strong hand. Poor Priscilla was a dismal creature, 
 pretty and gentle, but a dreadful bore on account of the con- 
 
PHIL MORAN TRIES HIS LUCK. 
 
 281 
 
 firmed hypochondria that had taken possession of her. To tell 
 you the truth, my dear, we were all glad — that is, myself and 
 the other members of the family — when Priscilla, Countess of 
 Effingham, was consigned to the tomb of the Capulets, piously 
 hoping, of course, that the poor dear soul had found beyond the 
 grave the rest and peace which her own dreary temperament 
 denied her here. As for my brother, no one knew how he felt, 
 for he kept his thoughts and feelings to himself. I hope 
 sincerely that neither of the children will resemble their 
 mother, though I sometimes think that Emma looks like her, 
 and has some of her odd ways, as far as such a mere child can 
 have them.” 
 
 “Well, of course I cannot say,” observed Harriet, as if to 
 fill up the pause, “ what resemblance Lady Emma bears to her 
 mother, but I think her, on the whole, an amiable child, though 
 more shy and sensitive than her sister.” 
 
 “The worst of it is, however,” resumed Lady Pemberton, 
 “ that there seems to be as little chance for happiness, as far as 
 my brother is concerned, in the alliance he is forming himself as 
 there was in the one over the forming of which he had little or 
 no control.” 
 
 “ Does your ladyship really think so ? I sincerely hope you 
 will find yourself mistaken.” 
 
 “ Possibly I may, but I fear — oh, I very much fear. It is 
 true Lady Jane de Montford (they're an old Norman family, 
 
 that of the Marquis ) is a beauty, and somewhat of a wit, — 
 
 no very great recommendation, I think, for a woman, — I believe 
 she loves my brother as much as she can love any one, but — 
 but — I fear she is not the woman to make him happy ; in the 
 finer qualities of mind and heart I believe her sadly wanting. 
 However, time will tell — there is no help for it now,” she 
 added in a melancholy tone. 
 
 There was a long pause ; then Harriet said, with some 
 hesitation — 
 
 “Did I understand your ladyship to say that Lord Effing- 
 ham’s name is Fergus?” 
 
 “ Certainly, my dear, that is his name. Why do you ask ? ” 
 
 “Because the name — excuse me, Lady Pemberton — is so 
 very Irish , so peculiarly Irish, indeed I might say.” 
 
 “Oh,” said Lady Pemberton, with a careless laugh, “you do 
 
282 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 not know, then, that our mother was Irish ? — yes, and very Irish, 
 too, — descended, I believe, from some old Milesian family, and 
 very proud, I assure you, of her ancient lineage. Fergus was 
 her fathers name, and had been a favourite name in the family 
 since the Deluge for aught I know ; and, truth to tell, my very 
 dear and right noble brother has not his name for nothing. 
 With some of the more amiable traits of my father’s sternly- 
 commanding nature — the old Danish Norman-English type — he 
 has in him many of the most prominent characteristics of the 
 Celtic people — so my father used to say, when he meant any- 
 thing but flattery. For me, I never gave much attention to the 
 distinctive traits of one people or the other, but I know that the 
 very qualities my father complained of in his heir were pre- 
 cisely those that endeared Fergus to all our circle — wider then 
 than it is now.” 
 
 As if the last words had awoke in her mind a train of sad- 
 dening thought, Lady Pemberton lapsed into silence, and 
 Harriet, equally thoughtful, made no effort to resume the 
 conversation. The night-breeze began to wax chill, and the 
 stars twinkled brighter through the clear, cool air, so after a few 
 turns up and down the verandah, Lady Pemberton proposed to 
 return to the drawing-room, where they had left Mrs. Paken- 
 ham and the chaplain hotly contesting the honours of the 
 chessboard, to the great amusement nf a young clergyman 
 whose first sermon, delivered in Cashel Cathedral on the 
 previous Sunday, had quite won Mrs. Pakenham’-s heart, and 
 the hearts of ever so many other dowagers. A clerical petit - 
 maitre , he was one of those pulpit orators so happily described 
 by the trenchant satire of Cowper’s verse — 
 
 First we stroke 
 
 An eyebrow, next compose a straggling lock ; 
 
 Then, with an air most gracefully performed, 
 
 Fall back into our seat, extend an arm, 
 
 And lay it at its ease with gentle care, 
 
 With handkerchief in hand depending low. 
 
 Whether this delicate pillar of the Church by law established 
 was or was not aware of Miss Markham’s being a Catholic, he 
 seemed well inclined to cultivate her acquaintance ; but Harriet, 
 with the perversity natural to her wayward sex, shunned the 
 super-elegant minister in the same proportion that he sought 
 
PHIL MORAN TRIES HIS LUCK. 
 
 283 
 
 her . It is probable that with Cow per, in the passage before 
 cited, she thought to herself — 
 
 In man or woman, but far most in man, 
 
 And most of all in man that ministers 
 And serves the altar, in my soul I loathe 
 All affectation. ’Tis my perfect scorn, 
 
 Object of my implacable disgust. 
 
 But whatever she thought, she certainly bade Lady Pember- 
 ton good-night at the drawing-room door, and sought in the 
 quiet of her chamber the more congenial company of her own 
 thoughts. 
 
 Long she sat in pensive musing, her head leaning on her 
 hand, whilst many a troubled thought flitted over the fair 
 surface of her face, like shadows from the summer clouds 
 falling on the hills and valleys of some lovely landscape. Once 
 or twice a pearly tear stole from under her closed eyelids and 
 rolled unheeded down her cheeks, but all at once she raised her 
 head, and, pushing back from her damp brow the rich tresses of 
 her braided hair, she cast her eyes upwards, and remained 
 a moment absorbed in mental prayer, then rose, and, going 
 to the window, gazed out upon the night, where only the stars 
 and the dark canopy they studded were visible. The solemn 
 night was before her, in the majesty of darkness and of silence 1 
 and her finely attuned nature quickly rose above the transitory 
 things of earth in the awful presence of the dread unseen. 
 Alone with the mysterious Presence which pervades the 
 universe, self was forgotten, only heaven and its interests 
 remembered, peace like the halcyon descended on her soul, 
 and a strange, undefinable hope diffused a softened light over 
 the deep recesses of her pure and gentle heart. 
 
 She was roused from her calm and soothing reverie by a low 
 tap at her chamber door, which hastening to open, she found 
 the nurserymaid, Ellen Mulquin, with another young female 
 wrapped in a light shawl. 
 
 “I hope you’ll excuse me, Miss Markham,” said Ellen, 
 dropping a curtsey, “ but this poor sister of mine wouldn’t be 
 aisy, at all, till she’d get spakin’ to you the night, an’ I know 
 you’re so good an’ so kind that you’ll not be angry with us for 
 cornin’; for, indeed, miss, it’s in the height o’ trouble poor 
 Celia ia,” 
 
284 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 “ Angry ? why, how should I be angry ? ” said Harriet very 
 gently. “ Come in, girls, and let me hear what your trouble is.” 
 “Oh, not me, Miss Markham — I can’t stay,” said Ellen; 
 “ I have got something to do for the young ladies, and I must 
 be off. Celia can tell you herself all about it. Go in, alanna ! 
 an’ don’t be afeard to open your mind to Miss Markham.” 
 
 The timidity that at another time would have deterred Celia 
 from “opening her mind ” to “a rale lady like Miss Markham” 
 now vanished quite in the presence of the sore trouble that was 
 tearing her very heart. 
 
 “Oh, Miss Markham dear,” said, she, before Harriet could 
 speak a word, “can’t you do anything, at all, for poor Jerry? 
 Sure, the peelers took him at last, an’ he’s in gaol, an’ I’m sure 
 they’ll hang him, for all he’s as innocent of what they lay to his 
 charge as the child unborn. Can’t you do anything for him ? 
 I’m sure you can if you’ll only try, an’ if you do, you’ll have 
 my blessin’, an’ the blessin’ of God, every day you rise.” 
 
 So eager and so rapid was poor Celia’s utterance that Miss 
 Markham could not put in a word till the girl’s voice failed her 
 for want of breath. 
 
 “Why, my poor girl,” she hastened to reply, “this is, indeed, 
 bad news. But tell me, how did it happen? How and where 
 was J erry arrested ? Or are you sure he was arrested ? ” 
 
 “Sure, Miss Markham? — sure? Oyeh ! it’s me that is sure ! 
 — doesn’t the whole country know it? — an’ wasn’t I at the gaol 
 myself tryin’ to see him, an’ the hard-hearted villains wouldn’t 
 let me get one sight of him ? Oh, wirra, wirra ! what’ll I do, at 
 all, at all, at all ? ” And the tears gushed in torrents from her 
 eyes, and she wrung her hands in all the wildness of despair. 
 
 “Do try and compose yourself, poor girl ! ” said Miss Mark- 
 ham, her own eyes full of sympathetic tears. “ You have not 
 told me when and where J erry was arrested ? ” 
 
 “Och, sure, that’s the quarest thing of all,” said Celia, 
 restraining her emotion with wonderful quickness; “sure, he 
 wasn’t arrested at all — he arrested himself ! ” 
 
 “ Arrested himself ? — what do you mean ? ” 
 
 “Why, miss, he went to Rose Lodge, his own four bones, 
 an’ gave himself up, an’ tould the ould gentleman an’ the rest 
 o’ the quality all about how it happened.” 
 
 “Well, that is very strange,” said the young lady thought- 
 
PHIL MOP AN TRIES HIS LUCK 
 
 285 
 
 fully ; “ that would lead one to suppose that he might not be 
 guilty, after all.” 
 
 “An’ sure he isn’t guilty, Miss Markham!” cried Celia 
 eagerly ; “ sure, I knew that long ago ! ” 
 
 “You did 1 ? — and pray how did you know it?” 
 
 Celia’s face was scarlet in a moment, and, casting her eyes 
 bashfully down, she began pulling at the fringe of her shawl 
 with great industry and perseverance. “Well, you see, miss,” 
 she stammered out, “ he came to see me when he was on his 
 keepin’ — a couple o’ nights after it happened.” 
 
 “ Oh, he did, eh ? ” and Harriet smiled pleasantly. 
 
 “Well, he did, miss, in regard to a few words that had 
 passed between us — he came to give me back my promise, 
 thinkin’ I’d be sorry I ever gave it.” 
 
 “ And did you take it back ? ” 
 
 “ Is it me, Miss Markham ?— is it me take it back ? — oh vo ! 
 that ’id be too hard entirely on poor Jerry, an’ somethin’ tellin’ 
 me all the while that maybe he wasn’t so bad, after all, — oh 
 no, miss ! I tould him that if I wasn’t Ms wife, I’d never be 
 any other one’s.” 
 
