“By the powers, I’m not one of those harum-scarum sort, who would make up a fight when there’s no occasion for it, and as your ‘haviour is that of a gentleman, I think it will perhaps be better to shake hands upon it, and forget it altogether. Suppose, now, we’ll consider that it was all a mistake? You give the shilling, as you intended to do, I’ll swear, only you were in so great a hurry — and then, perhaps, you’ll not object to throw in another shilling for that same tap with the cane, just to wipe off the insult as it were, as we do our sins, when we fork out the money, and receive absolution from the padre; and then, perhaps, you will not think it too much if I charge another shilling for my time and trouble, for carrying a message between two gentlemen.”

  “On the contrary, Mr O’Donaghan, I think all your demands are reasonable. Here is the money.”

  Mr O’Donaghan took the three shillings. “Then, sir, and many thanks to you, I’ll wish you a good evening, and Mr O’Rourke shall know from me that you have absolution for the whole, and that you have offered every satisfaction which one gentleman could expect from another.” So saying, Mr O’Donaghan put his hat on with a firm cock, pulled on his gloves, manoeuvred his stick, and, with a flourishing bow, took his departure.

  I had hardly dismissed this gentleman, and was laughing to myself at the ridiculous occurrence, when Mr Cophagus returned, first putting his cane up to his nose with an arch look, and then laying it down on the table and rubbing his hands. “Good — warm old lady. No — dead and cold? but left some thousands — only one legacy — old Tom cat — physic him to-morrow — soon die, and so on.”

  On a more full explanation, I found that the old lady had left about nine thousand pounds in the funds and bank securities, all of which, with the exception of twenty pounds per annum to a favourite cat, was left to Mr Cophagus. I congratulated him upon this accession of fortune. He stated that the lease of the house and the furniture were still to be disposed of, and that afterwards he should have nothing more to do; but he wished me very much to assist him in rummaging over the various cabinets belonging to the old lady, and which were full of secret drawers; that in one cabinet alone he had found upwards of fifty pounds in various gold coins, and that if not well examined, they would probably be sold with many articles of consequence remaining in them.

  As my only object in Ireland was to find out Sir Henry de Clare, and identify him (but, really, why I could not have said, as it would have proved nothing after all), I willingly consented to devote a day to assist Mr Cophagus in his examination. The next morning after breakfast, we went together to the house of the old lady, whose name had been Maitland, as Mr Cophagus informed me. Her furniture was of the most ancient description, and in every room in the house there was an ormolu, or Japan cabinet; some of them were very handsome, decorated with pillars, and silver ornaments. I can hardly recount the variety of articles, which in all probability had been amassed during the whole of the old lady’s life, commencing with her years of childhood, and ending with the day of her death. There were antique ornaments, some of considerable value, miniatures, fans, etuis, notes, of which the ink, from time, had turned to a light red, packages of letters of her various correspondents in her days of hope and anticipation, down to those of solitude and age. We looked over some of them, but they appeared to both of us to be sacred, and they were, after a slight examination, committed to the flames.

  After we had examined all the apparent receptacles in these cabinets, we took them up between us, and shook them, and in most cases found out that there were secret drawers containing other treasures. There was one packet of letters which caught my eye, it was from a Miss De Benyon. I seized it immediately, and showed the inscription to Mr Cophagus. “Pooh — nothing at all — her mother was a De Benyon.”

  “Have you any objection to my looking at these letters?”

  “No — read — nothing in them.”

  I laid them on one side, and we proceeded in our search, when Mr Cophagus took up a sealed packet. “Heh! what’s this — De Benyon again? Japhet, look here.”

  I took the packet; it was sealed, and tied with red tape. “Papers belonging to Lieutenant William De Benyon, to be returned to him at my decease.” “Alice Maitland, with great care,” was written at the bottom of the envelope.

  “This is it, my dear sir,” cried I, jumping up and embracing Mr Cophagus “these are the papers which I require. May I keep them?”

  “Mad — quite mad — go to Bedlam — strait waistcoat — head shaved, and so on.”

  Chapter XLIII

  I am not content with minding my own business, but must have a hand in that of others, by which means I put my foot in it.

  He then, after his own fashion, told me, that as executor, he must retain those papers; pointed out to me the little probability there was of their containing any information relative to my birth, even allowing that a person of the name of De Benyon did call at the Foundling to ask for me, which was only a supposition; and, finally, overthrew all the hopes which had been, for so many days, buoying me up. When he had finished, I threw myself upon the sofa in despair, and wished, at the moment, that I had never been born. Still hope again rose uppermost, and I would have given all I possessed to have been able to break open the seals of that packet, and have read the contents. At one moment I was so frantic, that I was debating whether I should not take them from Mr Cophagus by force, and run off with them. At last I rose, and commenced reading the letters which I had put aside, but there was nothing in them but the trifling communications of two young women, who mentioned what was amusing to them, but uninteresting to those who were not acquainted with the parties.

