CASTLE MARY.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XXIII, Issue 7824, 18 December 1886, Page 3 (Supplement)

CASTLE MARY.

BY L. T. MKADE. Author of "Scamp and I," "A Band of Three," CHAPTER XLI. BEADING THE WILL. In Ireland one of the greatest slights which can be offered to a man is not to attend his funeral. To have a goodly gathering of friends and neighbours to accompany you to your last narrow home, is considered such an honour, that many a man, remembering his funeral in the future, abstains from quarrelling ; many a man, as the hour of death approaches, does his utmost to propitate his friends and neighbours ; for to go unattended by hundreds to the grave is a stain not to be lightly got over by any of the survivors.

The Squire had been too stingy and exacting to be in any sense of the word popular ; but his sudden death and tbe great sympathy felt for May, secured to him an enormous concourse of followers to hie grave. Suoh a funeral as the Squire's bad not been seen for years. The train of people who followed the hearse on its dismal journey extended over half a mile. The people in carriages were comparatively few, for the neighbourhood was not rich in landed proprietors, and the dead man had himself owned most of the country's side ; but some fifty outside cars were to be seen, and the train waa wound up by numbers of men and woman on foot, many of the woman "keening" as they went. In Ireland no lady of tho family ever attends the funeral, and De Clifford and the doctor were the nearest friends to accompany the poor Squire. Dismal and terrible did the cortege look. Death was here robbed of none of its terrors, for the simple ideas and more beautiful modern thoughts with regard to death, observed now in most parts of England, would have been conaidered irreverent and indecent by the people of Donegal. May had scattered som6 ilowere over her dead father, but no Rowers adorned the outside of the velvet-covered coffin, and the hearse, with it* black draping, waa hideous in the extreme. As they slowly left the house and went up the avenue, tho women, led by the shrill note of Molly Sheeh«n, set up their wild and indescribably melancholy "keen." No words can describe this Irish sound of woe. It seems to strike the very keynote of death and desolation.

" Wild, wildly that nail ilngeth back on the air, From that lone place of tombs, as if spirits wero there; O'er the silent, the stll), end the cold they deplore They weop for the tearless, whOEe sorrows aro o'er." Mrs. Dβ Clifford and May were left literally alone in the deserted house, for every servant had followed the matter to his last resting place, and even Antoinette had found herself dragged away by Norah and Bridget. Mrg. De Clifford felt really frightened, but Mary took it quietly ; she only turned a little paler when the women's piercing notes reached her, but when Mrs. De Clifford expostulated and said bow terrible and barbarous ehe considered the whole custom, Mary looked at her with wide open and surprised eyes. '• But it is right," she said. "It would be very wroDg, very disrespectful, to luve it otherwise. Oh ! I hope that Molly Sheehan will see that they keen all the way. And the funeral is very large, is it not, Mrs. De Clifford ? Oh ! I do trust it is quite the largest funeral that has taken place for a lonj? time. You can't guess how many people were there, can you? Well, never mind, Bridget will tell me all about it when she comes back." Mrs. De Clifford gazed with some anxiety and even fear at her charge, and failed to understand how any girl could take comfort in what was so ghastly and terrible. The whole affair, however, seemed to soothe May Fitzgerald, and to impart to her a certain sen-jo of consolation. "If a great, great number of people have gone to his funeral, father will be thoroughly pleased," she said more than once. The graveyard which contained the Fitzgerald's family vault, wa3 about seven miles away, and as the funeral procession is never allowed in Ireland to go out of a slow walk, De Clifford, Dr. Flannigan, aud a little lawyer from Rathmullet of the name of Walsh, did not return to Castle Mary until late in the afternoon. Mr?. De Cliflord had ordered a bright fire to bo lighted in May's turret-room, and she was seated in a low armchair by its cheerful glow, while May sat by her side on the floor, and laid her bright head, with it 3 short curls, on her future mother-in-law's knee.

