He took, as he spoke, a soiled and ragged newspaper from his pocket, and after seeking some minutes for the place, he read, in a broken voice:—
“'The days to come'—ay, here it is—'The days to come.—Let the poor man remember that there is a future before him that, if he have but courage and boldness, will pay for the past. Turn about's fair play, my lords and gentlemen! You 've had the pack in your own hands long enough, and dealt yourselves all the trumps. Now, give us the cards for a while. You say our fingers are dirty; so they are, with work and toil, black and dirty! but not as black as your own hearts. Hurrah! for a new deal on a bran-new table: Ireland the stakes, and the players her own stout sons!' Them's fine sintiments,” said he, putting up the paper. “Fine sintiments! and the sooner we thry them the better. That's the real song,” said he, reciting with energy,—
“'Oh! the days to come, the days to come,
When Erin shall have her own, boys!
When we 'll pay the debts our fathers owed,
And reap what they have sown, boys!'”
He sprang to his feet as he concluded, shouldering his musket, strode out as if in a marching step, and repeating to himself, as he went, the last line of the song. About half an hour's brisk walking brought him to a low wicket which opened on the high road, a little distance from which stood the small village of Derraheeny, the post-town of the neighborhood. The little crowd which usually assembled at the passing of the coach had already dispersed, when Tom Keane presented himself at the window, and asked, in a tone of voice subdued almost to softness,—
“Have you anything for Mr. Corrigan this morning, ma'am?”
“Yes; there are two letters and a newspaper,” replied a sharp voice from within. “One-and-fourpence to pay.”
“She did n't give me any money, ma'am, but Miss Mary said—”
“You can take them,” interrupted the post-mistress, hastily handing them out, and slamming the little window to at the same instant.
“There's more of it!” muttered Tom; “and if it was for me the letters was, I might sell my cow before I 'd get trust for the price of them!” And with this reflection he plodded moodily homeward. Scarcely, however, had he entered the thick plantation than he seated himself beneath a tree, and proceeded to take a careful and strict scrutiny of the two letters; carefully spelling over each address, and poising them in his hands, as if the weight could assist his guesses as to the contents. “That's Mr. Kennyfeck's big seal. I know it well,” said he, gazing on the pretentious coat-of-arms which emblazoned the attorney's letter. “I can make nothing of the other at all. 'Cornelius Corrigan, Esq., Tubber-beg, Derraheeny,'—sorra more!” It was in vain that he held it open, lozenge fashion, to peep within; but one page only was written, and he could not see that. Kennyfeck's letter was enclosed in an envelope, so that here, too, he was balked, and at last was fain to slip the newspaper from its cover,—a last resource to learn something underhand! The newspaper did not contain anything peculiarly interesting, save in a single paragraph, which announced the intention of Roland Cashel, Esq., of Tubbermore Castle, to contest the county at the approaching general election. “We are informed,” said the writer, “on competent authority, that this gentleman intends to make the ancestral seat his chief residence in future, and that already preparations are making to render this princely mansion in every respect worthy of the vast fortune of its proprietor.”
“Faith, and the 'princely mansion' requires a thing or two to make it all perfect,” said Tom, with a sardonic laugh; while in a lower tone he muttered,—“maybe, for all the time he 'll stay there, it's not worth his while to spend the money on it.” Having re-read the paragraph, he carefully replaced the paper in its cover, and continued his way, not, however, towards his own home, but entering a little woodland path that led direct towards the Shannon. After passing a short distance, he came to a little low edge of beech and birch, through which a neat rustic gate led and opened upon a closely shaven lawn. The neatly gravelled walk, the flower-beds, the delicious perfume that was diffused on every side, the occasional peeps at the eddying river, and the cottage itself seen at intervals between the evergreens that studded the lawn, were wide contrasts to the ruinous desolation of the “Great House;” and as if unwilling to feel their influence, Tom pulled his hat deeper over his brows, and never looked at either side as he advanced. The part of the cottage towards which he was approaching contained a long veranda, supported by pillars of rustic-work, within which, opening by three large windows, was the principal drawing-room. Here, now, at a small writing-table, sat a young girl, whose white dress admirably set off the graceful outline of her figure, seen within the half-darkened room; her features were pale, but beautifully regular, and the masses of her hair, black as night, which she wore twisted on the back of the head, like a cameo, gave a character of classic elegance and simplicity to the whole.