 “ And you believed him, of course, when he told you he was 
 not guilty ? ” 
 
 “I did, miss,” and Celia raised her head and looked the 
 young lady full in the face ; “I did believe him, for the raison 
 that I never knew him to tell me a lie — an’ the way he said it 
 made me surer again that it was the truth ” — Here she 
 stopped, blushed deeper than ever, and again cast down her 
 eyes. 
 
 “Why, how did he say it, Celia?” 
 
 “ Well, you see, miss,” — the voice fell to a broken murmur, — 
 “ it was the first time he ever made so free as to kiss me — an’ — 
 an’ — he kissed me then for the first an’ last time, as he thought, 
 an’ says he, ‘ Celia, that’s not the kiss of a murderer ! ’ an’ sure, 
 myself knew well he wouldn’t say that only it was true ; an’ 
 ochone ! but them words took the heavy load off o’ my heart, 
 an’ from that forrid I thought I could bear the ivorst ; but sure 
 I can’t — sure I can’t, I see now, for ever sence I heard of him 
 bein’ in gaol my poor heart is flutterin’ like a bird, an’ I’ve no 
 more strength in me than a little babby. Oh, Miss Markham 
 dear ! ” she cried, with passionate eagerness, “ do you think 
 
286 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 they’d have the heart to hang him? — do yon think the$ 
 would ? ” 
 
 “ My poor girl,” said Harriet, with the tenderest compassion, 
 “ the law has no heart — knows no pity ; if he were found 
 guilty of such a crime, there would be small chance of mercy 
 for him in this world. But do not despair, Celia. I have great 
 hopes, from his giving himself up, that he is, as he says, inno- 
 cent, though, if so, it is very, very strange that he kept out of 
 the way so long ; however, I sincerely hope that all will come 
 right in the end. As for my doing anything for him under 
 present circumstances, it is quite impossible, but I will see Mr. 
 Esmond to-morrow and ascertain how he feels towards Pierce, 
 or whether he still believes him guilty.” 
 
 “ God in heaven bless you, miss ! Pm sure your word will go 
 far wid the ould gentleman. I’ll go home now wid a lighter 
 heart than I came, an’ that you may never know what a sore 
 heart is, an’ that happiness may attend you here an’ hereafter, 
 is my prayer now and for ever ! ” 
 
 “ I thank you kindly for your good wish,” said Harriet as the 
 girl left the room. When the door closed after her, she sighed 
 deeply, and murmured softly as she turned away — 
 
 “ ‘ That I may never know what a sore heart is ! ’ — a kind 
 wish, my poor girl ; but it comes all too late — happiness I must 
 try to win for hereafter, by ceasing to look for it here.” 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 
 THE COUNTESS OF EFFINGHAM. 
 
 One of the last days of July was drawing to a close, when 
 Harriet Markham sat with old Bryan on the steep brow of the 
 Rock of Cashel, looking dreamily out on the far-stretching 
 landscape, where the blue mists of evening were coming up 
 from the spacious plain and the rich holmes by the silvery Suir, 
 and the far-off mountain valleys. The old man had been telling 
 her some of the old-time legends she loved so well to hear, and 
 the charm of their wild romance was diffusing itself like the 
 shadowy mist over the fair scene below and the solemn ruins 
 around. It was no uncommon thing for Harriet to find herself 
 alone with old Bryan on the lonely Rock at the solemn hour 
 when night begins to weave her spell of awful silence ; at that 
 charmed hour she most loved to hear the Hermit tell of “ the 
 sainted men of old,” whose memory lingers round the ruined 
 fanes of Cashel, where their mortal bodies returned to dust. 
 The monotonous tone of the old man’s feeble voice had such an 
 effect on her sensitive mind as the hum of bees, the falling of 
 water, or the rustling of leaves ; there was a ghostly sound, too, 
 in its hollowness that was inexpressibly solemn, reminding the 
 hearer that it, too, would soon be lost in the everlasting silence 
 of that place of death — it, too, would speedily join the voices of 
 the past, to be heard no more of mortal ear. It was a dead 
 voice issuing from living lips, and that fully as much from 
 Bryan’s constant habit of self-communion, and his intimate 
 association with the dead, as from the weight of years that was 
 bending him earthward. 
 
 That particular evening he had been talking more even than 
 : sual, and Harriet, intent on listening, forgot the long walk she 
 jad before her, nor heeded the gathering shades. All at once 
 
 287 
 
288 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 Bryan started, turned his head in the direction of the gate, and 
 appeared to listen anxiously. 
 
 “What's the matter, Bryan?" said the young lady, a little 
 startled by his manner ; “did you hear anything ?" 
 
 “ Why, then, I did, Miss Markham — didn't you V* 
 
 “I cannot say I did." 
 
 “ Well, I did — I heard the gate opened and shut — very easy, 
 like. If you wouldn't be afeard, Miss Markham, I'd go an' see 
 if any one came in." 
 
 “ Well, I don't think I should be afraid to remain here," said 
 Harriet, smiling ; “ but I have already stayed too long, so I shall 
 accompany you to the gate, and be so far on my way." 
 
 “Very good, Miss Harriet; an' after I have taken a look 
 around, I'll go with you down the road." 
 
 They had only gone a few yards, and were still in the 
 shadow of the cathedral wall, when Bryan, with a sort of 
 stifled cry, darted off in another direction, and Harriet was left 
 alone. Wondering at Bryan's sudden disappearance, she stood 
 looking after him, when a voice, a familiar voice, spoke near 
 her, and, turning with a start and an exclamation of terror, she 
 saw before her a stately figure with hand outstretched to greet her. 
 
 “ My lord ! — Lord Effingham, you here ! — or is it, indeed, you?" 
 
 “ That is to say," said the musical voice, in which Harriet 
 could not be mistaken, — “that is to say, am I Lord Effingham 
 in the flesh, or only in spirit ? Compose yourself, my dear Miss 
 Markham, and, in proof of my corporeal identity, there is my 
 hand." 
 
 “ But who would have thought of seeing your lordship here ? 
 When did you arrive ? " 
 
 “About half an hour ago." 
 
 “And you left — left them all so soon? Why, really, my 
 lord, I am so surprised — so astonished — clo pray excuse me ! — 
 but you here, of all people — when I thought you in England ! " 
 
 Here old Bryan approached at full speed, talking audibly tc 
 himself about the noise he had heard, and wondering who it 
 was that made it. He was steering right for the spot where he 
 had left Miss Markham, when he came full against Lord Effing- 
 Ham, and started back in amazement, whereat the Earl laughed 
 good-humouredly, and Harriet said — 
 
 “Do not fear, Bryan; it is Lord Effingham back from England.'* 
 
THE COUNTESS OF EFFINGHAM. 
 
 289 
 
 “ Lord Effingham ? ” repeated Bryan, and his bald brow and 
 thin white locks were instantly bared to the first beams of the 
 rising moon, — “ Lord Effingham ? Mercy on us ! was it him 
 opened the gate there now*?” 
 
 “ It was not, my friend ; it was the Reverend Mr. Goodchild, 
 who accompanied me. There he is,” pointing to the goodly 
 figure of the parson, just becoming visible oh the steep ascent. 
 “Would you have the goodness to entertain him a few moments 
 while I speak with your friend, Miss Markham ? ” 
 
 Bryan looked a little surprised, but he said very politely, 
 “ With all the pleasure in life, my lord ; but he’s a mighty 
 quare ould chap that same Mr. Goodchild, or Badchild, or 
 whatsomever he is.” And away he posted to meet the chaplain. 
 
 “Miss Markham,” said the Earl, “ I should like to say a few 
 words to you before we return to the Castle. Will you honour 
 me with your attention ? ” 
 
 “Certainly, my lord,” Harriet replied as calmly as she could, 
 wondering much the while what Lord Effingham could possibly 
 wish to say to her at such a time and in such a place. She 
 took his offered arm, and they moved on a few paces to an open 
 spot, where the moonlight slept in hallowed sheen on the tombs 
 and headstones and the long dank grass waving so mournfully 
 in the gentle breeze. Bryan and the chaplain were still in 
 sight, but not within hearing. With a beating heart Harriet 
 waited, but as if to break a silence that embarrassed her she 
 said— 
 
 “I hope, Lord Effingham, that it was not in search of me 
 you came hither at such a moment? I should feel quite 
 ashamed if I thought so.” 
 
 “ Feel ashamed, then,” said the Earl gaily; “for much as I 
 admire these noble ruins, it was certainly not to visit them 
 that I left the Castle almost immediately after reaching it.” 
 
 “And — the Countess? — what will she think?” said Harriet, 
 more and more puzzled. 
 
 Lord Effingham smiled, and answered somewhat evasively, 
 “ I did not wait to ask her opinion — at a future time I will. 
 But time presses, my dear Miss Markham, and I must seize 
 the moment so happily afforded me to speak to you on a 
 subject that will perhaps surprise you.” He paused a moment, 
 then quickly resumed — “I have a proposal of marriage for you.” 
 
 19 
 
290 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 “ For me, Lord Effingham 1 — A proposal of marriage for me?” 
 “ Yes, for you. But why tremble so?— you are pale, too, — 
 is it, then, so formidable a thing to be asked in marriage, and 
 for one who will, I am sure, devote his whole life to make you 
 happy ? One who knows and loves you as the heart can love 
 but once — as I should have done,” he said in a lower tone, 
 “had fate so willed it that I were free.” 
 
 “ Lord Effingham ! ” said Harriet, withdrawing her arm 
 quickly, while the blush of wounded modesty rose to her 
 cheek, “am I to understand that you came here to insult me?” 
 “ Assuredly not, Miss Markham. Were I capable of insulting 
 any lady, or wounding her delicacy, it Avould be strange, 
 indeed, if I pitched on you , and that, too, when I come com- 
 missioned to offer you the hand and heart, rank and fortune, of 
 my best and dearest friend.” 
 
 “But who is that friend, my lord?” said Harriet haughtily 
 “I know of no friend of your lordship’s who could possibly 
 pretend to my hand and heart — rank and fortune have I 
 none ! ” 
 
 “ And yet so it is,” said Lord Effingham ; “ I cannot now tell 
 you who it is : suffice it to say he is neither old nor ugly, stands 
 in good repute amongst his fellows, and, finally, has both rank 
 and fortune to lay at your feet, which he has commissioned ms 
 to do ”— 
 
 “And why you, my lord? — why not himself?” 
 