The poor little head ached sadly, and the girl'e heart was heavy as lead. The excitement which the size and magnitude of the funeral had excited in the morning, had all passed away, and she was feeling, in its full desolation, the terrible fact that the father who had petted her, and ehcildeu her, and made much of her, had left the old house never to return. Mrs. De Clifford began to think of ringing the bell and ordering up some tea, when there came a smart tap at the chamber door. Mrs. De Clifford said "Come in," and Antoinette, looking scared and frightened, entered the room. " Ob, yes, ma'am, I has come back halive, I 'as, ma'am, and it ain't for me to speak, but of all the hawful, hawful, hexperiencee, ma'am, this day beats them." "Hush!" said Mrs. Dβ Clifford, holding up a warning finger, and then Antoinette started and got very red as May slowly rose to her feet. " I beg the young lady's pardon," she said, dropping a curtsey, "and I mean no disrespect, but quite the contrary. What I came to say, ma'am, was this, that Mr. De Clifford sent me upstairs to ask you and Miss Fitzgerald to come down without a minute's delay to the library. ,5 "That will do, Antoinette,' said Mrs. De Clifford. " You can go to my bedroom and get out my dinner dress and my laoe cap. See that everything is in order, and that the fire is good. Come, May, darling." " I'm not going downstairs," said May. "I think you had better, my love. Henry has sent for you, ' and I expect he wishes you to be present at the reading of the will. It is doubtless that, dear, the universal custom after fur,erals. Come, darling, we had better not keep my son waiting."

" But the will won't interest me.' " My dear, dear girl, but it will be all about yourself." " Will it, and in father's words ? I did not think of that. I will come. ' The two went down the wide stairs slowly and silently together; and May, still in her white dress, for she had abiiolutely refused as yet to think of mourning, glided by the old lady's side into the sombre old room. The centre table was lit by a pair of candles in heavy silver candlesticks, and at the head of the table sat the little round, red-haired lawyer, Mr. Walsh. The rest of the room was in almost total darkness, but when May entered Dβ Clifford went up to her at once, and taking her hand led her where the light would fall fully on her white drees and almost whiter face, and placing her in a chair, stood himself behind her. May looked round anxiously for Mrs. Dβ Clifford, but she could not distinguish her in the gloom, The lawyer then slowly a:ad deliberately unfolded the parchment on which the late Squires will was drawn up, and read its contents aloud. It was not n long will, and with the exceptions of a lew legacies to Shemns and one or two more of the old retainers, all the Squire's vast wealth in land, and in stocks and shares, besides a considerable property in houses, was left to his only and beloved child, Mary Theresa Fitzgerald. Two conditions were attached to the will: One, that who

over she married should tike the name of Fitzgerald ; the other that Castle Mary was not in her lifetime, nor in the lifetime of her eldest eon, should she marry, ever to find its way into the market. A short codicil, more in the form of a letter than an ordinary formal codicil, was found appended to the will. It was to the effect that on the day Mary Theresa Fitzgerald was united in the holy bonds of matrimony to the Hon. Henry Dβ Clifford, son of the late Lord Koscoe, of Castle Roscoe, the estate was to be charged with a mortgage so the extent of ten thousand pounds, wnich was to be paid over to Henry Dβ Clifford to enable him to purchase a partnership in the firm of Smedley and floss, shipbuilders, London. The will was read without remark or comment, but the codisil was the cause of some surprise od the doctor's part, who looked anxiously, first at the little red-haired lawyer and then at Mary. CHAPTER XLII. ENGAGEMENT KINGS. Soon afterwards the doctor and the lawyer took their leave, and Mary was going towards the door when Dβ Clifford, rising from his seat, followed her. "Can I speak to you?" he asked, in a gentle voice. She raised her blue eyes to his face, a shrinking half-frightened glance, then she said, in a hesitating voice : "If you want me I will stay for a little. ' " Yes, Mary, I want yon. I have naturally much to talk over with you. Mother, you can leave ns for a little." Mary felt her face turning very pale. De Clifford moved an armchair in front of the fire aud motioned to her to seat herself. "No, thank you. I've been sitting all day. 1 would rather Btand. Have you much to say ?" "Naturally I have much to say, Mary," replied De Clifford, with a ring of pathos in his voice. *' You are my betrothed wife, but for days you have avoided me. This kind of thing cannot go on." " I have been in trouble," said Mary, halfhiding her face. "I know that. I have felt for you. I had wished that I might feel with you. Well, Mary, we cannot: bring back tho dead, and now you and I have got to think of the future." Won't you take a chair ?" "No, thanks. I feel fidgetty. I would rather &t»nd."

