“Is Cathleen better to-day?” said the young lady, addressing the peasant.
“Yes, miss, glory be to God, she's betther. Thanks to yourself and Him. Oh, then, it's of yer beautiful face she does be dramin' every night. Says she, 'It's Miss Mary, I think, is singing to me, when I hear the birds in my sleep.'”
“Poor child, give her this little book for me, and say I 'll come up and see her this evening, if I can. Mrs. Moore will send her the broth; I hope she 'll soon be able to eat something. Good-bye, Tom.”
A deep-drawn heavy sigh from within the cottage here made her abruptly conclude the interview and hasten in. The door of her grandfather's little dressing-room was, however, locked; and after a noiseless effort to turn the handle, she withdrew to the drawing-room to wait in deep anxiety for his coming.
The old man sat with his head supported on both hands, gazing steadfastly at two open letters which lay on the table before him; had they contained a sentence of death, his aspect could scarce have been more sad and sorrow-struck. One was from Mr. Kennyfeck, and ran thus:
Dear Mr. Corrigan,—I have had a brief conversation with Mr.
Roland Cashel on the subject of your renewal, and I am
grieved to say that he does not seem disposed to accede to
your wishes. Entertaining, as he does, the intention to make
Tubbermore his chief residence in Ireland, his desire is, I
believe, to connect the farm in your holding with the
demesne. This will at once explain that it is not a question
of demanding a higher rent from you, but simply of carrying
out a plan for the enlargement and improvement of the
grounds pertaining to the “Hall.”
The matter, is, however, by no means decided upon; nor will
it be, in all probability, before you have an opportunity of
meeting Mr. Cashel personally. His present intention is to
visit your neighborhood next week.
I am, dear sir, truly yours,
M. Kennyfeck. Cornelius Corrigan, Esq., Tubber-beg Cottage.
The second letter was as follows:—
“Simpkins and Green have the honor to forward for
acceptance the enclosed bill for two hundred and seventeen
pounds, at three months, Mr. Heneage Leicester, of New
Orleans, on Mr. Corrigan.
“They are authorized also to state that Mr. Leicester's
affairs have suffered considerably from the consequence of
the commercial distress at N. O., and his personal property
has been totally lost by the earthquake which took place on
the 11th and 12th ultimo. He therefore trusts to Mr. C———
's efforts to contribute to his aid by a greater exertion
than usual, and will draw upon him for two sums of one
hundred, at dates of six and nine months, which he hopes may
suit his convenience, and be duly honored. Mr. Leicester
continues to hope that he may be able to visit Europe in the
spring, where his great anxiety to see his daughter will
call him.”
“The ruin is now complete,” said the old man. “I have struggled for years with poverty and privation to ward off this hour; but, like destiny, it will not be averted! Despoiled of fortune; turned from the home where I have lived from my childhood; bereft of all! I could bear up still if she were left to me; but now, he threatens to take her, my child, my hope, my life! And the world will stand by him, and say, 'He is her father!' He, that broke the mother's heart,—my own darling girl!—and now comes to rob me—a poor helpless old man—of all my companionship and my pride. Alas, alas! the pride, perhaps, deserves the chastisement. Poor Mary, how will she ever learn to look on him with a daughter's affection?—What a life will hers be! and this deception,—how will it, how can it ever be explained? I have always said that he was dead.”
Such, in broken half-sentences, were the words he spoke, while thick-coming sobs almost choked his utterance.