  When we had finished, Mr Cophagus collected all together, and putting them into a box, we returned in a coach to the hotel. The next day Mr Cophagus had completed all his arrangements, and the day following had determined to return to England. I walked with him down to the vessel, and watched it for an hour after it had sailed, for it bore away a packet of papers, which I could not help imagining were to discover the secret which I was so eager in pursuit of. A night’s sleep made me more rational, and I now resolved to ascertain where Sir Henry de Clare, or Melchior, as I felt certain he must be, was to be found. I sent for the waiter, and asked him if he could inform me. He immediately replied in the affirmative, and gave his address, Mount Castle, Connemara, asking me when I intended to set out. It did not strike me till afterwards, that it was singular that he should be so well acquainted with the address, and that he should have produced a card with it written upon it; or, moreover, that he should know that it was my intention to go there. I took the address, and desired that I might have horses ready very early the next morning. I then sat down and wrote a letter to Harcourt, informing him of my proceedings, also one to Mr Masterton much more explicit, lastly to Timothy, to the care of Harcourt, requesting him to let me know what had occurred between him and the gipsies. After dinner, I packed up ready for my journey, and having settled my bill, I was not sorry to retire to my bed.

  At daylight I was, as I requested, called by the waiter, and taking with me only a very small portmanteau, having left the rest of my effects in the charge of the people who kept the hotel, I set off in a post-chaise on my expedition. I was soon clear of the city, and on a fine smooth road, and, as I threw myself back in the corner of the chaise, I could not help asking myself the question — what was the purport of my journey? As the reader will perceive, I was wholly governed by impulses, and never allowed reason or common sense to stand in the way of my feelings. “What have I to do?” replied I to myself; “to find out if Melchior and Sir Henry de Clare be not one and the same person. And what then?” What then? — why then I may find out something relative to Fleta’s parentage. Nay, but is that likely — if, as you suppose, Melchior is Sir Henry de Clare — if, as you suppose, it is he who is now trying to find out and carry off Fleta — is it probable that you will gain any information from him? I have an idea that Fleta is the little girl said to have died, who was the child of his elder brother. Why so? What interest could Melchior have in stealing his own niece? That I cannot tell. Why did Nattée give me the necklace? I cannot tell; she would hardly betray her husband. At all events, there is a mystery, and it can only be unravelled by being pulled at; and I may learn something by meeting Melchior, whereas, I shall learn nothing by remaining quiet. This last idea satisfied me, and for many hours I remained in a train of deep thought, only checked by paying for the horses at the end of every stage.

  It was now past twelve o’clock, when I found that it was necessary to change the chaise at every post. The country also, as well as the roads, had changed much for the worse. Cultivation was not so great, the roads were mountainous, and civilisation generally disappeared. It was nearly dark when I arrived at the last post, from whence I was to take horses to Mount Castle. As usual, the chaise also was to be changed; and I could not help observing that each change was from bad to worse. Rope harness was used, and the vehicles themselves were of the most crazy condition. Still I had travelled very fairly, for an Irish postillion knows how to make an Irish horse go a very fair pace. I descended from the chaise, and ordered another out immediately. To this there was no reply, except, “Wait, your honour; step in a moment, and rest from your fatigue a little.” Presuming this was merely to give them time to get ready, I walked into the room of the inn, which indeed was very little better than a hovel, and sat down by the turf fire in company with some others, whom I could hardly distinguish for smoke. I paid the chaise and postillion, and soon afterwards heard it drive off, on its way back. After a few minutes I inquired if the chaise was getting ready.

  “Is it the chaise your honour means?” said the landlady.

  “Yes,” replied I, “a chaise on to Mount Castle.”

  “Then I am sorry that your honour must wait a little; for our chaise, and the only one which we have, is gone to the castle, and won’t be back till long after the moon is up. What will your honour please to take?”

  “Not back till moonlight,” replied I; “why did you not say so? and I would have gone on with the other.”

  “Is it with the other you mane, your honour? Then if Teddy Driscoll could make his horses go one step farther than our door, may I never have a soul to be saved. Will your honour please to sit in the little room Kathleen shall light a fire.”

  Vexed as I was with the idea of passing the night in this horrid place, there was no help for it: so I took up my portmanteau and followed the landlady to a small room, if it deserved the appellation, which had been built after the cottage, and a door broken through the wall into it. Ceiling there was none, it had only lean-to rafters, with tiles over head. I took a seat on the only stool that was in the room, and leant my elbow on the table in no very pleasant humour, when I heard the girl say, “And why don’t you let him go on to the castle? Sure the chaise is in the yard, and the horses are in the stable.”

  “There’s orders ‘gainst it, Kathleen,” replied the landlady. “Mr M’Dermott was here this blessed day, and who can deny him?”

  “Who is he then?” replied the girl.

  “An attorney with a warrant against Sir Henry; and, moreover, they say that he’s coming to’strain upon the cattle of Jerry O’Toole for the tithes.”

