CHAPTER XX.—(Continued.)

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXI, Issue 16, 3 February 1893, Page 21

CHAPTER XX.— (Continued.)

Mr Perrington looked through the window, and for the first time saw that young Tom Dwyer was among the crowd under the trees, which was less closely b add led together, and began to show symptoms of breaking up again into twos and threes as tbe day cleared up. Tom Dwyer was dressed in a suit of light-brownish gray tweed, and locked provokingly dry and warm and fresh, as he stood erect with bis shoulders thrown back and his hands in his coat pockets in an attitude that showed his well knit figure to the best advantage. There was Bilence for some moments ; but Mrs Perringcon laid her white small band on tbe corner of tbe table, and seemed determined to have her way . It could scarcely be said of Mrs Perrington that she was "no longer young." It certainly could not be denied that she was still a handsome woman, and every incb a lady.

"Go tell Mr Dwyer to come in," she said quietly, turning to the rent*warner, who without tbe least symptom of hesitation obeyed tbe order at once. A minute after, Tom Dwyer was doffing his low round hat, as he entered the office, bowing in some surprise to a Blight but evidently kindly-meant inclination of the head from tb«

landlord*! wife, who had the name among the tenantry of being proud, if not hangbty and scornful. Tom Dwyer waited for lome time, expecting to be addressed by the landlord ; bat that gentleman only leant back in his chair and ■tared into the young farmer's face, not a little flatbed by embarrassment, and uncertainty as to what he ought to do. " My father," said Tom Dwyer at last, " caught a bad cold at the fair on Wednesday, and is confined to bis bed." The landlord seemed to laugh, keeping his eyes fixed on the young man's face— but made no reply. 11 1 hare the rent," went on Tom Dwyer, a little hurriedly thrusting his hand into an inside breast-pocket, and drawing oat a bnndle of notes. For a moment Tom Dwyer thought he had done something ▼cry ridiculous, if not unmannerly, in speaking of his father's illness in such a presence ; and opening the bundle of notes he laid them hastily upon the table. Bat Mr Perrington only stared and grinned. Mrs Perrington seemed determined to remain in the office — which surprised Bill Eeerawan, who had never known her to do so before. Sbe took a paper in her hand, pretending to read it, but keeping her eyes fixed upon her husband's tace with a look of mingled reproach and contempt. " There is the rent." said Tom Dwyer, laying his hand upon the bank-notes and drawing them a little nearer to the landlord, who, however, took no notice of them. Tom Dwyer now became quite calm, allowing the band to remain resting upon the table, while the other, in which he held his low round hat, dropped easily by his tide. There was a mixture of amusement and admiration in the glances with which Mrs Perrington contemplated the repose of Tom Dwyer's face and figure, in which even her keen and experienced eye could scarcely detect the least appearance of acting. ** I thought," she remarked, " that you were out in that awfully heavy rain ; but I'm glad to Bee I was mistaken." " I went into the lodge, ma'am," he replied, taking his hand from the table, " and remained there till it was nearly over." Mr Perrington snatched up the notes, and having counted them hurriedly, filled a printed form oT receipt, and pushed it across the table. Tom Dwyer took op the receipt and withdrew. ''He's a very gentlemanly young man," said Mrs Perrington, laying down the paper she had pretended to read. " One would think be was accustomed to the best society." Bill Keerawan's mouth opened, with as near an approach to an expiession of surprise as his stolid countenance was capable of assuming. "Call in Con Cooney," said Mr Perrington, in a raspiog voice, as his wife retired, biting her lip, as if to prevent Bill Keerawan from observing the smile that flashed over her haodsome, though somewhat worn face. The lady bad her grievances as a married woman, which she felt keenly enough, but which her pride made her pretend altogether to ignore. It was not with any intention of retaliating that she went into the office to protest against young Tom Dwyer being left out in the rain ; but she could not help a feeling of mischievous gratification at her husband's annoyance and its evident cause. Mrs Perrington had been sitting in her parlour alone and lonely, listening to the wind as it whistled through the trees, and occasionally glancing towards the window, whea ho erratic blast flung the rain against them as if a fire-engine was playing upon the house. Bhe knew that the tenants were exposed to the pelting of that pitiless storm. But Mr Perrington would as soon have thought of commiserating so many rough-coated, long-horned cows, huddled under that old tree in the lawn, as that little crowd of Irish tenantfarmers. They were made to endure wind and raia without wincing. But when the miniature hurricane had spent its fury, and Mrs Perrington, glancing listlessly through her parlour windo*, observe J a well-built, good-looking, and— as 6he said to berself — "genteel" young man among the stirring crowd, dressed too in what seemed to be a suit of " summer cloth," she was struck with the aptness of the circumstance, she went at once to call her husband a attenion to it. The result was altogether satisfactory to her ; but whether she rendered a real service to young Tom Dwyer is quite another question.

