The kettle was on the fire, tea-things set, every thing prepared for her guest by the hospitable hostess, who thinking the gentleman would take tea to his breakfast, had sent off a gossoon by the first light to Clonbrony, for an ounce of tea, a quarter of sugar, and a loaf of white bread; and there was on the little table good cream, milk, butter, eggs — all the promise of an excellent breakfast. It was a fresh morning, and there was a pleasant fire on the hearth, neatly swept up. The old woman was sitting in her chimney corner, behind a little skreen of whitewashed wall, built out into the room, for the purpose of keeping those who sat at the fire from the blast of the door. There was a loop-hole in this wall, to let the light in, just at the height of a person’s head, who was sitting near the chimney. The rays of the morning sun now came through it, shining across the face of the old woman, as she sat knitting: Lord Colambre thought he had seldom seen a more agreeable countenance, intelligent eyes, benevolent smile, a natural expression of cheerfulness, subdued by age and misfortune.
“A good morrow to you kindly, sir, and I hope you got the night well?— A fine day for us this holyday morning; my Grace is gone to early prayers, so your honour will be content with an old woman to make your tea. Oh, let me put in plenty of tea, for it will never be good; and if your honour takes stirabout, an old hand will engage to make that to your liking, any way; for by great happiness, we have what will just answer for you of the nicest meal the miller made my Grace a compliment of, last time she went to the mill.”
Lord Colambre observed, that this miller had good taste; and his lordship paid some compliment to Grace’s beauty, which the old woman received with a smile, but turned off the conversation.
“Then,” said she, looking out of the window, “is not that there a nice little garden the boy dug for her and me, at his breakfast and dinner hours? Ah! he’s a good boy, and good warrant to work; and the good son desarves the good wife, and it’s he that will make the good husband; and with my good-will he, and no other, shall get her, and with her good-will the same; and I bid ’em keep up their heart, and hope the best, for there’s no use in fearing the worst till it comes.”
Lord Colambre wished very much to know the worst. “If you would not think a stranger impertinent for asking,” said he, “and if it would not be painful to you to explain.”
“Oh, impertinent, your honour! it’s very kind — and, sure, none’s a stranger to one’s heart, that feels for one. And for myself, I can talk of my troubles without thinking of them. So, I’ll tell you all — if the worst comes to the worst — all that is, is, that we must quit, and give up this little snug place, and house, and farm, and all, to the agent — which would be hard on us, and me a widow, when my husband did all that is done to the land; and if your honour was a judge, you could see, if you stepped out, there has been a deal done, and built the house, and all — but it plased Heaven to take him. Well, he was too good for this world, and I’m satisfied — I’m not saying a word again’ that — I trust we shall meet in heaven, and be happy, surely. And, meantime, here’s my boy, that will make me as happy as ever widow was on earth — if the agent will let him. And I can’t think the agent, though they that know him best call him Old Nick, would be so wicked to take from us that which he never gave us. The good lord himself granted us the lase; the life’s dropped, and the years is out; but we had a promise of renewal in writing from the landlord. God bless him! if he was not away, he’d be a good gentleman, and we’d be happy and safe.”
“But if you have a promise in writing of a renewal, surely you are safe, whether your landlord is absent or present.”
“Ah, no! that makes a great differ, when there’s no eye or hand over the agent. I would not wish to speak or think ill of him or any man; but was he an angel, he could not know to do the tenantry justice, the way he is living always in Dublin, and coming down to the country only the receiving days, to make a sweep among us, and gather up the rents in a hurry, and he in such haste back to town — can just stay to count over our money, and give the receipts. Happy for us if we get that same!— but can’t expect he should have time to see or hear us, or mind our improvements, any more than listen to our complaints! Oh, there’s great excuse for the gentleman, if that was any comfort for us,” added she, smiling.
“But, if he does not live amongst you himself, has not he some under agent, who lives in the country?” said Lord Colambre.
“He has so.”
“And he should know your concerns: does he mind them?”
“He should know — he should know better; but as to minding our concerns, your honour knows,” continued she, smiling again, “every one in this world must mind their own concerns: and it would be a good world, if it was even so. There’s a great deal in all things, that don’t appear at first sight. Mr. Dennis wanted Grace for a wife for his bailiff, but she would not have him; and Mr. Dennis was very sweet to her himself — but Grace is rather high with him as proper, and he has a grudge again’ us ever since. Yet, indeed, there,” added she, after another pause, “as you say, I think we are safe; for we have that memorandum in writing, with a pencil, given under his own hand, on the back of the lase to me, by the same token when my good lord had his foot on the step of the coach, going away; and I’ll never forget the smile of her that got that good turn done for me, Miss Grace. And just when she was going to England and London, and, young as she was, to have the thought to stop and turn to the likes of me! Oh, then, if you could see her, and know her, as I did! That was the comforting angel upon earth — look, and voice, and heart, and all! Oh, that she was here present, this minute!— But did you scald yourself?” said the widow to Lord Colambre. “Sure you must have scalded yourself; for you poured the kettle straight over your hand, and it boiling!— O deear; to think of so young a gentleman’s hand shaking so like my own.”