 “That he will explain at the first opportunity, but there are 
 certain reasons which debar him, for the present, from the 
 happiness of addressing you in person ” — 
 
 “If he loves me, as your lordship says, he may find it no 
 very great happiness to address me in person. I cannot but 
 feel highly honoured by the commission your lordship has 
 deigned to accept in my regard, but ”— There was an acerbity 
 in the young lady’s tone that did not escape her noble com- 
 panion, and he quickly subjoined — 
 
 “But you do not feel at all inclined to accept the proposal?” 
 “Decidedly not, my lord; poor as Harriet Markham is, she 
 knows what is due to a lady, and cannot forget the blood that 
 is in her veins.” 
 
 “There spoke the sister of Frederick Markham,” said the 
 Earl, as if to himself, and he smiled with strange meaning. 
 
THE COUNTESS OF EFFINGHAM, \ 
 
 291 
 
 Harriet caught his arm suddenly, and, gasping, looked up in 
 his face. “My lord, did I hear aright? Did you speak of 
 Frederick Markham ? ” 
 
 “ I did, and much cause I have to remember him. He saved 
 my life once, at the risk of his own, when we met by accident 
 amongst the Bernese Alps, near the foot of the Jungfrau. Did 
 you never hear him speak of Lord Milford ? ” 
 
 “ Surely I did, my lord — oh, many, many times. If the Earl 
 of Effingham and the Viscount Milford of poor Fred’s acquaint- 
 ance are one and the same, I believe your lordship and he finished 
 your tour together after the little adventure in Switzerland?” 
 “We did, and our intimacy ripened into a friendship as last- 
 ing as it was sincere. Poor Markham ! All the years that 
 have passed since his untimely death have not effaced his 
 memory from my heart ; and when I learned accidentally that 
 you were his sister, I regarded you in a different light — as one, 
 in short, who had a right to my friendship and protection.” 
 
 “I am infinitely obliged to your lordship,” said Harriet in a 
 voice quivering with strong emotion. “ Oh, Frederick ! ” she 
 cried, clasping her hands in a sudden burst of passionate 
 sorrow, — “oh, Frederick, my dear, my only brother! what a 
 lonely lot mine has been since strange hands laid you in your 
 far Indian grave ! Excuse me, my lord ! ” and by a violent 
 effort she recovered her composure ; “I owe you an apology for 
 this childish outburst of feeling, but the sudden revival of old 
 and very sad memories, long buried in my heart, overcame me 
 quite for the moment. May I beg to know if your lordship 
 has anything more to say, as I am anxious to return to the 
 Castle as speedily as possible ? ” 
 
 “Are you, then, afraid to remain a few moments with me, 
 even though we be not alone ? ” 
 
 “And if we were alone,” said Harriet Markham, drawing her- 
 self up with the lofty dignity of virtuous womanhood, her eyes 
 flashing with the proud spirit of her race as she fixed them on 
 Lord Effingham, — “and if we were alone, why should I be 
 afraid? The man lives not on earth whose presence Harriel 
 Markham would fear— and you, Lord Effingham, least of all.” 
 “I thank you,” said the Earl calmly; “I rejoice to know 
 that I am honoured by your good opinion.” 
 
 “Nevertheless,” said Harriet again, “there is something due 
 
292 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK, 
 
 to appearances — no one can afford to despise them, a woman 
 least of all. And then,” she added in a playful tone, “ being a 
 daughter of Eve, I have a natural desire to see the fair brow 
 that is to wear the Effingham coronet through life.” She was 
 moving hastily away in pursuit of Bryan and the chaplain, who 
 were only a few yards distant, — disputing, as usual, to judge by 
 the high pitch of their voices, — wdien Lord Effingham laid his 
 hand gently on her arm, and said in a low, earnest tone — 
 
 “ You have not told me what I shall say to my friend ?” 
 “Say to him, my lord, that the orphan daughter of Sir 
 Everard Markham is not to be wooed at second-hand.” 
 
 “ But you will see him soon, and hear him plead his own cause.” 
 “ Even then he would plead in vain.” 
 
 “You cannot possibly know that till you have seen and 
 heard him.” 
 
 “ I do know it, my lord ; and if you have that friendship for 
 me as Captain Markham’s sister which you do me the honour 
 to profess, you will best prove it by telling your friend that I 
 cannot receive his addresses.” 
 
 “And, as a friend, may I venture to ask why you are so 
 determined ? Is your heart, like that of Sarah Curran, buried 
 in the grave of some loved and lost one ? ” 
 
 “ I know not, my lord, of any right you have to put such a 
 question,” said Harriet, with a quiet assumption of dignity. “ I 
 have given such answer as I deemed fitting ; your friend must 
 expect no more.” 
 
 “Miss Markham,” said the Earl, after a moment’s silence, 
 “ I hope you are not displeased with me for having undertaken 
 this embassy ? Standing here amongst the graves of the dead, 
 with yon fair moon shining down like the eye of heaven upon 
 us, I solemnly assure you that your peace of mind, your 
 honour, your happiness, are as dear to me as if I were — your 
 brother — more I cannot say.” 
 
 “ I believe you, my lord,” said Harriet, with a radiant 
 smile ; then, as they hastened to rejoin the chaplain, she added 
 in a lower and more subdued tone, “And now for the Lady 
 Jane that was, — Lady Effingham that is, — I hope she is not 
 over-much fatigued to see me ? ” 
 
 “ I hope so,” was the reply, and no more passed on the subject. 
 After settling, to Bryan’s satisfaction at least, the dispute 
 
THE COUNTESS OF EFFINGHAM, 
 
 293 
 
 going on between him and the chaplain, — which proved to be 
 on the alleged banishing of the toads and serpents from the 
 Irish soil by St. Patrick, — the Earl offered his arm to Miss 
 Markham, and the little party left the Rock to Bryan and the 
 dead. As they descended the steep path, the radiant beauty of 
 the moonlit sky attracted their attention, and Lord Effingham 
 laid, pointing to the fine aurora borealis that was shooting its 
 splendours athwart the northern sky — 
 
 “Does not that remind you, Miss Markham, of Scott’s vivid 
 description of just such a scene 1 — 
 
 The monk gazed long on the lovely scene, 
 
 Then into the night he looked forth, 
 
 And red and bright the streamers light 
 Were dancing in the glowing north. 
 
 So had he seen in fair Castile, 
 
 The youth in glittering squadrons start, 
 
 Sudden the flying jennet wheel 
 And hurl the unexpected dart. 
 
 He knew by the streamers that shot so bright 
 That spirits were riding the northern light. 
 
 Apropos to the immortal ‘Lay,’” he added, “you, our fair 
 friend, seem to have adopted with regard to Cashel the advice 
 of the Scottish poet as regards Melrose, namely, to ( visit it by 
 the pale moonlight,’ and, moreover, to ‘ go alone the while ’ to 
 ‘ view St. Patrick's ruined pile ’ ” — 
 
 “ And,” said Harriet promptly, as she gracefully pointed to 
 the solemn monuments of the long-past ages that rose in lonely 
 beauty on either hand, — “ and may not I too, with justifiable 
 pride — 
 
 home returning, sooth ly swear, 
 
 Was never scene so sad and fair? 
 
 Ah, would that some Irish poet, great as he, might one day do 
 for St. Patrick’s of royal Cashel what Scott did for St. David’s 
 of fair Melrose ! ” 
 
 “Pity it was,” said Lord Effingham, “that Moore did not 
 attempt some such thing — though, if he had, Cashel might gain 
 little in prestige , for Moore was not the antiquarian that Scott 
 is, and to do anything like justice to these magnificent ruins a 
 wealth of antiquarian lore were indispensably necessary. But 
 tell me, Miss Markham, since when have you cultivated these 
 solitary habits ? ” 
 
294 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK 
 
 “ Ever since I have been — in the vicinity of the Rock of 
 Cashel.” 
 
 A smile shone for a moment on Lord Effingham’s face — he 
 had noticed the slight pause in Harriet’s answer, and gave it 
 a meaning which might have escaped a less keen observer. 
 
 “It is well you did not say, since you came to Effingham 
 
 Castle.” 
 
 “And why, my lord?” Harriet asked in some alarm, and, 
 raising her eyes to his for a moment, she found the Earl 
 regarding her with a searching look that brought the blood to 
 her cheek she knew not why. 
 
 “You ask me why?” his lordship said, with a pleasant smile. 
 “ Because it would speak but ill for the social qualities of the 
 inmates of the Castle w T ere you driven to seek entertainment 
 
 Where the owlet hoots o’er the dead man’s grave. 
 
 What say you, Mr. Goodchild? This question concerns you 
 amongst others.” 
 
 “I — I beg your lordship’s pardon,” began the chaplain, “but 
 really I — I did not catch the purport of your lordship’s remark.” 
 
 The purport being caught, the worthy gentleman began 
 earnestly to protest that he, on his part, had at all times done 
 his utmost to entertain Miss Markham, and if he had not more 
 entertained her the fault was hers, not his. “ Nay, more,” said 
 he, with a touch of solemn humour little expected from him, — 
 “nay, more, my lord, my reverend brother, lately arrived in 
 the parish, good Mr. Featherstone — a very proper and well- 
 favoured young gentleman, who, moreover, much resembles 
 Absalom of old in the quality and quantity of his hair — would 
 willingly have assisted in making the Castle agreeable to Miss 
 Markham ; but truly his efforts, however laudable, seemed as 
 entirely thrown away on the young lady as though he were old 
 Philemon Goodchild instead of Master Chester Featherstone.” 
 
 A careless inquiry from the Earl as to the qualifications oi 
 this new inmate of the rectory, whom he had not yet seen, 
 brought out a playful sketch of his personate from Harriet, 
 from the chaplain some critical observations on the manner and 
 matter of his preaching, and by the time the latter were ended, 
 our little party had reached the Castle. As they approached the 
 door, Harriet’s heart began to beat fast and faster — a strange tremor 
 
THE COUNTESS OF EFFINGHAM. 
 
 295 
 
 was creeping over her ; she longed to see the new lady of the 
 mansion, and would have given much to have had an oppor- 
 tunity of questioning Mr. Goodchild as to what manner of 
 person she was, hut the presence of the Earl forbade any such 
 attempt, and she was forced to remain on the tenterhooks of 
 curiosity, without even a hint of what was passing in her mind. 
 It might have been that Lord Effingham felt the tremor of 
 the hand that rested so timidly and lightly on his arm, for just as 
 they reached the upper one of the broad white marble steps that 
 led up to the lofty vestibule of the hail, he stopped an instant, 
 looked in Harriet’s face and smiled. Oh, how that smile 
 humbled the sensitive girl ! yet she could not tell v r hy, even 
 to herself. She would have withdrawn her hand as they 
 entered the hall, but Lord Effingham held it fast, and, with 
 that strange smile on his face, led her on, almost mechanically 
 on her part, across the tesselatecl floor, and up the grand stair- 
 case, to a small apartment opening on the drawing-room. No 
 one was yet visible, and Harriet felt more and more overcome 
 by some undefinabie emotion — 
 
 Secret in its source as dreams, voiceless as the past. 
 