" Well, I would rather sit, so we need not remain on ceremony with each other. I want to talk to you, Mary, about the future. " But there is nothing to say." "Isn't there? Our ideas differ somewhat on that point. My dear little girl, I feel almost inclined to treat you as a child." "That is just it," said Mary, raising her head, and bestowing on her tall, dark lover a piteous glance. "lam a child, and there is no use bringing me plans, and talking to me about the future. I only know that father is dead, and that everything has oome to a standstill, and my head aches. Please may I go back to my room ?" Dβ Clifford took her hands in his and drew her to his side. "Call me by my name," he said. " Your name? Mr. Dβ Clifford. Havel not done so ?" "My name with you is Henry. Say it." Mary struggled to withdraw her hands. " Say it!" repeated Dβ Clifford. The poor little fly, caught in the spider'd web, looked round tremblingly. " Henry," she faltered,

" That is right, pretty one. Now you must do something more. You must kiss me." "Oh? no 1 I won't! Icantl Oh ! how unkind you are to me, and father only just in hie grave." Mary began to sob violently, and De Clifford, still holding her hands, drew her down at last to a low seat at the fire. "We will say nothing more about the kiss at present," he remarked, graciously. " .Show me that little hand. Here, I waut this tinger, the third on the left hand. Shut your eyea, naughty girl; when you open them again that ringer will shine." Here De Clifford pushed the diamond ring which he had bought more than a week ago, on to Mary's small finger. "Is it not pretty? Doee it not shine?" he asked, triumphantly. "It is very pretty," ehe replied, her lips beginning to tremble. " It is your engagement ring, my darling." " Yes," she said, and now she locked her two hands together in such a position that the sparkle of the diamonds was hidden. "And now," said De Clifford, "that \»e have got over this matter, and you wear my ring which formally ratifies our engagement, I should like to say a few words about the future. lam quite aware that you must be greatly attached to your old home, and far be it from me to wound you in any particular. You will always find me good to you, child. I have promised your father—a promise to the dead counts ior much—l now promise you, so you need not shrink from me, little

one. ' "I won't," said Mary, "no, indeed I won't; ouly to-night I feel so very ead." "I know, poor child, and you would like to get back to your room. Well, a few words will be sufficient, but I think for all parties they had better be spoken to-night." " Yes ?" said Mary, interrogatively. " Unfortunately," said De Clifford, watching her pretty face as the firelight played upon it, " I must return to London almost immediately! I would give you a week, for I know how attached you are to Castle Mary, but, alas, my own plans make it quite impossible. On Monday 1 muse leave at farthest." Suddenly Mary's face became animated, her fingers moved, and the ring began to flash in the firelight. " It is very good of you, but indeed I don'fc mind," she said, eagerly. "1 know you must have a great deal to do, and it would not be right for you to negleot your work. I am not such a child that I don't understand that- Fatber always told me that it was so important for business men to be punctual and on the spot." "That is right. I am delighted to find you view matters so sensibly. Then you will be quite ready to come with me on Monday ?" "I ?" said Mary, turning very pale. "Oh ! I'm not going." " But, my dear child, indeed you are. Do you suppose, for an instant, that I shall leave a poor little thing like you by yourself in this great place."

"But, please—please—Henry,"said Mary, bringing out the name with a great effort, and rising to her feet, " it is all arranged. Your mother and I have it all arranged. She will stay with me. She is good, and I like her so much. We will stay here very quietly together, and everything must go on just the same as in father's time, so of course you will be very Having. And you will go back to London and save money, too, until we have enough to marry on. Father always said that people should not marry until they had plenty of money, and though he also said I was rich, yet 1 don't expeot I am rioh enough for that. After a few years you may have made enough', Henry, and then you can come to me, and I'll promise to be vary faithful to you. Even if he comes back—" Here she grew confused, and changed the subject. " I will be faithful to you, Henry," said the little thing, now laying one of her hands for an instant on hie shoulder. "I promised father I would marry no one else, and I won't. I will marry you when we are rich enough. You can go to London, Henry. I won't mind, and I won't be uneasy, noF expect you to write very often. I don't like letters—l don : t really. You can go to London to-morrow if you like." Dβ Clifford waited until all the little eager troubled words had come out, then he uttered a couple of short sentences in an authoritative voice. " You are a child, little one, and don't understand. I will be good to you, very good, bat you must obey me. You shall see Castle Mary again before long, but on Monday you are to come to London with my mother and me. There, I have spoken. Let me take you to your room now."

