SIB ANTHONY TREVITHICK.
"Well, if the ould train isn't batin' herself for bein' up to time!" said Pat Sheehan, the porter at Lettergort Station. "She'll draw up at this platform twenty-five minits before she's due be the time-table, an' an hour an' twenty-five before her usual time."
"'Tis Timothy Dolan that's drivin' her," said the person addressed, a little old woman like a robin, with a soft little voice hardly bigger than a bird's twitter.
"The power of love is wonderful," she went on; "sure Tim's spakin' to Mrs. Doyle's little Katty, an' he's raced the thrain so that he can dart up an' see the little girl while the ould ingin' is pantin' the sides out of her like a dog after a gallop."
"More than punctual!" commented a young gentleman, who was standing in a first-class carriage, looking from the shining landscape to the face of his chronometer.
He was a good-looking fellow, with honest brown eyes and a face that told of constant living in the open air. He was lean as a hound, and almost as long; presumably he would fill out, but even now his long-legged youthfulness was not without its attractive side.
As the train drew up at the platform he pocketed his watch, and began to gather his belongings leisurely. They seemed to be a good many—gun-case, golf-sticks, fishing-tackle, hat-case, rugs and umbrellas, and all the rest of it. While he was thus engaged a good-natured face, belonging to the red-bearded and red-haired giant who was guard of the train, looked in at the window.
"No hurry, sir, if you're not goin' on. If you are, there'll be time to take a dander up the town an' get a bit of dinner."
"Indeed? I didn't know you made a long stop here," said the youth, pausing in his occupation of locking a small portmanteau.
"No more we do. We're supposed to skelp along wid the letters for Ballintaggart beyant the mountains there. But you see, sir"—insinuatingly—"the driver's gone to see his sweetheart. That's how we got in so early. Tim is the boy for not lettin' the grass grow under the thrain when he has a mind. I remember when this ould thrain was bet in a race wid a pig; but Tim's put another face on her."
"Oh—indeed. And when will you start again?"
"Whenever your honour likes. I wouldn't be for hurryin' a gentleman over his dinner, to say nothin' of Tim, that's a dacent boy, an' deserves a good turn."
The traveller laughed with an enjoyment that lit up a face grave in repose.
"You don't mind letting the people at Ballin—what's-its-name?—wait for their letters?"
"Och, surely not. Maybe 'tis a week before some o' them 'ud hear be chance there was a letter for 'em at the post-office, an' be that time every wan in the place'll know what's in it. It'll be: 'There's a letter below at the post-office for you, Judy, wid an order in it for a pound from your Uncle Con in Philadelphy'; or, 'Miss Geraghty below at the post-office was tellin' me there's grand news from the daughter in New York—twins, no less, an' all doin' well.' Sure, the people themselves is the last to hear, barrin' the polis."
"But why should the police be in the dark?" asked the young gentleman, as he finally concluded putting his traps together. "Here, help me out with these, please. I'm getting off here, or I'd be delighted to fix the hour for going on."
Mat Connor, the guard, beckoned to Pat Sheehan.
"Here's a man 'ull run 'em anywhere you like in his ass-cart for you, sir, an' welcome. As I was sayin', sir, the polis has nothin' to do but pick up news, and there's an objection to doin' away wid their ockypation—that's all. They're dacent men, the polis."
"I expected a carriage or something to meet me."
Mat Connor looked up and down the platform, where the little woman stood alone, enjoying the excitement of the train's arrival. Then he went to the door and looked out. As he came back he again carefully scanned the platform, as though he might have overlooked such a thing as a carriage.
"Not a sight of one I see at all, at all, sir. Where might you be for, if I may make so bould as to ask?"
"I'm going to Mr. Graydon's, of Carrickmoyle. I daresay he'll be here presently, as he knows the hour the train is due."
"Och, Mr. Graydon'll be here, never fear. He'll be rowlin' round in his little car in less thin no time. The gentleman's for Mr. Graydon's, Pat. Just get his things on the ass-cart an' run them around before another train's due."
"It is not far, then?"