 The colour came and w r ent on her cheek, and tears filled her 
 eyes, though she dared not let one escape from under the burn- 
 ing lids that were studiously cast down to conceal them. 
 
 “ I think w r e may find her ladyship here,” said the Earl in a 
 careless tone, and he opened the door. No one was there, but 
 voices were heard in the adjacent apartment, and Lord Effing- 
 ham said, “Have the goodness to remain here, Miss Markham, 
 and I w r ill bring my lady-love ” — 
 
 “ Oh, my lord,” said Harriet, without raising her eyes, 
 “ that would scarce befit our relative conditions. If you would 
 do me the honour of conducting me to where Lady Effingham 
 is, I shall be too highly favoured.” 
 
 “I see you are very anxious to make her acquaintance,” said 
 Lord Effingham, still smiling ; “I must therefore procure you 
 that pleasure at the earliest possible moment.” 
 
 It appeared very strange to Harriet, and embarrassed her 
 more than a little, that the Earl still lingered, regarding her 
 changing features with the keen scrutiny of one who would 
 read her heart. A burning blush kindled on her cheek, and 
 
296 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 her eyes involuntarily sought the ground. She felt the piercing 
 glance that was on her, and she was vexed she knew not 
 why, yet neither did she know what she ought to say, and so 
 she remained silent. At last Lord Effingham spoke, and his 
 voice was not so firm as usual. 
 
 “ Miss Markham, you desire to be presented to Lady Effing- 
 ham, do you not? Favour me with your hand, and I will lead 
 you to her.” 
 
 The hand was given, though with a look of wondering 
 surprise, and the Earl, leading her up to one of the large 
 Venetian mirrors that occupied the panels of the wainscoting, 
 bowed with mock ceremony, and said, pointing to her own 
 graceful figure on its brilliant surface, “ There is the Countess 
 of Effingham that is to be — with Miss Markham’s gracious 
 permission. There is, or shall be, no other.” 
 
 “ My lord ! ” said Harriet, the crimson blush on her cheeks 
 giving place to a ghastly paleness, as she turned with a start 
 and fixed her eyes on the now earnest face that was regarding 
 her with a look of ineffable affection, — “ my lord, what am I — 
 to understand — from this?” 
 
 “That as I owe my life to Frederick Markham, so shall I 
 owe my happiness to his sister, if she deigns to bless me with 
 her hand.” 
 
 “ Then — yon — were not married in England?” 
 
 “ Certainly not. Lady Jane, taking umbrage at my long 
 delay in going to claim her hand, thought proper to revenge 
 herself by making herself the lawful property of a certain 
 captain of the Guards who had been dancing attendance on 
 her handsome ladyship for full three weeks, and I, finding the 
 family overwhelmed with grief and indignation, retired in 
 apparent discontent, with what real satisfaction — with what 
 an exquisite sense of relief — even you cannot understand until 
 you have fathomed the depths of my heart. Say, Harriet, 
 have I rightly interpreted the emotion that you laboured so 
 hard to conceal ? Have you guessed the secret that for months 
 has been the charm and the torment of my existence ? ” 
 
 By this time Harriet found herself the occupant of a fauteuil y 
 though of how she got there she had no very clear idea ; the 
 whole was so like a dream that she could not realise her 
 position. With a sort of half-conscious look she had turned 
 
THE COUNTESS OF EFFINGHAM. 
 
 297 
 
 to Lord Effingham and listened in mute wonder; his last 
 question seemed to restore her to full consciousness — the warm 
 blood rushed to her face, crimsoning lip, cheek, and brow, but 
 she did not immediately reply, and Lord Effingham spoke again 
 in a tone half sportive, half serious. 
 
 “ If I cannot say with Sir Nicholas, the royal standard- 
 bearer, in the ballad, after the woeful day of Marston Moor, 
 
 I come to thee a landless man, 
 
 I can say what I would give half my lands were it otherwise 
 than it is to say now, ‘ I come to thee a wifeless man/ — will 
 you wear the rejected coronet 1” and he smiled. “ Will you 
 accept the heart and hand I am now free to offer h ” 
 
 “ The coronet I value little,” said Harriet, covering her eyes 
 with the only hand at her disposal. She paused a moment, 
 then hurriedly added in a lower tone, “ The heart and hand I 
 value more than Lady Jane could ever have valued them ” — 
 
 Ashamed of even this admission, Harriet would have made a 
 hasty retreat, but retreat was just then impossible, and during 
 the next five minutes she heard words, burning words, never to 
 be forgotten — words that were stamped in golden letters on the 
 tablet of her heart, to shine there while life remained. Short as 
 the time was, it sufficed to lay bare to the eager eyes that 
 watched her varying features the innermost depth of Harriet 
 Markham’s heart, and to draw from her lips the timid con- 
 fession that her life would have been a blank, a dreary waste, 
 had Lord Effingham brought back with him his English 
 Countess. 
 
 “ Then you approve of my taste ] ” said the Earl, as they 
 rose to rejoin the company in the drawing-room, and he 
 glanced at the brightly - smiling image in the mirror. “I 
 thought you would,” he added, with a look that covered 
 Harriet’s face with blushes. Then, bending down his stately 
 head, as he drew her arm within his, he whispered — 
 
 “Oh, bring to me my Norah Fay — 
 
 Hours are days when she’s away.” 
 
 “I see you have not forgotten that simple ballad,” said 
 Harriet, with a thrill of joy as she thought of the lone night- 
 watch beneath her window. 
 
 “ Oh no, nor the pansies, — you remember them y do you ? ” 
 
298 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK 
 
 A look of radiant happiness, of unutterable affection, was 
 Harriet’s answer as they entered the drawing-room. 
 
 The party there wore evidently prepared for what was 
 coming, and when Lord Effingham led Harriet to Lady 
 Pemberton, saying, “ Caroline, you have been long years 
 without a sister — there is one whom I commend to your 
 sisterly affection — love her first for my sake, you will soon 
 love her for her own,” Lady Pemberton received the 
 blushing girl with a kindness that won her heart for ever, 
 but without any surprise. Mrs. Pakenham was barely civil, 
 freezingly cold, in fact, and supercilious ; Mr. Goodchild blander 
 and smoother than ever, and as jubilant, honest man, as though 
 he had himself been the winner of so fair a prize. 
 
 It was not till the following morning that the two young 
 daughters of Lord Effingham were made acquainted with the 
 turn affairs had taken ; and if aught were wanting to com- 
 plete Harriet’s happiness, it was the delight they manifested on 
 learning that they were to have for their “ new mamma,” not 
 “ that nasty Lady Jane,” against whom they seemed to have 
 cherished a most unaccountable prejudice, probably from Mrs. 
 Pakenham’s persistent habit of enlarging on that lady’s bad 
 qualities, leaving what good there was in her entirely in the 
 shade, but “ their own dear, dear Miss Markham.” The truth 
 was, as regarded the children, that Plarriet had learned to love 
 them for their own sakes, perhaps, too, for their father’s, and 
 as a natural consequence they loved her in return. She had 
 devoted much attention to the training of their minds and the 
 cultivation of their naturally good dispositions, and already her 
 assiduous cares began to bear good fruit in the minds and 
 hearts of their little ladyships. 
 
 The only clouded brow in Effingham Castle during the happy 
 days succeeding the Earl’s return was that of the Hon. Mrs. 
 Pakenham, who lost no opportunity of hinting at parvenues, 
 or tendering her unsought opinion on unequal marriages, 
 mesalliances , and so forth, to the great amusement of those 
 most concerned. It seemed so difficult to please Mrs. Paken- 
 ham in a wife for the Earl of Effingham. If Lady Jane’s 
 levity and heartlessness had been her theme before, want of 
 position, etc., w r as now a more crying sin. Poor Mrs. Paken- 
 ham, how are the mighty fallen ! 
 
CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 MORE VISITORS TO THE ROCK— THE CONJURER. 
 
 The days were gliding on swiftly towards the auspicious one 
 that was to make Harriet Markham Countess of Effingham, 
 when one fervid noon the Earl surprised his lady-love in close 
 colloquy with no less a person than the Old Man of the Rock 
 in a shady part of the avenue not far from the Castle. 
 
 “ How now, fair lady/’ he smilingly said ; “ I did not expect 
 to see you abroad at this sultry noontide hour.” 
 
 “ That is because your lordship is not acquainted with my 
 peculiar habits. I have been walking some time to and fro in 
 this refreshing shade ” — 
 
 “ Musing slow, a la ‘ saint or moralist/ rtest-ce pas ? ” 
 
 “ I know not that, my lord, but musing or not, when our 
 good Hermit here made his appearance, with an invitation to 
 visit the Rock this evening for a very special purpose.” 
 
 “ And what may the purpose be ? ” 
 
 “That he will tell you himself,” said Harriet, as she took the 
 Earl's arm and returned his beaming smile. 
 
 “I shall be glad to hear it,” was the gracious reply. “But 
 first I would have you put on your hat, Bryan ; even under this 
 leafy screen the dog-star is not to be trusted.” 
 
 “ Many thanks to your lordship for your mighty great con- 
 descension,” Bryan returned, with a very low, and indeed a 
 very polite bow, “ but I couldn’t rest contented wid my hat 
 on an’ the best of quality to the fore. Neither sun nor wind 
 ever does ould Bryan Cullenan any harm.” 
 
 “ Well, then, be so good as to let me hear why it is that you 
 wish Miss Markham to visit the Rock this evening.” 
 
 “ Oh, that’s aisy done entirely, your lordship,” — another low 
 bow. “ Sure, it’s in regard of a fine ould gentleman from foreign 
 
 299 
 
300 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK, 
 
 parts somewhere, that’s on the Rock ’most all day. I declare 
 to your lordship he’s one of the finest ould gentlemen I 
 ever laid eyes on, an’ all the time I’m on the Rock, an’ all 
 the ladies and gentlemen I seen there in my time. It does 
 my ould heart good, so it does, to hear him talk about the 
 place, an’ I declare he knows more about it himself than I do, 
 an’ he tould me things concernin’ it that I never knew myself.” 
 
 “ Is it possible ? ” 
 
 “ It’s truth I’m tellin’ your lordship, an’ I tould Miss Mark- 
 ham the same before.” 
 
 “ Yes, Bryan, but you have not told Lord Effingham what 
 your private opinion is in relation to this remarkably * fine old 
 gentleman.’ ” 
 
 Here Bryan hesitated. “ Well, you know, Miss Markham, 
 I’m not sure about that, an’ maybe it isn’t right for me to 
 say it.” 
 