CHAPTER XLIII. A MISSING MAN. When Humphrey left the hotel for a nooturnal walk, he went along quickly until he reached the Thames Embankment. All the events which had occurred bad troubled him deeply, and the effects of his recent fever in the Barbadoea still showed themselves in throbbing temples and a slight confusion of ideas. Nothing so completely upsets tho equilibrium of a good man as to find himself surrounded by treachery. His most familiar and his deareit friend had betrayed him. The consequence of this betrayal was such a revelation to him that for the time being he believed all men false. For Mary's sake he still believed in women. His one and only desire now was to ge*

back to the young girl and show to her and to her father what a villain they were trusting in the person of Henry Dβ Clifford. He walked slowly along, his hot brow cooled and soothed by the night air, but his thoughts so preoccupied that he never noticed the queer little skulking figure who all this time was dodging his footsteps. At last, slightly tired with his walk, he sat down on a bench not far from Cleopatra's Needle. He looked at his watch and saw by the gas-light that it was now a quarter to three. He had time enough to rest here, with a cool breeze playing on him, for he need not get back to his hotel until it was necessary t j strap his rugs together and get away. 11 is portmanteau was already packed and the Key in his pocket. He felt that he could not return to his bed in that diugy little bedroom, and he knew that he should be better when actively employed. As he sat, however, he began to shiver, and suddenly he sprang to his feet, and the one word " ague! " paesed his lips. He knew then that he dared not sit any longer in the night air; five minutes more of such imprudence, and he would be down with a repetition of hia West Indian fever. His teeth began to chatter, and he pulled up the collar of his great coat and prepared to walk briskly back to his hotel. As he did so he was accosted by a queer, miaehapen, ugly little man. The man touched the brim of a battered hat, and begged that he might "speak one word with hie honour." Had he been an Englishman, Humphrey would not have listened to him, but the accent of Hibernia interested him for Mary's sake, And he turned and addressed the man briefly : "lam in a hurry. Have you anything to say ?" "Just a word with yez, Mr. Humphrey. I won't kapo your honour more than a single blessed minute." " Walk along with me, then, fellow, if you must speak. How can you possibly know my name ? Who are you ?" •'Michael O'Reilly, your honour, and I'm from the old part in Donegal. Oh, glory be to God and all his saints, I was riz and born in the beautiful country round Castle Mary."

"So you are from those riarte J" said Humphrey. "I know them." "And you know Miss Mary Fitzgerald?" said the man, with a sly look. "I do," said Humphrey, in a short tone, and quickening his pace, so that the man had absolutely to run by his side. " I know Miss Fitzgerald. What is your business with me, fellow? Out with it." •'Ob, your honour," said the man, "and did yez never, never hear our party Miss Mary talk of wan called little Nancy, a girleen with black eyes and a emiSe swate as the blush of the morning. It wouldn't have been been like Miss Mary Fitzgerald to forget Nancy. ' The man was playing a villainous part, but, wretch that he was, even he could not speak the beloved name of his only dead child, without a tremor of real emotion in his voice. The genuine sound caused Humphrey to turn round and gaze at him for tae l i rat time with some interest. "Miss Fitzgerald did once speak to me about a child called Nancy, the child of an Irishman who might have been you. She said there was a story about the child, but eho would not tell it to me. She said the child and her father had disappeared, and fihe did not know what had become of them. Miss Fitzgerald has a kind heart, aud she was sorry about the little girl. Is she yours ?"