Bili Keerawan appeared bareheaded outside the hall-door, a sign that the day's proceeding* were about to commence in the regular way, and according to long-established usage. The rent-warner, looking gravely sorrowful, as if some solemn religions ceremony in connection with a funeral was proceeding inside, beckoned to Con Cooney, who immediately walked towards the hall. Con had an old lease, two of the lives in which (Martin Dwyer and Ned Cormack) were still in existence, and was consequently, in a sense, independent. Had many others got such leases— as Ambrose Armstrong's father, while in charge of the properly, recommended, several hundred acres of the heathery mountain-side would be yieldiog full crops of potatoes and oats, like Con Cooney 's little farm — to which, we may tell the reader, Julia Flynn'd violet eyes were turned with a wistful, lingering goce, wnile she milked th.) little brown cows, morning and evening, during the summer and autumn months. Even this very day of which we write, and while that brief bat fierce rainstorm was sweep-

ing ronnd the breast of the mountain, Julia peeped through the leaves of the geranium in her bedroom window, and wondered whether the hailstones beat with greater violence against Mare Oooney's window — in which she knew there was a geranium also— than against her own. Jalia did not know that Con was just there at Woodcourt to pay the rent. But his father paid it ; for it was only the night before he lent poor Andy Oody twenty-seven shillings to make up the half-year's rent. Davy Lacy was also aware of the fact that Mr Percy Perrington'a tenants were paying their rent that day. The shoemaker, who was a reader of the human countenance, solemnly assured Body Flynn that he could tell to an hour how near the gale* day was by looking in a farmer's face. Oon Cooney stopped before he reached the hall-door, as Mr Oormack rode np at the moment, and dismounting from his black cob, stamped his feet several times upon the gravel, "By gad, Oon," said Ned Cormack, " 'tis a very cold day. But I saw that shower coming on from the Windgap Hills, and turned back till it was over." " Myself and Tom Dwyer ran into the lodge from it," returned Oon Cooney. " I tould him to wait for me there, as I partly guessed I'd be one of the first that'd be called in." " I saw the white greyhound at the door, and thought it was like bis," Mr Oormack remarked, handing the rein to Bill Eeerawan, " We nevir knew he waa after us," returned Oon, " till we wur as far as the forge ; and we couldn't get him to go back then." " The master hates the sight of that dog," said Eeerawan, in his seriously sorrowful way. "He axed him from Ponsonby, an' he refused him. He was going to shoot him several times. I thought it was very foolish of young Tom to bring him here." While Ned Oormack was closeted with the landlord, Bill Keerawan laid his hand on Oon Oooney's shoulder. " Oon," said the rent-warner, " mind what I say to you. If there's any talk about Tom Dwyer, for your life take care and don't • Misthsr him.' " "Why so f" Con Cooney asked, looking rather pntzled. " Nothin'," returned Bill Eeerawan, with awful solemnity.— " Nothin' sets the masther so wild like Mistherin' a tenant, for you could say nothin' greater than Misther to himself. I'm afeard the misthress is after doin' harm by Mistherin' young Tom. He doesn't like either to see her takin 1 notice ny likely young fellowß. Bat she does it o' purpose to vex him. She knows things," Bill went on lowering his voice, " that she don't pretend to. An' faith, I think she's frightenin' him. You don't see him serenadin' up there as of'en as he used," and the rent-warner nodded towards the mountain. "Dp where?" Oon Oooney asked with suppressed fierceness, while his face flushed crimson. " Yon know what I mane," returned the rent-warner, nodding in a particular direction — which was not towards Oon Oooney's house. " Oh, I know," said Oon Cooney with an impatient jerk of the head ; " here is Mr Cormack ; so I'd better go in and pay the rent.' 1 He could not halp noticing that Ned Cormack passed him in silence, with his eyes fixed on the ground. It was plain that something unusual had taken place between Mr Percy Perrington and his wealthiest tenant that day. " You're waiting for Con Cooney, Tom," Mr Cormack remarked, on seeing Tom Dwyer sanding at the door of the lodge. "He was going in as I was coming out ; so he'll be with you immediately. But Tom," he added, after reflecting for a minute, " will you call in when you are passing ? I wish to have a little conversation with you." " Very well, sir ; I'll call in," Tom answered, feeling uneasy and even alarmed. There wascertaioiy something strange in Mr Oormack's manner. He seemed to have a struggle with himself before he could ask Tom Dwyer to call in on his way home. And as he rode slowly toward the mountain, the face of this worldly-minded but upright man was agitated by contending emotions. He cherished a deep feeling of admiration and gratitude for his first love, Ellen Dwyer. She was his eood angel. He had to thank her for bringing about his marriage with — he verily believed — a " perfect woman." His daughter — he was beginning to feel very proud of Alice — was at that moment completing her education under the affectionate care of Ellen Dwyer. For poor honest, simple-hearted Martin, too, he enter tamed a feeling of real regard. While he had come to look upon Tom's society as a sort of ntcesssary matter of conrßa, he scarcely gave a thought to Nannie and Nellie, and did not think at all of their mother. He'd miss old Martin a good deal. But the thought of seeing Tom no more was absolutely painful. A tear did really glisten in Ned Cormack's gray eye as he looked at that old ivy-clad farm-house ; though, nnlike Ambrose Armstrong, no thought of the twin sisters crossed bis mind. But bis heart swelled with a great joy as in imagination he joined all that land enclosed by the high wall of loose brown boulder stones to his own broad acres. " There wouldn't be such another farm in the three counties,'* thought Ned Cormaok, as he reined in his black cob, at a point of the road from which his eye could take in the whole of the two farm|