 “ Let me say it for you, then. You must know, my lord,” — 
 turning to Lord Effingham with that look of arch intelligence 
 that at times lit up her features, — “ you must know, my dea* 
 lord, that our friend here can in no other way account for this 
 unknown old gentleman’s wonderful knowledge of matters 
 appertaining to Cashel save only by the supposition that his 
 knowledge is supernatural. He therefore concludes that he 
 must be some ‘great conjurer or another from beyond sea.' " 
 
 “And he wishes you to see him?” 
 
 “Precisely, my lord.” 
 
 “ And you purpose going ? ” 
 
 “ I do — on one condition,” the last words in a lower tone ; 
 “that is, provided your lordship will summon courage to brave 
 the awful presence of the conjurer.” 
 
 “Doubt not that, lady mine,” the Earl returned in the same 
 tone ; “no more solitary rambles now, even on the sacred Rock. 
 Happiness, you know, was born a twin, so I claim my share of 
 your enjoyments.” 
 
 “ At what hour do you think we shall be - likely to see your 
 old gentleman, Bryan ? ” said Harriet, with grave composure. 
 
 “ Oh, bedad, miss, you can’t go wrong for the hour, for I’ll 
 go bail you’ll find him on the Rock go when you will. Sure, 
 he was there early this mornin’ with a company of ladies and 
 gentlemen, an’ then he came back again all alone by himself, 
 
MORE VISITORS TO THE ROCK. 
 
 301 
 
 an’ spent as good as three hours with me, lookin’ at everything, 
 and huntin’ every hole an’ corner, sometimes talkin’ to himself, 
 sometimes to me, an’ more times sayin’ nothing at all to any 
 one, but standin’ leanin’ on a staff he has, or sittin’ down on a 
 big stone, lookin’ at the arches an’ pillars, an’ the ould ancient 
 carvin’ that’s on the stones, till you’d think he’d never take his 
 eyes off o’ them. Dear knows, I don’t know what to make of 
 him, an’ still my heart warms to him if he was fifty conjurers 
 on account o’ the great conceit he has in the ould walls and 
 things.” 
 
 “Very well, Bryan; we shall make it a point to see your 
 conjurer some time this evening. Good-morning.” And tak- 
 ing Lord Effingham’s arm, Harriet said in a low voice, as they 
 turned their faces towards the Castle, “I think I know the 
 precise time when we shall be sure to meet this new acquaint- 
 ance of Bryan’s. If he be, as I suspect, some enthusiastic 
 antiquarian, after spending most of his day on the Bock, when 
 
 the gay beams of lightsome day 
 
 Gild but to flout the ruins grey, 
 
 he will most probably desire to 
 
 visit it by the pale moonlight. 
 
 We shall have no difficulty, I think, in inducing Lady Pember- 
 ton to go with us.” 
 
 “ Hot the smallest, I will answer for it,” said Lord Effingham, 
 with a pleasant smile ; “ Caroline is a true woman in the 
 quality for which good mother Eve was most remarkable. Say 
 nothing of it, though, to Mrs. Pakenham, who, entre nous , is 
 never any very great acquisition — least of all to an exploring 
 party. But lo ! here she comes, stateliest of dowagers, and a 
 thunder-cloud on her brow, I protest ! Let us turn up this 
 path — I do not think she has seen us,” 
 
 Harriet was silent, wondering in her own happy heart at the 
 sportive gaiety which now marked Lord Effingham’s manner in 
 his intercourse with her, whilst to others he was still the same. 
 Then she thought of his early characteristics, as described by 
 his sister, and her heart swelled and her cheek glowed at the 
 thought that she alone had the key to the inner nature of one 
 so calm and cold and passionless to the outer world. 
 
302 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 As Lord Effingham had expected, Lady Pemberton was 
 delighted with the account of Bryan’s mysterious visitant, and 
 all anxiety to get a sight of him. In the flush of this new 
 excitement, trifling as it was, her usual listlessness vanished 
 quite, and her brother remarked with a smile, half sad, half 
 tender, “ My poor Caroline, I see you are still the same after 
 all that has come and gone.” 
 
 The sun’s last rays had faded from the parched earth that 
 July evening when the Effingham carriage stopped at the gate 
 leading to the ruins, and our party of three, ascending the steep 
 and rugged way to the cathedral door, were guided thence by 
 the sound of voices to Cormac’s Chapel, where they found a 
 lady and gentleman busily engaged in examining the quaint, 
 rude sculpture round the arch of the portal, consisting of 
 a double line of bead and zigzag moulding — if that term can be 
 applied to stone. It was easy to see by the wondering look on 
 old Bryan’s face, as he stood silent and obsequious a few paces 
 in the rear of his visitors, that the tall old man with his fine 
 massive head, sparsely covered with silver-grey hair, and 
 shaggy brows of the same colour protruding far over eyes that 
 twinkled like stars with the changeful emotions of the mind 
 was no other than “the conjurer.” Who the lady might be 
 or whether she had been summoned from the aerial world 
 by his potent art to give record of the men and women of 
 other times, was, of course, beyond the power of speculation 
 Truth to tell, if she had been brought into existence by the 
 magician’s w r and, he might have summoned a fairer shape to 
 hold commune with on the solemn Kock, amid the shadows 
 of the past. 
 
 The strangers were not long unaware of the new arrivals; 
 for Bryan, feeling a little nervous about his position 
 as the evening shadows thickened, began to look anxiously 
 for the coming of the expected visitors, whose presence 
 might protect him from any malpractices on the part of the 
 conjurer. 
 
 “ Well, I declare,” quoth Bryan, “that’s great ! ” 
 
 “ What is great, my friend ? ” said the old gentleman. 
 
 “Why, your honour, if here isn’t Lord Effingham himself, 
 an’ his sister, a grand lady, too, an’ Miss Markham. Well, to 
 be sure, isn’t i % the greatest of luck that brought them now, 
 
MORE VISITORS TO THE ROCK. 
 
 303 
 
 just in time to have a talk wid yourself, sir, an* this elegant 
 fine lady ? ” 
 
 With the dignified ease and courteous familiarity with which 
 well-bred persons are wont to make acquaintance, the parties 
 exchanged salutations, smiling all round at Bryan’s odd intro- 
 duction. The ice of formality was not there to be broken, for 
 each saw at a glance that the others were of their own order, 
 and probably of their ow T n peculiar tastes in a greater or lesser 
 degree. No introductions took place at first on either side, save 
 the characteristic one of old Bryan, but all were prepared to be 
 pleased with the others, and pleased they were. The conversa- 
 tion, before confined to the strange lady and gentleman, with an 
 occasional word from Bryan, at once became general, and the 
 supposed conjurer resumed the thread of his observations. 
 
 “ I was just observing, my lord,” he said, addressing Lord 
 Effingham, “ that this chapel cannot be so old by a century or 
 so, as Irish antiquarians would make it appear. I do not think 
 that the king-bishop, Cormac MacCullenan, could have been 
 its founder.” 
 
 “Indeed? and what grounds have you for disputing a fact so 
 generally received as I believe that is ? ” 
 
 “That I will soon show you,” and, moving round to the 
 lateral door, he pointed to a half-effaced, yet still plainly 
 discernible sculpture on the lintel. It was that of an archer in 
 the act of drawing his bow- — the old English crossbow. 
 
 “Your lordship sees that rudely-sculptured figure? — know 
 you that such was the cognizance of Stephen of Blois? ” 
 
 “ I have read that such it was, but I should not have 
 remembered it in this connection.” 
 
 “ That is because your lordship has not studied with attention 
 the chronicles which time has traced on mouldering walls. 
 Now we know that Stephen of England ended his mortal 
 career in the year of grace 1101, or thereabouts, whereas 
 Cormac of Cashel departed this life on the bloody battlefield of 
 Movling in the year 903, nearly two hundred years before.” 
 Here was heard from old Bryan that indescribable sound 
 emitted by Irish mouths amongst the peasantry when anything 
 strange or marvellous falls under their senses. It is enunciated 
 by striking the tongue sharply but slightly against the roof of 
 the mouth. 
 
304 : 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 “ Thu ! thu ! thu ! — well, if that doesn’t bate all ever I 
 heard!” 
 
 “So you infer from this heraldic device,” said Lord Effing- 
 ham, “that the name Cormac’s Chapel is a misnomer ?” 
 
 “Not exactly; it might have been built by another Cormac, 
 though not, I am persuaded, by the great Cormac to whom it is 
 popularly attributed. That it is no older than the days of good 
 King Stephen I am entirely of opinion. Be that as it may, 
 however, it is a rare gem of mediaeval art. It is, in all respects, 
 one of the most interesting architectural remains I have any- 
 where seen, as the entire group exceeds in diversity of interest 
 anything of the kind in these islands.” 
 
 “I am glad to hear you say so,” said Harriet Markham, her 
 face expressing the joy of her heart. 
 
 “And why so, my dear young lady'?” the old man asked, 
 regarding her with a look of kindly scrutiny from under his 
 half-closed eyelids. 
 
 “Why, because, in the first place, I see your tastes are 
 antiquarian, that you speak from knowledge, and — are not an 
 Irishman.” 
 
 “You are right, young lady, in both surmises. I have 
 devoted some attention to the lore of ancient days, and I have 
 not the honour of being a native of your beautiful island, yet 
 I am fain to declare that I hold it in high esteem, for very 
 many good reasons. Cashel I have long desired to visit, 
 though I honestly confess I had no adequate idea of what it 
 really is.” 
 
 “I told you so,” said his lady-friend, “and I saw you were 
 somewhat sceptical about it. For my part, I have no very great 
 affection for ruins — of any kind.” 
 
 “ Of course not, of course not,” said the cheerful old man ; 
 “ nobody ever accused you of such a weakness. My good friend 
 here, Lord Effingham, and ladies, though a very worthy person 
 in the main, has no respect whatever for other people’s hobbies, 
 though, between ourselves, she mounts one herself of an odd 
 time, and ambles off at the quietest pace imaginable. Her 
 hobbies are all agricultural and — shall I say it ? — utilitarian. Is 
 it not so, my fair friend?” 
 
 “It is; if to live in the present and for the present be 
 utilitarianism, then I am a utilitarian, and I only wish I could 
 
MORE VISITORS TO THE ROCK, 
 
 305 
 
 get more of my countrymen and countrywomen to live less in 
 the past and in the future, and more in the realities of the 
 present.” 
 