" Yes, your honour." "She is alive, then, and with you in London ?" " She ba, your honour." Here the man made a great effort to strangle back a eob or catch in his voice. The sound produced in Humphrey a sudden serine of impatience. " What are you following me for ?" he said, suddenly. " Have you any message for Miss Fitzgerald ? If so, out with it and go. I don't choose that you should walk with me any longer." " Nan have a message, your honour." "Nau—Naucy. Well, let me have it. I will take it for her." " Then you'll come and eee her—mister— Mr. Humphrey. You'll come and see" my Nancy, 'i'is she as won't die aisy until ehe have sent a message to our Misß Mary. You'll come and see her, kind, kind, jintleman, and give her an aisy death the blessed night." The gaslight fell now on the man's face. He joinud hie thin hands. His gesture was piteous and supplicating, and Humphrey was btruck for the first time by his abject wretchedness. " How do I know that your story ia true ?" he said. " How, for instance, is it that you know my name, and why have you followed me like this in the dead of night?" "Because of Nancy," said the man again. " Jict because of my little black-eyed girleen, with the patient smile about her lit to brjak your heart. I was standing at Mr. De Clifford s door last night, your honour, and I seen you come in, and I heard the man say as you was Mr. Humphrey, and I had a bit of a letter wrote to me from my own place nigh to Castle Mary, aud they tell'd me in the letter that wan bearing your name, and like to you, was often there coortm' her too, but we none of us in our counthry wanted him to get her. So when yez corned out I followed yez, all unbeknownt, to the bit of a hotel, and I went into the hall to carry in some luggage, and I heard yez say that -yez was off to Holyhead by the morning train ; and I says to myself, What does Holyhoad mane but ould Ireland, and what does old Ireland mane but Castle Mary ? And I says to myself again, Oh, glory ! it may be the kind gentleman will take the bit of a message across the say for my Nancy, and so let her heart rest. Tbon I made up my moind to stand outside the door all night, and to get yez on my bended knees to come and see Nancy, afore ye went to ould Ireland ; and when ye came out early in the morning, why I ji«t praised the Vargin and I followed ye. Ye'll come, your honour, ye'il come. Tisn'fc for you to say no to a poor bit of agirleea when she's dying hard, and the bit.of a message will comfort her."

Humphrey stood still and hesitated. The man's was certainly a queer tale, but he had heard Mary speak more than once of a little girl named Nancy O'Reilly. She had always spoken of her with great dietress, with bated breath, and paling cheek, and had on one occasion even said to Humphrey, " I would give much, much to know if Nancy is alive." She. had scarcely mentioned Nancy's father : her apparent trouble and dietress had been for the child herself. It would be uice now if he could bring her tidings of her—a secondary matter certainly compared to the terrible and important business which spurred him on, but still it would something worth taking a little trouble for to chase away even this anxiety from hie darling's life. He pulled out his watch and saw that there was time enough. " Do you live far from here ?" he asked. "No, your honour, no, your honour, only jest foment ye, round by the fifth corner, turn to the left, down the alley, and the tenth house in the row. "Bequick, then, man—direct me. I will give you and your Nancy one hour for the sake of Miss Fitzgerald." A queer gleam, half of triumph, half of fear, passed across the man's distorted face. He gave a quick sigh, and with the hasty ejaculation under his breadth of " Oh, glory," trotted on like a dog in front of Humphrey. Occasionally he looked back to see if the upright and rather tall figure was following, then satisfied, resumed his dog-like pace, and tamed down with great rapidity street after street, and alley after alley. In London miserable purlieus are always within easy reach of respectable and even aristooratic quarters, and Humphrey soon lost a sense of his bearings, and looked around him in some horror at the narrowness of the streets and the filthy and degraded aspect of the houses, and wondered inwardly what these places must belike in the day timo and early in evening and night. What wretched beings, what terribly depraved men, what awful women, what miserable semblances of little children, must iisue forth from these houses ! Horrible smells greeted Humphrey as they proceeded, and at last, ashisoompanion,withaquick backward glance, glided under a narrow archway into a worse alley than any which had preoeded it, Humphrey called out, " I say, bold there! If you are going to lead me Into any worse places I shan't go on !" " No, ten to your right, your honour," said O'Reilly, and now be came up to Humphrey's side, and walked with him as though to guide him. The houses in this alley were tall, many storeys high, and seemed to lean forward at the top as if to greet eaoh other. Very little sky coald have ever have been visible from this murky and wretched spot, and Humphrey, as he strode along by O'Keilly'e side, felt such a sense of giddiness and even pausea assailing him, that he began

