THE UNTENANTED GRAVES. CHAPTERS X., XI., XII., XIII. OSSIANIC LEGENDS. BY THE AUTHOR OF "LEGENDS OF MOUNT LEINSTER". No. I. A VISIT TO THE VALLEY OF WYOMING. AN OLD ESSAYIST. BY LADY WILDE. PART II. IN THE KOLAPORE COUNTRY; OR HOW WE WENT DOWN NOTICES. The Editor of the HIBERNIAN MAGAZINE will pay respectful attention to all contributions forwarded to him for perusal, but he cannot undertake to return unaccepted MSS. Literary communications to be addressed to the Editor at the Office of the HIBERNIAN MAGAZINE, 3 Crow Street, Dame Street, Dublin; and letters on business to John F. Fowler, to whom all money orders are to be made payable. THE "jolly row-very nearly", of which Mr. Mooney informed Mrs. Evans, was very near being an unpleasant affair. When Brian Purcell was cool enough to review the events of the day dispassionately, he congratulated himself upon having escaped the necessity of laying violent hands on Mr. Oliver Grindem. Brian Purcell disliked a quarrel, and kept out of the way of being insulted as much as possible. He did so because he could not help feeling that in the present state of society an interchange of violent language or violent blows with no matter whom, or for what cause, had something disreputable about it. It is so easy for any one to call any one else a scoundrel, and tell him he lied. And then it requires no great heroism to give a man a black eye or lay a cane across his shoulders, when the affair must end in a roll in the gutter and a bloody nose, or in being bound over to keep the peace towards all her Majesty's subjects. Brian dreaded an insult, too, from Mr. Oliver Grindem, because he felt he should have satisfaction. And what satisfaction could he have that would not leave a sting behind it almost as sharp as the unavenged insult? The remedy would be almost as bad as the disease. Brian's grand-uncle did horsewhip Mr. Oliver Grindem's father during an election. But that was sixty years ago, and his grand-uncle immediately called upon Frank O'Ryan of Kilnemanagh, when the following short but pithy conversation took place: "I'm after horsewhipping Grindem”. "Very good". "Of course, if he sends a friend, I 'll refer him to you". "Very well; I'll stay at home for the evening to prevent disappointment". VOL. I. THIRD SERIES. 15 "Good morning. And let it be as early as possible, as I must go out to get in the voters from the mountain". Brian did not regret those fire-eating times. But he could not help thinking that, as a rule, insulting a man now-a-days was more or less a cowardly proceeding. Therefore, giving or receiving an affront was a thing which he wished to keep clear of. But when he remembered Mr. Oliver Grindem's ashy face while he uttered the necessary apology, with white lips and glaring eyes, Brian felt that he had a deadly enemy. "I'm not in his power, thank Heaven", he thought. "I am entirely independent of him". Yet it was this very independence which made the landlord hate him. His grandfather had given a large sum of money for a lease, renewable for ever, of Coolbawn; and the idea that there was one tenant on his property whom he could neither get rid of nor make tremble before him, was gall and wormwood to Mr. Oliver Grindem. Brian's father, however, had no lease, and as his landlord was head and ears in debt, he felt a vague sort of alarm lest by some unlucky chance his enemy should get possession of the estate of which Ballycorrig formed a part. "If he does", he thought, "there will be no mercy for us, and my poor father's heart will be broken. However"'—we are almost tempted to suppress the vulgar adage with which Mr. Brian Purcell dismissed the unpleasant subject-"however, 't is time enough to bid the Devil good morrow when you meet him". The fire blazed pleasantly, and the blaze was reflected all round the old-fashioned parlour in the old-fashioned mahogany furniture. Here we are again tempted to suppress something, for we dearly wish that this young man should stand well with our readers. Mr. Brian Purcell took an ordinary tobacco-pipe from the chimney-piece, and having lighted it, began to smoke. Moreover, at his elbow was a drinkingglass (commonly called a tumbler), with an amber-coloured mixture in it that smoked too. And now, having made a clean breast of it, we can proceed with our story with a clear conscience. That half hour or so on Knockclough Hill was fruitful of sweet and bitter fancies. He foolishly twisted his neck into a very grotesque and painful position for the purpose of looking at his left shoulder. However, she was so preoccupied with the hunt, might she not have rested her hand on his shoulder inadvertently? Of course she might. But then, when he looked round at one time, he found that her eyes, instead of following hounds and huntsmen, were bent upon him with a dreamy sort of look, as if she was trying to remember something. "Bah!" exclaimed Mr. Brian Purcell, putting his pipe to his lips. But the pipe had gone out, and its bowl was quite cold, so that he must have been brooding deeply for some minutes at least. He had recourse to the pipe for the purpose of driving away a thought which kept hovering round and round him, coming nearer and nearer, as if it would nestle in his bosom. The thought was-that Jane Evans loved him still. A thought which, we