•xcept the portion of his own hidden by the fir-grove. Then he thought of his little son, and murmured audibly the words, " My little boy !" in tones that came np from the bottom of his heart ; and poor Martin Dwyer and his son were forgotten. Yet when Tom called an hour later, Ned Oormack did warn him to be careful and do nothing that might offend the landlord ; and advised him to tell his father to be on hit guard, as be had reason to believe that Mr Percy Perrington would be only too glad of a pretext to fall out with him. On their fray from Woodoourt, Tom Dwyer and Oon Cooney passed Sammy Bloan on the road. The little bailiff stretched his •tout legs, and cocked np the toes of his laced boots to keep up with them. " That's a very pretty white greyhound," Sammy Sloan remarked, by way of opening a conversation. 11 Who is this coming down the hill ? " said Tom Dwyer, not heeding the bailiff's commendation of Bover'a beauty and not observing that Oooney had lagged behind a little, as if he had no particular faacy for Mr Sloan's company. " I really can't recognise him," returned the bailiff, nearly cloaing his eyelids to assist his short-sightedness. 11 Do you know who he is ? " Tom aßked, again turning round to Con Oooney. 14 Devil a know I know," Con replied with a pnszled look. " But 'tis plain he knows us." " I think he's a clergyman," said Sammy Sloan, Bhading his halfshut eyes with his two hands. Tom Dwyer laughed aloud, as ha recognised in the person approaching George Ponsonby's foster-brother, Bob Dee. " I hope your reverence is well," said Oon Cooney, as Bob Dee came nearer with a proud grin on his sooty face. 11 The first eye I gey at you I knew you," exclaimed Bob Dccl looking at Tom Dwyer, and evidently delighted with his own visua, quickness and mental lucidity. « Faith an' I did so," he added slowly and assnriogly, " be the white coat." " Th»t was very Bhrewd of yon, Bob," Sammy Sloan remarked with a cautious wink ; « you knew Mr Dwyer by the light-coloured coat." " Aye, begor," returned Bob Dee, evidently surprised at his own cleverness. " An' besides," he went on, " I knew Rover." '•If you were poaching, Mr Dwyer," said the little bailiff blandly, •• you'd be easily recognised by your coat and your dog." " Ponsonby cried afther Raver," said Bob Dee. " Though he says I'm a fool, Bob," says he, " you'll never sea poor Rover again. Perrington was going to shoot him, an' I gave him to Mr Amby. An' then he began to cry." added Bob Dee, looking from one to the other of his listeners, and laughinsr at Ponsonby's silliness in crying for the loss of his dog. " An' Ponsonby says— O I'm a fool," he added, as if the notion was the funniest of jokes. •' Who gave you that grand hat and coat, Bob ?" Coa Cooney ■sked. " Father Clancy," Bob replied, looking down at the long skirt of the clerical coat. " Twas daskish when I -went home, an' my mother made a curtchy to me—she thought I was a priest. I promised Father Clancy I wouldn't rob my poor m jther any more, an' naither I won't," added the penitent thief, " bee ausa she keeps the munny ondher her head every night since I made the last haul, an' the devil couldn't come at it. An" 'tis Ponsonby she? sends to buy the wisted now, for fear I'd buy tabaccy with the mon ey. Ponsonby is well able to knit a stockin', only he can't turn the heel. My mother," continued Bob Dee, suddenly becoming angry- and fretful, •• ud wear the flesh off your bones workin'. She'd mak.e me carry furze an 1 scraws for the fire— besides houldin' the wiatedi till I'd have pains in my arms while Bhe'd be makin' a bottom as 1 >ig as your two fists. "That's too bad," said Tom Dwyer.. "Why doesn't she make Ponsonby do his share ?" 11 She doesn't, then," replied Bob I? tee, with tears of iodignation in his eyes. •■ He has nothin' to do butu t to knit away fair and aisy, while she'd be tell in 1 him stories al ,out his mother. Ponsonby's mother was a lady," Bob went on, si iddenly seeming to forget hiß grievances, and resuming his good huo jour. " An' he has a cousin in the County Clare that's a rich man, : in' has as foine a house as the priest. He'll go down to tbe County Clare when he gets new clothes; •n' then he'll be rich an' I'll never be ia the want of a poip an' tabaccy ; an' my mother 1 !! get an« jw eiilr gownd," added Bob Dee'