"If you turned to the right when you wint out, an' kep' your eyes shut, only feelin' your way by the wall, you'd be turnin' in at the gate of Carrickmoyle in, maybe, half an hour. But sure, here's Mr. Graydon himself comin' to look for you. I suspected he wouldn't be long."
The young gentleman turned round and saw coming towards him along the platform a lively, fresh-coloured man, of fifty or thereabouts. In spite of his old Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers of grey homespun, yellowed and browned with hard wear, there was no mistaking Mr. Graydon for anything but a gentleman. His face beamed cordiality on the new arrival, and his blue eyes shone with pleasure.
"You are welcome, my dear Sir Anthony, very heartily welcome to Carrickmoyle! Have you been waiting? I'm so sorry. I made certain to be in time. Indeed, I had an errand to do a little further, but, of course, I turned in as soon as I saw the train had arrived."
"You are welcome, my dear Sir Anthony."
"The train was over-punctual, sir, and I have been very well entertained while I waited."
"I daresay, I daresay. There are worse comrades than Mat. Many a pleasant day's shooting I had with Mat for companion. Eh, Mat, you don't forget the night in the Moyle river when our legs froze waiting for wild duck, and we thought we'd have to stay there till the hot weather set us free."
Mat grinned delightedly for response.
"The worst of Mat is he's a born poacher. Doesn't respect Inverbarry's preserves or anybody else's, and isn't to be frightened, though I tell him Inverbarry'll lock him up one of these days."
"Not wid your honour on the bench. But 'tisn't me that poaches. 'Tis the bit of a dog. You couldn't insinse respect for the law into that little baste's head wance he's put up a hare or a partridge."
"Well, good-bye, Mat, good-bye. Tell the old mother I was asking for her. How are you, Mrs. Kelly? What's the last news from Nora? The best, that's a good hearing. Come along, Sir Anthony. Don't drop any of the gentleman's things on your way, Pat."
Mr. Graydon bustled his new pupil out of the little station, and into the very disreputable pony car, with a blissful oblivion of its shortcomings.
"You won't mind coming to the village with me till I deliver my message? I was very near forgetting it. Then I'll have you home in less than no time. You'll be glad of a wash-up and a cup of tea."
Sir Anthony assented, but he was preoccupied, tucking his long legs away under the seat of the little car. When he had time to look at his host, he found him gravely regarding him.
"You are like your father, just such another as he was at your age."
"I am glad you think so, sir. I am proud to be like him."
"Ah, he was a fine fellow, my lad."
"He never forgot you, sir, and your old friendship, though, as he said, you had chosen to bury yourself far away from your friends. He used to say that no man had more friends, or deserved them better."
"Did he say that?" and for a second Mr. Graydon's eyes were misty. "Ah, well! he showed he remembered me when he wished his boy to be in my hands."
"You are good to have me, sir."
"Not at all, my lad. I shall be very glad of your companionship, and shall feel sometimes as if it were Gerald Trevithick beside me as of old instead of his boy. And your mother? I hope you left Lady Jane well."
"Quite well, thank you, sir."
"And what did she think of her only son burying himself in the wilds of Ireland?"
"She respected my father's wishes," said the young fellow, and Mr. Graydon detected a note of coldness in the voice which had been so tender when he spoke of his dead father.
"Ah, here we are," said Mr. Graydon, as they turned into a tiny street of mud cabins and drew up in front of a general shop. "Just take the reins for a minute while I give Mrs. Lennan my daughter's orders. Oh, is it yourself, Mrs. Lennan? You shouldn't have troubled to come out. You're looking bonny in spite of the hot weather."
"The same to you, Mr. Graydon," said the little rosy-cheeked woman, curtseying. "What can I do for your honour to-day?"
"I've a list here as long as a woman's tongue, Mrs. Lennan, though the tongue isn't yours or we'd wish it to be always wagging. Let me see—here it is: soap, candles, matches—there, you'd better take it inside and get Mike to read it for you. He's a fine scholar, I hear."
"Indeed, then, he is, sir, though his mother oughtn't to be talkin' about it. Thank you, sir. I'll put the things together in less time than you'd say them over."
