“Let us leave this, Michel,” said he, in a broken voice. “The little inn I speak of is not too distant for a walk, and if we start at once we shall reach it before daybreak. While you awake Meekins, and arrange all within, I will stroll slowly on before.” And, thus saying, D'Esmonde moved away, leaving the others to follow.
D'Esmonde was more than commonly thoughtful, even to depression. He had been but a few days in Ireland, but every hour of that time had revealed some new disappointment to him. There was all that he could wish of religious zeal, there was devotion and faith without limit amongst the people; but there was no unity of action, no combination of purpose, amongst those who led them. Discursive and rash efforts of individuals were suffered to disturb well-laid measures and reveal long-meditated plans. Vain and frivolous controversies in newspapers, petty wars of petty localities, wasted energies, and distracted counsels. There was none of that organization, that stern discipline, which at Rome regulated every step, and ordained every movement of their mighty host. “This,” muttered he to himself, “is an army without field-officers. Their guerilla notions must be henceforth exchanged for habits of military obedience. Little think they that their future General is now the solitary pedestrian of a lonely road at midnight.” The recurrence to himself and his own fortunes was one of those spells which seemed to possess an almost magical influence over him. From long dwelling on the theme, he had grown to believe that he was destined by Heaven for the advancement, if not the actual triumph, of the great cause of the Church; and that he, whose origin was obscure and ignoble, could now sit down at the council of the Princes of the Faith, and be heard, as one whose words were commands, was always sufficient evidence that he was reserved by fate for high achievements. Under the spell of this conviction he soon rallied from his late dejection, and his uplifted head and proud gait now showed the ambitious workings of his heart. “Ay,” cried he, aloud, “the first Prince of the Church who for above a century has dared them to defiance! That is a proud thought, and well may nerve the spirit that conceives it to courageous action.”
CHAPTER XXXIII. THE MANOR-HOUSE OF CORRIG-O'NEAL.
While we leave, for a brief space, the Abbé D'Esmonde to pursue his road, we turn once more to the peaceful scene wherein we found him. Mayhap there be in this dalliance something of that fond regret, that sorrowful lingering with which a traveller halts to look down upon a view he may never see again! Yes, dear reader, we already feel that the hour of our separation draws nigh, when we shall no more be fellow-journeyers, and we would fain loiter on this pleasant spot, to tarry even a few moments longer in your company.
Passing downwards beneath that graceful bridge, which with a rare felicity seems to heighten, and not to impair, the effect of the scene, the river glides along between the rich wooded hills of a handsome demesne, and where, with the most consummate taste, every tint of foliage and every character of verdure has been cultivated to heighten the charm of the landscape. The spray-like larch, the wide-leaved sycamore, the solemn pine, the silver-trunked birch, all blending their various hues into one harmonious whole,—the very perfection of a woodland picture. As if reluctant to leave so fair a scene, the stream winds and turns in a hundred bendings—now forming little embayments among the jutting rocks, and now, listlessly loitering, it dallies with the gnarled trunks of some giant beech that bends into the flood.
Emerging from these embowering woods, the river enters a new and totally different tract of country,—the hills, bare of trees, are higher, almost mountainous in character, with outlines fantastic and rugged. These, it is said, were once wooded too; they present, however, little remains of forest, save here and there a low oak scrub. The sudden change from the leafy groves, ringing with many a “wood note wild,” to the dreary silence of the dark region, is complete as you approach the foot of a tall mountain, at whose base the river seems arrested, and is in reality obliged by a sudden bend to seek another channel. This is Corrig-O'Neal; and here, in a little amphitheatre, surrounded by mountains of lesser size, stood the ancient manor of which mention has been more than once made in these pages.
It is but a short time back and there stood there an ancient house, whose character, half quaint, half noble, might have made it seem a French château; the tall, high-pitched roof, pierced with many a window; the richly ornamented chimneys, the long terrace, with its grotesque statues, and the intricate traceries of the old gate itself, all evidencing a taste not native to our land. The very stiff and formal avenue of lime-trees that led direct to the door had reference to a style of landscape-gardening more consonant with foreign notions, even without the fountains, which, with various strange groups of allegorical meaning, threw their tiny jets among the drooping flowers. At the back of the house lay a large garden, or rather what constituted both garden and orchard; for although near the windows trim flower-beds and neatly gravelled walks were seen, with rare and blossoming plants, as you advanced, the turf usurped the place of the cultivated ground, and the apple, the pear, and the damson formed a dense, almost impenetrable shade.
Even on the brightest day in spring, when the light played and danced upon the shining river, with blossoming cherry-trees, and yellow crocuses in the grass, and fair soft daffodils along the water's edge, smiling like timid beauties, when the gay May-fly skimmed the rippling stream, and the strong trout splashed up to seize him,—even then, with life and light and motion all around, there was an air of sadness on this spot,—a dreary gloom, that fell upon the spirits less like sudden grief than as the memory of some old and almost forgotten sorrow. The frowning aspect of that stern mountain, which gave its name to the place, and which, in its rugged front, showed little touch of time or season, seemed to impress a mournful character on the scene. However it was, few passed the spot without feeling its influence, nor is it likely that now, when scarcely a trace of its once inhabited home remains, its aspect is more cheering.
In a dark wainscoted room of this gloomy abode, and on a raw and dreary day, our old acquaintance, Lady Hester, sat, vainly endeavoring between the fire and the screen to keep herself warm, while shawls, muffs, and mantles were heaped in most picturesque confusion around her. A French novel and a Blenheim spaniel lay at her feet, a scarce-begun piece of embroidery stood at one side of her, and an untasted cup of coffee on a small table at the other. Pale, and perhaps seeming still more so from the effect of her deep mourning, she lay back in her chair, and, with half-closed lids and folded arms, appeared as if courting sleep—or at least unconsciousness.