CHAPTER XVIII.
At the distance of about a quarter of a mile from Clive Grange was a group of six or seven cottages, of neat and comfortable appearance, tenanted by labourers on Mr. Clive's own farm. They were all respectable, hard-working people; and as Clive himself was not without his prejudices, especially upon religious matters, he had contrived that most of those whom he employed should be Roman Catholics. As there were not many of that church in the part of the country where he lived, some of these men had come from a distance. He would not, indeed, refuse a good workman and a man of high character on account of his being a Protestant, but he had a natural preference for persons of his own views, and all things equal, chose them rather than any others. This preference was known far and wide; and consequently, when any of his distant friends wished to recommend an honest man of the Romish creed to employment, where they were certain to be well treated, they wrote to Mr. Clive, so that he had rarely any difficulty in suiting himself.
In one of these cottages, at a much later hour than usual, a light was burning on the night of which I have been speaking; and within, over the smouldering embers of a small wood fire, sat a tall man of the middle age, with a peculiar deep-set blue eye, fringed with dark lashes, which is very frequently to be found amongst the Milesian race. His figure was bent, and his hands stretched out over the smouldering hearth to gain any little heat that it gave out; and, as he thus sat, his eyes were bent upon the red sparks amongst the white ashes, with a grave, contemplative gaze. He seemed dull, and somewhat melancholy, and from time to time muttered a few words to himself with the peculiar tone of his countrymen.
"Ay-e!" he said, as something struck him in the half-extinguished fire, "that one's gone out too. If the priest stays much longer they'll all be out, one after the other. Well, it's little matter for that; we must all go out some time or another, and very often when we think we are burning brightest. That young lad now, I dare say, when he went out for his walk, never fancied his neck would be broke before he came home again. Sorrow a bit! He got what he deserved anyhow, and I'd ha' done it for him if the master hadn't--Hist! That must be the priest's step coming down the hill. He is the only man likely to be out so late in this country, and going with such a slow step, though the lads are having a bit of a shindy to-night they tell me."
The next moment the latch was lifted, the door opened, and Mr. Filmer walked in. The labourer instantly rose and placed a wooden chair for his pastor by the side of the fire, saying, "Good night, your reverence! It's mighty cold this afternoon."
"I don't find it so," answered Filmer; "but I dare say you do, sitting all alone here, with but a little spark like that. I was afraid you would get tired of waiting, and go to bed. I am much obliged to you for sitting up as I told you."
"Oh! in course I did as your reverence said," answered Daniel Connor. "I always obey my priest."
"That's right, Dan," answered Mr. Filmer. "Now I have come to tell you what I want you to do, like a good lad."
"Anything your reverence says, I am quite ready to do," replied the Irishman. "I kept the matter quite quiet as you said, and not a bare word about it passed my lips to any of the servants, for I am not going to say anything that can hurt the master, for a better never lived than he."
"No, Dan," answered the priest; "but I'll tell you what you must do, you must say a word or two to serve him." And Filmer fixed his eyes keenly upon the man's face, which brightened up in a moment with a very shrewd and merry smile, as he replied, "That I'll do with all my heart, your reverence. It's but the telling me what to say and I'll say it."