While they waited in the village street, Mr. Graydon beguiled the time by genial gossip with every man, woman, and child who came the way.
"How well you get on with the people, sir," Sir Anthony could not help saying.
"Do you think so?" said Mr. Graydon, with a little surprise. "You see, we've known each other so long. Things and people change little in these out-of-the-way places."
"I couldn't do it, if it was to save my life. Besides, the people where I come from wouldn't understand it."
"Ah, I suppose not. We Irish are more of a large family—which is, perhaps, the reason why we wrangle sometimes."
"I don't know how you recollect all their ailments, and the names and conditions of their families, and all the rest of it."
"I am about through them so much. Your mother would understand. I daresay she plays the Lady Bountiful a good deal."
The young man's lips parted over a range of beautifully white and strong teeth.
"No," he said, a little grimly. "The mater isn't at all the district-visiting sort, I assure you, sir."
With a feeling of having blundered, Mr. Graydon changed the subject.
"I was glad to see your gun-case," he said. "There's any amount of game about here. The mountain yonder has no end of rabbits; and there's plenty of teal, woodcock, grouse, and partridge. Good fishing, too, in the Moyle—the sweetest salmon-trout that ever grilled over a clear fire; and a mile or two away there are big salmon for the taking."
"Unpreserved?" cried the youth, with sparkling eyes.
"Well, not very strictly preserved. That mountain yonder, Carrickduff, is part of my singularly unprofitable property, and the Moyle runs inside my walls."
"If you don't keep me too close to work, sir, I foresee that I shall find Carrickmoyle a paradise."
"There are worse places than Carrickmoyle," said Mr. Graydon, with a sparkle of pleasure in his eye. "Oh, I shan't overwork you. I believe in out-of-doors for young fellows. When I am busy—I daresay I shall be a little busy at times with a book which I have had in hand some years—the children will look after you."
"You have children, then?"
"Yes, three little girls. The eldest is, I'm afraid, becoming grown-up; but the others are quite children, and as wild as little hares."
By this time they had passed the rickety gate and were approaching the house, the double doors of which stood hospitably open.
Mr. Graydon drew up on the gravel-sweep opposite the door.
"I must take Frisky round," he said, "and, meanwhile, will you go into the drawing-room? It is the first door on the left. I'll be back with you in a minute, as soon as I've found little Tim to take Frisky from me—likely as not he's playing marbles in the paddock."
Sir Anthony did as he was directed. The big hall, when he had entered it, was full of sunlight, but otherwise bare as poverty. A big fireplace, where the brasses tarnished and the steel rusted; a great handsome box, intended for billets of wood, but now coldly empty; some dusty antlers and shields on the high wall—these were not cheerful.
What was, was the sound of young laughter proceeding from the door to the left—exuberant laughter, full of enjoyment, accompanied with an odd little sound of rushing hither and thither.
The young fellow's face lit up as he went forward.
"The children playing 'Puss in the Corner,'" he said to himself, and went almost on tip-toe.
But as he reached the door he was met by a sudden silvery shriek. Something feathery and very hard struck him between the eyes; then the thing dodged him, but before he could discover what it was another missile followed; at the same moment the silvery voice cried, in accents of despair:—
"Very well, you wretch! go, if you will; but you have disgraced Carrickmoyle, and left the baronet without any dinner."
But let Sir Anthony himself explain these extraordinary happenings, and how he met his fate, and the strange shape in which love came to him.
END OF CHAPTER THREE.
Our Roll of Heroic Deeds
This series of pictures of heroic deeds is fittingly inaugurated by the portrayal of the splendid heroism of the nursemaid Fanny Best, of Tiverton, who, by her courage and presence of mind, was instrumental in saving the lives of her charges when attacked by an infuriated cow. As will be seen, she kept a firm hold of the perambulator, and at the risk of her own life boldly resisted the repeated thrusts of the animal until help arrived. The Editor is always pleased to hear of such instances of self-sacrificing bravery—either in men or women—with a view to the award of the Medal of The Quiver Heroes Fund, such as was sent to Miss Best at the time.