 “Yes, yes, more of political economy and less of poetry. 
 We know you, chere amie t most amiable of philanthropists 
 that you are ! ” 
 
 “Permit me one remark,” said Harriet Markham, “before 
 you dismiss the subject. A thoroughly Catholic people, like the 
 race that inhabits this island, can never be taught political 
 economy in the sense you speak of, because they cannot, if they 
 would, concentrate their thoughts on the present. They must 
 live in the past and in the future, for the past is their pride, 
 the future their hope, whilst the present is with them but as the 
 connecting link between them.” 
 
 “Very true, my dear, very true,” said the old gentleman, with 
 an approving nod and smile ; “ I don’t think a Malthus or a 
 Harriet Martineau would ever find favour in this old-w r orld 
 country of yours. Eh, Maria?” and he looked at his friend 
 with a humorous smile. 
 
 That bustling little personage, already moving away, made 
 answer, “ Possibly not — but perhaps worse doctrines than theirs 
 may prevail in this same Insula Sanctorum. Hay, young lady, 
 you needn’t look at me so — I do not mean religious, but only 
 social and political doctrines. But come,” to her friend, “ let 
 us be moving, unless, indeed, you propose remaining all night, 
 meditating, like Hervey, ‘ amongst the tombs.’ ” 
 
 “And that I would not mind doing,” he replied, “ would this 
 good Hermit of ours but keep me company.” 
 
 “ The Lord in heaven forbid ! ” said Bryan, with such simple 
 fervour that every one laughed. 
 
 “ Why, how is that ? ” said the old gentleman. “ I am told it 
 is nothing new for you to spend the night here as well as the 
 day.” 
 
 “Do you not know that he takes you for a conjurer?” 
 whispered Lord Effingham. 
 
 “I should not be surprised if it were so,” the other replied in 
 the same tone; “he is a glorious old fellow — quite a study in 
 himself.” 
 
 “ A second Old Mortality ? ” asked the Earl, with a significant 
 look ; whereupon the stranger laughed and said “ Almost, but 
 
 20 
 
306 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 not quite/’ then nodded and turned again to the examination 
 of the architectural details before and around him. 
 
 For some time the party walked on in silence, each one lost, 
 apparently, in their own reflections ; at last the supposed con- 
 jurer, having stumbled over a fragment of stone, stooped and 
 picked it up, then examining it by the clear light of the full 
 moon, he said to Bryan — 
 
 “This is a piece of that tomb in the chancel within — Arch- 
 bishop M‘Grath’s.” 
 
 Bryan eagerly pounced on the precious fragment, expressing 
 his wonder that it came to be outside the walls, and muttering 
 to himself a “ Christ save us ! ” as he glanced furtively at the 
 dreaded stranger whose knowledge of the place so far exceeded 
 his own — at least, so he thought. 
 
 Meanwhile, the unconscious object of his terror went on 
 discoursing of all he saw, and of all he thought, admiring, 
 explaining, expatiating, and delighting his wondering auditors. 
 
 “Now, my Lord Effingham,” said he, stopping in a place 
 which commanded a view of the entire group of buildings, “can 
 anything on earth be grander or more solemn than this ? Said 
 I not well that nothing within the British seas can compare to 
 it — Iona of the Hebrides, perhaps, excepted ? Look, my lord, 
 at the group, as it stands, — look at the diversity, yet complete- 
 ness of the whole, the court, the fortress, the abbey precincts, 
 the graveyard, the Bishop’s seat, all in one enclosure, perched 
 in isolated grandeur on the summit of this singular Kock. 
 See, there r tends the palace where the brave Dalcassian 
 princes of Munster ruled with right royal sway ; there 
 minstrels swept the sounding string in praise of beauty and of 
 valour — the Hall of the Minstrels still is there, though its 
 voices are now but the mournful sighing of the wind through 
 the ivy that drapes its walls. Hushed is the harp of the tune- 
 ful Gael in the palace of their kings. Yonder is the hall of the 
 vicars-choral, erected by the good Archbishop O’Hedian for 
 the prebends of his cathedral ; there is the cathedral itself, 
 majestic even in decay, its altar gone, its glory vanished for 
 ages, only death and ruin within and around it, where stately 
 prelates and stoled priests ministered of old, and men and 
 women wept and prayed and were forgiven. Where the banners 
 of the blessed Saints waved over long processions round the 
 
MORE VISITORS TO THE ROCK, 
 
 307 
 
 aisles and along these paths, naught now is seen but broken 
 walls and clustering ivy, and the dreariness of desolation — 
 
 Year after year ’tis crumbling, 
 
 And heavily the loose stones fall. 
 
 Long grass and fern hang clustering 
 Above the tombs without the wall. 
 
 Then yonder is Cormac’s peerless chapel, sheltered by the arm 
 of the cathedral transept, and bidding defiance to the stern 
 warfare which time wages ever on the works of man : safe in 
 the solidity of its quaint masonry, it escapes the ruin that is 
 falling deeper year by year on the statelier edifice which has so 
 long sheltered it from wind and weather. Then the little 
 Church of the Apostles, smaller still than Cor mac’s Chapel, with 
 the twelve venerable figures rudely yet not unskilfully carved 
 on its dilapidated stonework ; and as if to crown the interest of 
 the group — to close the solemn record — this mysterious pillar- 
 tower rising over all, pointing back to the very night of time, to 
 a period long anterior to Christianity, and to a race of men 
 whose history has perished from the land, except in so far as 
 the lone cairn on the green hillside or the spectral tower bears 
 record of their passage.” 
 
 “And the abbey,” suggested Harriet, when the old man 
 paused, “you would not willingly omit the cloisters yonder 
 from your enumeration.” 
 
 “ If I did,” the stranger replied, with his benignant smile, 
 “it were like leaving the Colosseum out of a description of 
 Eome, or the Temple of the Sun out of Palmyra. That abbey 
 has occupied a good part of the time I have spent on the Eock ; 
 for, independent of the interests attached to it as the home of 
 generations of good and holy men, Cistercians and Dominicans 
 (for I find it belonged successively to both), I was endeavouring 
 to find the entrance to the subterraneous passage which is said 
 to have connected it with Hore Abbey, yonder in the vale.” 
 
 “ And did you succeed ” inquired Lord Effingham. 
 
 “Alas! no, my lord,” and he shook his head; “such good 
 fortune is not for me, and seeing that this worthy man whose 
 days and years are spent amongst the ruins has never been 
 able to discover it, I am bound to believe that such passage 
 never did exist, save in the legends of the country.” 
 
308 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 “ I’ll not give in to that, anyhow,” said Bryan stoutly, his ire 
 a little roused at this attack on one of the standing traditions of 
 the place ; “ since the memory of man, or long before it, nobody 
 ever said the likes o’ that, for sure every one knows the passage 
 is in it, only we can’t happen to light on it ; an’ sure, maybe 
 there’s good raisons for that same,” he added significantly. 
 
 “And what do you suppose the reasons to be?” inquired the 
 old gentleman. 
 
 “Why, then, maybe it’s there where the ould monks hid 
 away all their goold and treasures at their off-goin’, and then 
 don’t you think but they’d build up the openin’ to keep people 
 from findin’ it out?” Another reason Bryan had, which he 
 chose to keep to himself, deeming it unfit to make the Sasse- 
 nach quality as wise as himself in the matter, and that was that 
 the passage was closed by powers supernal to reserve it as a 
 hiding-place for the persecuted Catholics of the neighbourhood 
 in some of those desperate emergencies to which the finger of 
 prophecy — local and legendary prophecy — points for aye as 
 awaiting the oft-tried children of the soil. 
 
 “What wonder is it,” said Lord Effingham, after a short 
 silence, “that the Catholic people of Ireland are so wedded to 
 their own religious belief ? With such monuments as these ever 
 before them, how could they forget the faith of their fathers, 
 associated as it is with all the past, and interwoven with the 
 history of their race ? ” 
 
 “And with all their hopes for the future, my lord,” added 
 Harriet quickly. “ Were it not for this one ray of light, shining 
 ever from the veiled future through the portals of religion, 
 how could they have journeyed so patiently through the dark- 
 ness of many ages of suffering and desolation ? Faith alone it is 
 that has cheered their dreary path of life — given them strength 
 to live, and courage to die when life itself was a lingering 
 death, and death the last act in a lifelong tragedy.” 
 
 “ I believe you are right, young lady,” said the old gentleman, 
 and a thoughtful, even a melancholy look settled on his features. 
 “ It may be that the possession of this strong, hopeful faith 
 more than counterbalances the many hardships which have 
 fallen to the lot of the Irish people.” 
 
 “Hardships, inagh?” put in Bryan almost indignantly; 
 “athen, only for them maybe so many wouldn’t go to heaven, 
 
MORE VISITORS TO THE ROCK 
 
 309 
 
 an* when they get there isn’t it all past ? — Much about the 
 hardships, an’ far less ! — doesn’t every one know that no one can 
 get to heaven without sufferin’, an’ sure, the blessed and holy 
 Scripture itself tells us that? If it wasn’t the will of God, do 
 you think England could ever have kept us down as she has 
 done, starvin’ crathurs off the face of the earth when there’s full 
 an’ plenty for them to eat, an’ givin’ them only the height of 
 bad usage when a body ’id think that it ’id be for her own good 
 to have them better off? God knows what’s best for us, an’ He 
 can change His hand in His own good time, an’ raise up them 
 that suffered so much for His sake, an’ bring England as low, 
 maybe, as she ever brought poor Ireland. He has great power, 
 the God we serve — praise and glory to His name for ever ! ” 
 And Bryan went on in advance of the others, shaking his head 
 defiantly and muttering to himself, “ Sure, God loves them He 
 chastises — the whole world knows that.” 
 
 The old gentleman stood looking after him with a good- 
 natured smile on his large features. “What a glorious old 
 fellow that is,” said he, turning with a smile to his lady-friend ; 
 then, lowering his voice, he added, “I have had the richest 
 treat all day in his company. He is an antiquarian by nature, 
 if you can understand what that is, devoting his life to the care 
 of these magnificent ruins, yet actuated chiefly by pious venera- 
 tion for the sacredness of the place. He is to this Catholic 
 necropolis what Old Mortality was to the graves of the Scottish 
 Covenanters.” 
 
 The last remark was overheard by Miss Markham as she and 
 Lord Effingham came up close behind. “ What a pity it is,” 
 said she, “that Ireland has no Scott to make her natural 
 beauties or her ancient monuments classic, as that great master 
 has made those of Scotland. The same elements of romance 
 are here — the same wealth of legendary lore- — the same loveli- 
 ness of lake and river, wood and mountain — the same diversity 
 of races in her history — the same intestine wars” — 
 
 “ And a much more poetic temperament in her people,” added 
 the stranger earnestly. “In all and each particular, Ireland 
 presents as rich a mine for the novelist as ever did Scotland, 
 and I marvel much that no great national writer of fiction has 
 yet n>en above your horizon. Why, this Cashel alone would 
 furnish material for a first-class historical tale. A world of 
 
310 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK 
 
 romance lies sleeping amongst these ruins, were the dry bones 
 but imbued wfith life by the wand of imagination.” 
 