to regret, even for the sake of pleasing Mary, that he had come. "You say your child is dying. What child could live in suoh pestilent air ?" he said. " Ah, here we are ; that ia right. I can only stay two or three minutes. Your place was farther from the Embankment than you gave me any idea of." •' One minute, your honour, one minute," said O'Reilly. "I'll make quick of them stiira, your honour, and run up first and acquaint Nancy. Jiet stand inside the passage, Mr. Humphrey, sir, and I'll be back in a twinkle. ' O'Reilly disappeared into the depth of the black-looking house, and Humphrey stood under its shadow, not too well pleased at finding himself alone in such a quarter. Even O'Reilly's protection seemed to him better than nothing, and for a brief moment O'Reilly had disappeared. He began to curse his foliy for ever having followed this stranger, or for hiving been iulluoDced by his queer and unlikely story. A strange fear, which he told himself was unreasonable and ridiculous, took possession of him, and he looked towards the distant entrance of the alley with an uncomfortable desire to fly and leave O'Reilly and Nan in the lurch. When Humphrey and his companion had entered this alley, the place had been deserted, not a soul had been in eight; but now, as he looked towards the farther end, he was startled to see two broadly made and ill* looking men standing one at each side of the narrow archway.

The men wero smoking and carrying on a vigorous conversation together, and Humphrey never Baw them once glance in his direction. They effectually barred his exit, however, and he became instantly firmly convinced, by the very cut of their garments and their thick, bull dog necks, that they would let no well-dressed person pass them in such a quarter unmolested. The archway was very narrow and rather low, and Humphrey could not possibly have passed between them without running the risk of being pinioned. He looked towards the other end of the alley and saw that it waa blind. He perceived, with a queer sinking at his heart, that the place where the men stood was his only exit. Humphrey was a very slight man, and weakened by recent fever and the enervating influence of a tropical climate, not too muscular. He remembered with a queer thrill that he had notes to a considerable amount about his person, that be had a gold watch in his pocket and a signet ring of some value on his hand. What a fool he had been to follow that wretched Irishman, and what was keeping the fellow now ! He turned round impatiently and passed into the dark passage. He was startled to find another man close to him — a red-haired person, who stood in his shirt sleeves, with his brawny arms exposed to view. This man leant against the doorway of the house and smoked the worst tobacco, and looked up with a meaningless stare in the direction of the sky. He, too, seemed as if he did not see Humphrey, and Humphrey, with his heart beating unpleasantly fast, thought it beet to address him, "Good morning," he said.

" Morning," retained the man, without turning his head, and puffing great volumes of villainous smoke from his pipe. At this instant O'Reilly, with his faoe very white and bedewed with perspiration, appeared. " She was took with a bit of a ewound, and I had throuble in bringing her round. Your honour will pardon me, but she's all right now, and that planed. ' Oh, glory, , she says, ' and may I send a message 10 my own Miss Mary ?' Come, your honour, jist step along the passage, and mind your footing when you come to the third step, for it's gone, and there s a black howle right down into the cellar, thirty feet below yez. Come along, your honour. Hould me by the coat tails if you like and I'll guide you." Humphrey noticed that as they entered the passage the red-haired man gave a low whistle, and then followed them. O'Rielly went on in front, and Humphrey on reaching the first landing, saw, or fancied he saw, a shadow against the wall which might well represent another human being. The idea now overcame him forcibly that he had been entrapped, and that he was not going to visit any dying child. He tried to colleot his senses and to act as best he could in the horrible emergency in which he found himself. The next lauding was narrow, and not quite dark. Humphrey, glancing quickly at it, saw that it was empty. He made a desperate resolve. Here he would stand and tight for his life. Making a basty movement, he sprang in front of O'Keilly, reached the landing before him, and turned round. "Look here," he said, "I don't like thia place. Your story is false : I am uot going to see any child, fam not going another step. Stand back and let me pass !"

As he spoke he leant against a door, and aimed a sure blow at the Irishman, who uttered a cry and fell backwards down the stairs. Now waa Humphrey's time, now, if he could make one dash downstairs, and past these men, and taking them absolutely by surprise, make his escape. Iα a moment, however, he saw that his chance was denied him. The red-haired man, accompanied by the man who had stood in shadow in the first landing, and the two who had guarded the entrance to the alley, dashed with great oaths up the stairs. " I must at least make one fight for my life," thought poor Humphrey, and leaning against the closed door, he prepared for a terrible struggle. But now a horrible thing happened. The door itself against which he leaned slowly opened, and two hands from within took bold of Humphrey, and, dragging him into pitch darkness, aimed a blow at him which rendered him unconscious. (To be continued.]