planting the end of his long stick, or rather pole, upon the road, and pulling his clerical hat over his browe. " Oi'll go over now to Paddy Ryan 'a, an' they'll give me me belly full of leathercoats." " That poor woman," said Sammy Sloan, " is living in the loneliest little hovel I ever saw. 'Tis built of sods and scraws, as they call them, and covered with furze. Only for tbe smoke I'd never know there was a human abode within a mile of me, when one day I sat down to rest as I was croßsing over the hills. I was really surprised when I went in and saw the poor woman knitting all alone there. 'I was like something you'd read in a story-book. Very few people pass that way. She told me her husband was a furze-cutter, when I asked her why she lived in that lonely place, and that she's used to it now, and has nowhere else to live." " I was never up there," said Tom Dwyer, looking toward Knock* grana Hill. " But I remember heating Body Flynn describing the house, the time that Ponsonby and Bob Dee bad the fever." " I went as far as the foot of the hill with Body a few times," said Con Cooney, " but I was too much afraid of the sickness to go up." " He toutd me 'twas sense Ponsonby got when he was gettin' bis increases. Ponsonby is not a right fool at all, for he gets fits of sensibleness ; but Bob is a born fool." " I must go in to Mr Cormack's," said Tom Dwyer, on reaching tbe gate of Rock view House. Bring Rover over the bridge with yon, and wait at the house for me, if I'm not there before yon." " How could be be np before you ?" the little bailiff asked. " There's a short cut," returned Con Cooney curtly, as he walked on towards Corriglea Bridge. " He's a fine young fellow," said Sammy Sloan, looking after Tom Dwyer as be walked with his usual springy step and slightly devil* may-care swing up the avenue. " And that light dress becomes him admirably." Mr Sloan had to undergo a severe cross-examination upon oath in reference to that light-coloured dress, as hereafter shal appear. {To he continued.")