 “ And who so fit to do it as — the conjurer — a cousin-german, 
 I suspect, of the renowned Jonathan Oldbuck of Monkbarns?” 
 archly said Harriet; whereat the strangers both laughed, and 
 the old gentleman, tapping with the glove he held in his hand 
 the fair cheek of the young lady, said, “ Were I thirty years 
 younger, I know who might, could, and would be a conjurer , 
 and furnish a type for the heroine of a tale of Cashel — one that 
 might have inspired the minstrel’s lay, and nerved the warrior’s 
 arm, and made pious souls more pious still by word and by 
 example.” 
 
 Lord Effingham smiled fondly on the blushing girl at his side, 
 and expressed his hope that one day or another might be given 
 to the world a grand historic novel illustrative of the history 
 and antiquities of Cashel. 
 
 The two strangers smiled on each other, and the lady said, 
 “What think you, Signor Conjurer 1 ?” 
 
 “Nay, my friend, I should rather ask you that question,” 
 the old man said evasively. “ I am almost angry with certain 
 persons of my acquaintance for neglecting Cashel so long.” 
 
 “ Ah, but you know the c certain persons } are not the persons 
 to treat that subject effectively. Their prosy ethics would make 
 dry work of the shadows you spoke of a while ago.” 
 
 “ I know not that,” said the old man, with a thoughtful shake 
 of the head ; “ yet still, every one has their forte , and perhaps 
 yours is not the poetry of history. We will see, however, what 
 can be done for Cashel, at least, pending the appearance of the 
 national novelist who is to complete the work of Sydney Morgan 
 and Maria Edgeworth ! ” 
 
 “Thanks,” said the lady; “our visit here has not been for 
 nothing.” 
 
 The evening was now far advanced, and the visitors prepared 
 to leave the Kock, the strangers, especially the old gentleman, 
 with evident reluctance. He requested Bryan to come forward, 
 and, having placed in his hand a silver crown, told him he need 
 not fear to keep it. 
 
 “So you’re no conjurer, after all? ” eagerly asked Bryan. 
 
 “ I can lay claim to no such honour.” 
 
 “ Who on earth are you, then ? — for if you’re not a conjurer, 
 
MORE VISITORS TO THE ROCK. 
 
 311 
 
 you’re something past the common altogether, an’ I’d be entirely 
 obleeged to you if you’d tell me your name.” 
 
 “I know not that the knowledge would benefit you much,” 
 said the kindly old gentleman, with his humorous smile ; U sucli 
 as it is, however, you are welcome to it. I am Sir Walter Scott 
 — and this lady, my very dear friend, is called Miss Edgeworth . 
 Good-bye, Bryan ; and I hope you will not forget the conjurer, 
 who, at least, can never forget Cashel and the Hermit of the 
 Rock .” 1 
 
 Bryan was not very profuse in his expressions of gratitude, 
 but he raised his hand to wipe the tears from his eyes, and 
 retreated to the rear to hide the emotion for which he could not 
 account. He had never heard of Sir Walter Scott or Maria 
 Edgeworth, but, as he had said before, his heart warmed to the 
 amiable antiquarian. 
 
 When the two parties now exchanged their formal yet very 
 cordial greeting, it was found that Lord Effingham and Miss 
 Markham had both guessed the identity of the distinguished 
 strangers. 
 
 “I began to think,” said the Earl, “that old Bryan was not 
 so far wrong, after all. I suspected that his conjurer might 
 prove to be the Wizard of the North.” And he bowed with 
 courtly grace. 
 
 “And I,” said Harriet, “over and above the testimony of the 
 printed likenesses I had seen of the author of Waverley , made 
 up my mind full soon that if the host of Abbotsford were above 
 ground he was on the Rock of Cashel this very night — and 
 Miss Edgeworth too ! ” and she bowed to the lively little lady, 
 who was talking with quick, animated gestures to Lady 
 Pemberton. The authoress of Castle Rachrent nodded her 
 head and smiled, then resumed the animated account she had 
 been giving her silent but admiring listener of some amusing 
 incidents in the tour from Edgeworthstown thither, which she 
 and Sir Walter, with some other friends, had made in company, 
 
 1 It is well known that Sir Walter Scott, on the occasion of his visit to 
 Cashel, in the summer of 18 — , was so impressed by what he saw there, 
 during a two-days’ stay in the vicinity, and after a minute and critical 
 examination of the ruins, that he declared his intention of making it the 
 subject of a novel. Unhappily, the intention was never carried out. 
 Would that it had ! 
 
312 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK 
 
 Lord Effingham would fain have persuaded the distinguished 
 strangers to go at once to the Castle, but that they declared 
 impossible for that evening, as the other members of tlieir party 
 having gone to visit other places in the vicinity, would naturally 
 expect to find them at the hotel in Cashel where they left 
 them. 
 
 “ In that ease,” said the Earl, “ we will hold you excused, on 
 condition that the whole party dine with us to-morrow.” 
 
 To this a right willing assent was given, and the Effingham 
 carriage rolled away towards the old borough, bearing to the 
 quiet inn two personages whose names will live while Ireland 
 and Scotland have a literature to boast of. 
 
CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 THE CLOSE OF THIS EVENTFUL HISTORY. 
 
 Courteous reader, my tale is almost told : we have reached the 
 term of a journey which I meant to make a pleasant one for 
 you. I know not how far I have succeeded, but you will, I 
 hope, give me credit for the intention. Before the curtain falls 
 on the widely-diversified group of characters I have placed before 
 you, many things remain to be told, in brief. The last scene of 
 the drama is closed, but I must crave the reader’s kind attention 
 while I tell how Harriet Markham discovered that the “ pro- 
 posal ” conveyed through Lord Effingham was hut a ruse to 
 sound the depths of her heart ; how Lord Effingham, after two 
 weeks of blissful preparation, placed his coronet on the brow of 
 Harriet Markham, with the express understanding that he was 
 to continue the study of Catholic doctrines, already privately 
 commenced ; how, after a few months, the newspapers chronicled 
 the fact — in terms varying with the party and denominational 
 views of the several writers — some that the Earl of Effingham 
 had “gone over to Rome,” others that he had “embraced the 
 holy Catholic faith,” 1 etc. etc . ; how Phil Moran, in due time, 
 led Mary Ilennessy to the hymeneal altar, accompanied thereto, 
 on their own account, by Dr. Maurice Ilennessy and Bella 
 Le Poer, who had been carrying on a little affair of the 
 heart “on the sly,” as Mary said, for some months previous 
 to the happy event, which came off in form of a “double 
 
 1 To those who might he disposed to object to Lord Effingham’s con- 
 version, we will “vouchsafe ” so far as to remind them that the conversion 
 of an Irish earl is nothing new, — even later than the period of our story, 
 the Earl of Dunraven, whose principal seat is at Ad are, County Limerick, 
 became a convert to the Catholic faith. It was but the other day, more- 
 over, that the Marchioness of Downshiro, an Irish peeress, was received 
 into the Church. 
 
 313 
 
314 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 marriage ” in Cashel Church, under the ministry of Dean 
 M‘Dermot. How the trial of Jerry Pierce came off at the 
 Clonmel Assizes, in presence of a vast multitude, comprising 
 the highest and the lowest in “ sweet Tipperary;” how old 
 Harry Esmond astonished the whole country, and none more 
 so than his own kith and kin, by giving his testimony in 
 favour of Jerry Pierce, and expressing his opinion that he was 
 really as innocent of the crime as he professed to be ; how the 
 sturdy old Trojan was thenceforward regarded with little less 
 enthusiasm than Jerry himself; how Jerry, being honourably 
 acquitted, was “ chaired” — i.e. borne on men’s shoulders — 
 through the streets of Clonmel, and the hills around re-echoed 
 with the wildest shouts of joy and exultation ; how Mr. Esmond, 
 on approaching his own residence, was greeted with a similar 
 ovation, the horses being taken from his carriage, and he con- 
 veyed to Rose Lodge in triumph, amid the vociferous cheers of 
 the multitude ; how, from the steps of his hall-door he made a 
 speech as remarkable for its characteristic brevity as Dean 
 Swift’s famous charity sermon. “ I see I was mistaken in you,” 
 said he to the assembled peasantry — “in fact, did you gross 
 injustice. I promise, therefore, to be from this day to the last 
 day of my life what I never was before — a good landlord ! ” 
 He kept his word, and ever after, people used to say that the 
 loss of one good Esmond gained them another, just as good a 
 magistrate and as good a landlord as ever he was. To none was 
 this change more gratifying than to Henrietta Esmond, who 
 could now look up to her husband’s uncle as a friend and a 
 protector. She had no immediate relatives of her own, and had 
 from the first attached herself to the Esmonds — at least, the 
 ladies of the family, who were all, Aunt Winifred by no means 
 excepted, as kind to the orphan-heiress as heart could wish. 
 Miss Esmond, with all her peculiarities of character, was in the 
 main a good soul, sound at heart, and the occasional acerbity of 
 her temper never led her so far as knowingly to inflict pain on 
 any one. Indeed, the good old lady was rather a favourite with all 
 the family, — even her brother, on whose corns she trod the often- 
 est, had a very sincere affection for “ Winny,” and on ordinary 
 occasions seemed rather amused than otherwise by “her little 
 odd ways,” as he was wont to call them. As years rolled on, 
 the hopes and affections of all the Esmonds were centred in the 
 
THE CLOSE OF THIS EVENTFUL HISTORY, 315 
 
 little son and daughter of their lost Harry, and the children 
 amply repaid their mother’s devotion and the tender care of 
 their uncle and aunts, for they grew up full of promise, bright 
 and beautiful as fair flowers opening to the sunbeams. 
 Surrounded by none but the kindliest and most healthful influ- 
 ences, their good qualities were all largely developed, and their 
 bad ones repressed, if not overcome. But in all the tranquil 
 happiness that marked her life, and made the days like one long 
 summer-noon, Mrs. Esmond never lost sight of her irreparable 
 loss — never forgot him who was her first, last love — him whose 
 bright young life had been so cruelly extinguished — 
 
 Not quietly into the silent grave stealing, 
 
 But torn like the blasted oak, riven away. 
 