warn our gentleman, is not to be frightened away with a "bah". Time has so far healed the old wound that he tries to persuade himself that the pain which it used to give him a few years ago was not real-was nothing more than a dream. "Yet, why should I deny it?" he said to himself. "I did suffer. But I have proved that time and an ordinary share of strength of mind can cure the worst cases of this kind. However", said Brian Purcell, after another pause, "I begin to fear that a relapse is possible". We know what would render a relapse impossible in his case; and we have some hopes that he will try it. But he certainly has not tried it yet—that is, so far as he knows. We know a little maiden with such a true heart. The mastiff in the yard has been growling uneasily for some time back, and now he bays a deep-mouthed warning, his master thinks, to some intruder. Brian goes to the window, and sees a light moving through the glen towards the river. He watches it listlessly, under the impression that some persons are out for the purpose of spearing salmon. He remarks that the light becomes stationary at a certain angle of the river, near which he knows are the ruins of an old house. He goes out to quiet the watch dog, and after walking round the house to see that all was right, returns to the parlour. On going to the window to close the shutters, he observes with some surprise that the light is still in the same place. "I thought", said Brian to himself, "that it was Matt Hazlitt and Tim Croak looking for a salmon". For though Matt Hazlitt was a follower of the gentle craft, and could tie a trout fly to perfection, Brian knew he did not scruple to bear a torch by the river bank on occasion, and would plunge his barbed spear into the upturned belly of a salmon without the slightest compunction. But the light near the ruined house was not moving, and evidently was not the light of either a pine torch or a sheaf of straw. After puzzling his brains for some time to account for the phenomenon, Brian put on his hat, and taking a stout stick in his hand, sallied forth with the intention of satisfying his curiosity. He knew the ground so well, he found little difficulty in making his way to the old house. He got inside the walls cautiously from the rere, and found himself within a few yards of the light. Brian Purcell's nerves were certainly not of the weak sort. But on hearing the delving of a spade and the shovelling up of earth, his heart began to thump unpleasantly against his ribs. He saw the figures of two men, one standing upright, the other kneeling on one knee, looking into what he could not help fancying a deep grave, which a third man was digging. Brian Purcell was as ready as any man to face danger, whenever there was a necessity for so doing. But it is no impeachment of his courage to say that at that moment he wished he had come armed with a better weapon than the stout walking-stick. The man who was digging, stopped for a moment and said: "Which of ye has the black-handle knife ?" "I have", replied the man who was standing, in a gruff voice. "I feel myself getting some way nervous", says the voice from the ground, "and I'd like you 'd make sure, for fear of danger". "There's no danger", replied the gruff voice again; "I did the business right. So go on and be d -". The man on one knee started up, and clapped his hand on the mouth of him with the gruff voice. "Let him alone", says this man, in a low, plaintive voice, “or he 'll spoil all. I told you he would, and he will". "Hould your tongue, you angishore", growled the gruff one, “and give us none of your jaw". Here Brian could see this person throw back his head and elevate his elbow, and an odour of whiskey became very perceptible immediately. The digging and shovelling went on again in silence for some minutes. "Would I doubt you, Betty?" the man in the ground exclaimed triumphantly. "What is it?" asked the man with the plaintive voice. "A cave", was the reply. "I have a cave. The spade is after runnin' into it". At this moment a hollow, and even, Brian thought, an unearthly sound issued from the river, quite close to the group. "I'm d―d if it is n't the Devil", exclaimed the gruff voice. "There now”, says the other sorrowfully, and in the same low, plaintive tone. "There now, all is lost. And did n't I tell you this 'd be the end of it ?" "Josh", says the man from below; "Josh, are you able to say the 'Deprofundish'?" "No", was the reply; "I never committed it to memory". "There's no use", says the other, "in asking that unfortunate man "What do you mane? blast you!" says the gruff one. "But, at any rate, may be ye could manage a few words of the 'Prayers for a sowl departin'"". This was said in a faint, gasping way. “D———n it, man", growled the gruff one, "try a drop of this". And stooping down he appeared to hold a bottle to the mouth of the man below. “”T is rewivin'”, says he, evidently after a long pull at the bottle. ""T is rewivin'; and now if wan of ye had the 'Litany for the Dyin' I'd be able to answer id". Here the hollow noise from the river was repeated. The gruff voice swore again that it was his sable majesty, and no mistake. "There now, there is more of it", says the man on one knee plaintively. "And now we may as well give it up. Give me your hand, Tim". |