Luckily, to prevent her pursuing her observations from the hand to the face, which might have betrayed more than Lord Colambre wished she should know, her own Grace came in at this instant —“There it’s for you, safe, mother dear — the lase!” said Grace, throwing a packet into her lap. The old woman lifted up her hands to heaven, with the lease between them —“Thanks be to Heaven!” Grace passed on, and sunk down on the first seat she could reach. Her face flushed, and, looking much fatigued, she loosened the strings of her bonnet and cloak —“Then, I’m tired;” but, recollecting herself, she rose, and curtsied to the gentleman.
“What tired ye, dear?”
“Why, after prayers, we had to go — for the agent was not at prayers, nor at home for us, when we called — we had to go all the way up to the castle; and there, by great good luck, we found Mr. Nick Garraghty himself, come from Dublin, and the lase in his hands; and he sealed it up that way, and handed it to me very civil. I never saw him so good — though he offered me a glass of spirits, which was not manners to a decent young woman, in a morning — as Brian noticed after. Brian would not take any either, nor never does. We met Mr. Dennis and the driver coming home; and he says, the rent must be paid to-morrow, or, instead of renewing, he’ll seize, and sell all. Mother dear, I would have dropped with the walk, but for Brian’s arm.”
“It’s a wonder, dear, what makes you so weak, that used to be so strong.”
“But if we can sell the cow for any thing at all to Mr. Dennis, since his eye is set upon her, better let him have her mother, dear; and that and my yarn, which Mrs. Garraghty says she’ll allow me for, will make up the rent — and Brian need not talk of America. But it must be in golden guineas, the agent will take the rent no other way; and you won’t get a guinea for less than five shillings. Well, even so, it’s easy selling my new gown to one that covets it, and that will give me in exchange the price of the gold; or, suppose that would not do, add this cloak — it’s handsome, and I know a friend would be glad to take it, and I’d part it as ready as look at it — Any thing at all, sure, rather than that he should be forced to talk of emigrating: or, oh, worse again, listing for the bounty — to save us from the cant or the jail, by going to the hospital, or his grave, maybe — oh, mother!”
“Oh, child! This is what makes you weak, fretting. Don’t be that way. Sure here’s the lase, and that’s good comfort; and the soldiers will be gone out of Clonbrony to-morrow, and then that’s off your mind. And as to America, it’s only talk — I won’t let him, he’s dutiful; and would sooner sell my dresser, and down to my bed, dear, than see you sell any thing of yours, love. Promise me you won’t. Why didn’t Brian come home all the way with you, Grace?”
“He would have seen me home,” said Grace, “only that he went up a piece of the mountain for some stones or ore for the gentleman,— for he had the manners to think of him this morning, though, shame for me, I had not, when I come in, or I would not have told you all this, and he by. See, there he is, mother.”
Brian came in very hot, out of breath, with his hat full of stones. “Good morrow to your honour. I was in bed last night; and sorry they did not call me up to be of sarvice. Larry was telling us, this morning, your honour’s from Wales, and looking for mines in Ireland, and I heard talk that there was one on our mountain — may be, you’d be curous to see, and so I brought the best I could, but I’m no judge.”
“Nor I, neither,” thought Lord Colambre; but he thanked the young man, and determined to avail himself of Larry’s misconception of false report; examined the stones very gravely, and said, “This promises well. Lapis caliminaris, schist, plum-pudding stone, rhomboidal, crystal, blend, garrawachy,” and all the strange names he could think of, jumbling them together at a venture.
“The lase!” cried the young man, with joy sparkling in his eyes, as his mother held up the packet. “Lend me the papers.”
He cracked the seals, and taking off the cover —“Ay, I know it’s the lase sure enough. But stay, where’s the memorandum?”
“It’s there, sure,” said his mother, “where my lord’s pencil writ it. I don’t read. Grace, dear, look.”
The young man put it into her hands, and stood without power to utter a syllable.
“It’s not here! It’s gone!— no sign of it.”
“Gracious Heaven! that can’t be,” said the old woman, putting on her spectacles; “let me see,’— I remember the very spot.”
“It’s taken away — it’s rubbed clean out!— Oh, wasn’t I fool?&m............