 The heart-crushing load of grief that had bowed her to the earth 
 during the first months of her widowhood yielded gradually to 
 the soothing influence of time, but the tender melancholy that 
 took its place never passed away, and although it could not be 
 said of the gentle Henrietta, as it was of Henry the First of 
 England, after the loss of his son and daughter at sea, that “ she 
 never smiled again,” it was nevertheless true that, as the poet 
 sings of the fair Queen of Scots in Holyrood Palace — 
 
 The touch of care had blanched her cheek, her smile was sadder 
 now, 
 
 and so it was her life long till she left this weary world to join 
 her loved one beyond the skies. 
 
 It remains to tell how Jerry Pierce wed his faithful Celia, 
 and took up his abode with her in her uncle’s cottage, as 
 neither could think of leaving the old man lonely in his age, 
 his boys having taken to themselves helpmates some time 
 before, and gone housekeeping on their own account. By the 
 generous kindness of young Mrs. Esmond, the vanithee — now 
 no longer the “ fairy- woman ” — and the two orphan children 
 of the unhappy Tim Murtha were established in a comfortable 
 little cottage, with a potato garden attached, close to that of 
 Larry Mulquin, and it was Jerry’s pride and pleasure to cultivate, 
 before and after working hours, his mother’s little spot of ground, 
 from which he managed to raise not only an abundant supply 
 of the favourite esculent, but of other vegetables, which added 
 
316 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK . 
 
 considerably to the comforts of the little family. A few fruit- 
 bushes were there too, and some flowers annually obtained 
 from the gardeners at the Lodge or the Hall, for Jerry Pierce 
 and his family “had the run of both houses,” as the worthy 
 fellow used to .boast with innocent and very justifiable pride. 
 Indeed, it was well known to all the countryside that Jerry 
 and all belonging to him were under the special protection of 
 the Esmonds, and “were sure of never knowing a day’s want.” 
 It was much to Mr. Esmond’s praise that he lodged a small sum of 
 money in bank for the Murtha children, to lie with accumulated 
 interest till such time as they were come to an age to be settled 
 in life. In the light of an awakened conscience he saw that 
 the misfortunes of the Murthas were all due to him, in the 
 first place, and that thus by a terrible but just retribution he 
 was indirectly to blame for the untimely death of the nephew 
 whom he had loved as a fond father might love a dear and 
 only son. In this, as in all the important acts of his later 
 years, he was guided by the wise paternal counsels of Lean 
 M'Dermot, then as ever the common father of all his people, 
 their friend, their guide in matters temporal no less than 
 spiritual. Poor Mabel, after wandering around Holy Cross and 
 Cashel for a few more weary years, died at last in the vanithee’s 
 cottage, well cared for during the long illness that closed her 
 mortal life by the kind hands of Celia Pierce and her mother- 
 in-law, and provided with comforts and even delicacies from 
 Rose Lodge and Esmond Hall. Many an hour did the ladies 
 from both houses spend by the bedside of the interesting 
 maniac, and their charitable cares were rewarded by a lucid 
 interval of some hours immediately before the poor girl’s death, 
 during which she received the last sacred rites, then died in 
 full consciousness, with the Holy Names on her lips, mingled 
 with a prayer “for poor Patrick’s soul,” and a blessing on the 
 kind friends, high and low, who had made her path to the 
 tomb a pleasant one. She was waked for two nights, and 
 amongst the crowd of friendly neighbours that filled the house 
 “inside and outside,” as Jerry Pierce said, was Shaun the 
 piper and his dog Frisk, the former entertaining all that came 
 with the best music in his pipes and the best jokes in his 
 budget of fun. And it was the general opinion that Shaun 
 “kept them all alive* betwixt himself and the pipes, more 
 
THE CLOSE OF THIS EVENTFUL HISTORY. 31? 
 
 power to them.” At our last hearing of Shaun he was himself 
 alive and merry, minus poor Frisk, however, who went the way 
 of all dogs a year or so after Mabel's wake, and was laid at 
 rest “under the greenwood tree” by the kindly “neighbour 
 boys,” friends of Shaun and admirers of his dog’s fidelity. 
 
 Ned Murtha, sheepish and awkward as ever, was nevertheless 
 making his w T ay in the world better than might be expected 
 when last heard from. He had attained the honourable post of 
 confidential clerk to Attorney Moran, and was said to have 
 “money in the bank — enough to keep him all his days.” 
 Kate Costelloe, ever the same wayward, moody creature, 
 remained in dutiful attendance on Bryan Cullenan, the comforts 
 of both duly cared for by the pitying kindness of “ the young 
 mistress,” as Kate persisted in calling her. The woes of squalid 
 poverty thus happily banished from their little cabin, the two 
 old people jogged quietly on together — contentedly on Bryan’s 
 part, for Bryan was always contented — with dogged tranquillity 
 that was not resignation on the part of Kate Costelloe, whom 
 no effort of her kind protectress could draw from her lifelong 
 stupor of dull remembrance. Life was to her but a dreary 
 blank — no hope for the future — no joy in the past — nothing 
 but gloom and drear despondency, save where an occasional 
 glimpse of the bright world beyond the tomb came like a far-off 
 gleam of light making the surrounding and nearer darkness all 
 the more sensible. There came a time, however, when the 
 benign influence of religion reached the stubborn heart of Kate 
 Costelloe, and by slow degrees the crust of dark despair and 
 stolid misery crumbled away, and the far-off light came near 
 and nearer in the wake of true contrition, till at length the 
 unhappy woman raised herself from the earth on which she 
 had so long lain grovelling, and dared to look her transgressions 
 in the face, not as she had been wont to do, as merely bearing 
 on her own fate, but as violations of the Divine law. From 
 that moment her life was one long course of penance,-— not of 
 idle, unavailing regret, — and when her day of life was ended, 
 she departed in the hope of a joyful resurrection, purified by 
 years of patient suffering and the fervour of sincere conversion. 
 
 Lastly, we are bound to put on record how it fared with old 
 Bryan Cullenan in the closing years of his mortal life. We 
 have failed in portraying his worthy character if the reader 
 
318 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 requires still to be told that the old man lived in peace with 
 himself and all the world to the last hour of his life. “ The 
 peace which surpasseth all understanding” had its throne in his 
 heart of hearts, and even had his life been more chequered than 
 it was, had the trials and vicissitudes of man's fallen state and 
 its many tribulations fallen to his lot, Bryan Cullenan would 
 still have enjoyed that inward peace which is the most priceless 
 of all blessings — yea, more precious than the gold of Ophir, or 
 the gems of Eastern mines. Calm and serene as a summer 
 evening sky, his days glided by on downy pinions, unmarked 
 in their tranquil passage. With but one worldly object in view — 
 the preservation of the ruins on the Rock from the slow but 
 certain ravages of time, and the ruder and swifter destruction 
 dealt by the hand of man — Bryan's devotedness to that self- 
 imposed task increased with every passing year, till at length 
 he remained at his post night and day and in all weathers, 
 coming down only to hear Mass, or comply with his other 
 religious duties. His kind friends — and they were many — often 
 visited him on the Rock, and took care that he wanted for 
 nothing, but he never now went to any of their houses as he 
 sometimes did in former days. Alone with God and the 
 hallowed memories of the place, he spent his last years, wasting 
 his little remaining strength and the last expiring energies of 
 his nature in the service of the Saints of Cashel, keeping watch 
 and ward over their mouldering fanes, their neglected shrines. 
 Stoutly and bravely did the lone old man battle with the 
 all-subduing power of decay, vainly striving to arrest its pro- 
 gress, yet working ever, despairing never — satisfied when he 
 could but replace a fallen stone, clear away the rubbish that 
 will accumulate in places abandoned to the empire of ruin, or 
 pick the moss that ventured to make its appearance amongst 
 the half-effaced letters of the quaint Latin inscription on the 
 tomb of some venerable “man of eld,” prelate, priest, or warrior- 
 prince. And ever as he worked he held communion with the 
 spirits of the place, and pondered over the solemn teachings of 
 mouldering bones and grinning skulls. Shunning more and 
 more the company of his fellow-beings, Bryan looked with 
 greater yearning day by day and year by year to the invisible 
 world on whose threshold he stood. Silence and solitude were 
 his sole delight, and the voices of earth grated harshly on his 
 
THE CLOSE OE THIS EVENTFUL HISTORY, 319 
 
 ear. Yet his outward bearing was unchanged, and the few 
 kind friends who would not be kept from visiting him were 
 always sure to find on his face the same calm smile, on his lips 
 the same fervent blessing. The grosser elements of his body 
 evaporated, as it were, by slow degrees, and only the shell 
 remained. The joints were stiff and the limbs feeble — the 
 infirmities of age began to prevail over Bryan’s hardy nature. 
 A ghostly sight he was in those latter days, for 
 
 His form was bowed and bending, 
 
 His fleshless hands were thin and spare, 
 
 and the light of his eyes was all but quenched. Yet still he 
 worked on at his cherished task amongst the graves and the 
 tombs and the dreary ruins — on, on to the last. But the end 
 came. One grey cold day in autumn, old Cauth ascended to 
 the Rock, hoping to induce Bryan to eat some little delicate 
 morsel which she had prepared with anxious care ; she found 
 the old man on his knees in the chancel of the cathedral, dead 
 and cold — his beads in his hand and the large crucifix appended 
 to them clasped close to his breast. He had fallen forward, 
 and so lay before the place where the high altar had been of 
 old. Great was Cauth’s sorrow, but still she consoled herself 
 with the thought, “He was at his duty a Sunday last, and 
 sure, anyhow, it’s the happy change for him — the Lord have 
 mercy on him ! ” So died The Hermit of the Rock, and they 
 made him a grave amongst its honoured dead, and laid him 
 down to rest for ever in the scene of his pious labours. But 
 after him, for years long, the sacred ruins were left to the 
 undisputed power of decay; no man was found to take the 
 place which death had left vacant ; storm and tempest aided 
 the gradual process of decay — the stones fell and there was 
 none to replace them ; the long grass waved unheeded on the 
 place that had been the Holy of Holies, and the green moss 
 crept slowly over the names of the illustrious dead, and the 
 people of the neighbourhood used to say with sorrowful em- 
 phasis, as they pointed to the sad ravages of time and neglect, 
 “ Och, it’s aisy seen, sure, that poor Bryan isn’t on his feet — if 
 he could only see the ould place now, it ’id break his heart, so 
 it would. It’s a wonder he can rest in his grave and thing3 
 goin’ to wrack and ruin that-a-way all around him.” 
 
320 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 For years long it almost seemed to tliem as though the old 
 man ought to return to save the ruins from the destruction to 
 which they were evidently hastening, but he came no more ; 
 the grave had claimed its own, the farther shore was gained, 
 and even the departing glories of the holy place could not waken 
 one throb in the dead, cold heart of The Hermit of the Rock. 
 Peace to his soul for ever ! 
 
 The End 
 
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