  “He’s a bould young chap, at all events,” replied the girl, “to come here all by himself.”

  “Oh! but it’s not till to-morrow morning, and then we’ll have the troops here to assist him.”

  “And does Jerry O’Toole know of this?”

  “Sure enough he does; and I hope there’ll be no murder committed in my house this blessed night. But what can a poor widow do when M’Dermott holds up his finger? Now, go light the fire, Kathleen, and see if the poor young man wants anything; it’s a burning pity that he shouldn’t have something to comfort him before his misfortunes fall upon him.”

  Kathleen made no reply. The horror that I felt at this discourse may easily be imagined. That it was intended that I should meet with foul play was certain, and I knew very well that, in such a desolate part of the country, the murder of an individual, totally unknown, would hardly be noticed. That I had been held up to the resentment of the inhabitants as a tithe collector and an attorney with a warrant, was quite sufficient, I felt conscious, to induce them to make away with me. How to undeceive them was the difficulty.

  Chapter XLIV

  No hopes of rising next morning alive, as a last chance — I get into bed.

  Kathleen came in with fuel to light the fire, and looking rather hard at me, passed by, and was soon, busy blowing up the turf. She was a very handsome dark-eyed girl, about nineteen years of age, stout and well made. “What is your name?” said I.

  “Kathleen, at your service, sir.”

  “Listen to me, Kathleen,” said I, in a low voice. “You are a woman, and all women are kind-hearted. I have overheard all that passed between your mistress and you, and that M’Dermott has stated that I am a tithe collector and an attorney, with a warrant. I am no such thing. I am a gentleman who wishes to speak to Sir Henry de Clare on a business which he does not like to be spoken to about; and to show you what I say is the truth, it is about the daughter of his elder brother, who was killed when hunting, and who is supposed to be dead. I am the only evidence to the contrary; and, therefore, he and M’Dermott have spread this report that I may come to harm.”

  “Is she alive, then?” replied Kathleen, looking up to me with wonder.

  “Yes; and I will not tell Sir Henry where she is, and that is the reason of their enmity.”

  “But I saw her body,” replied the girl in a low voice, standing up, and coming close to me.

  “It was not hers, depend upon it,” replied I, hardly knowing what to answer to this assertion.

  “At all events, it was dressed in her clothes; but it was so long before it was discovered, that we could make nothing of the features. Well, I knew the poor little thing, for my mother nursed her. I was myself brought up at the castle, and lived there till after Sir William was killed; then we were all sent away.”

  “Kathleen! Kathleen!” cried the landlady.

  “Call for everything you can think of one after another,” whispered Kathleen, leaving the room.

  “I cannot make the peat burn,” said she to the landlady, after she had quitted the little room; “and the gentleman wants some whisky.”

  “Go out then, and get some from the middle of the stack, Kathleen, and be quick; we have others to attend besides the tithe proctor. There’s the O’Tooles all come in, and your own Corny is with them.”

  “My Corny, indeed!” replied Kathleen; “he’s not quite so sure of that.”

  In a short time Kathleen returned, and brought some dry peat and a measure of whisky. “If what you say is true,” said Kathleen, “and sure enough you’re no Irish, and very young for a tithe proctor, who must grow old before he can be such a villain, you are in no very pleasant way. The O’Tooles are here, and I’ve an idea they mean no good; for they sit with all their heads together, whispering to each other, and all their shillelaghs by their sides.”

  “Tell me, Kathleen, was the daughter of Sir William a fair-haired, blue-eyed girl?”

  “To be sure she was,” replied Kathleen, “and like a little mountain fairy.”

  “Now, Kathleen, tell me if you recollect if the little girl or her mother ever wore a necklace of red beads mixed with gold.”

  “Yes, that my lady did; and it was on the child’s neck when it was lost, and when the body was found, it was not with it. Well I recollect that, for my mother said the child must have been drowned or murdered for the sake of the gold beads.”

  “Then you have proved all I wished, Kathleen; and now I tell you that this little girl is alive, and that I can produce the necklace which was lost with her; and more, that she was taken away by Sir Henry himself.”

  “Merciful Jesus!” replied Kathleen; “the dear little child that we cried over so much.”

  “But now, Kathleen, I have told you this, to prove to you that I am not what M’Dermott has asserted, no doubt, with the intention that my brains shall be knocked out this night.”

  “And so they will, sure enough,” replied Kathleen, “if you do not escape.”

  “But how am I to escape? and will you assist me?” And I laid down on the table ten guineas from my purse, “Take that, Kathleen, and it will help you and Corny. Now will you assist me?”

  “It’s Corny that will be the first to knock your brains out,” replied Kathleen, “unless I can stop him. I must go now, and I’ll see what can be done.”

  Kathleen would have departed without touching the gold; but I caught her by the wrist, collected it, and put it into her hand. “That’s not like a tithe proctor, at all events,” replied Kathleen; “but my heart aches, and my head swims, and what’s to be done I know not.” So saying, Kathleen quitted the room.

  “Well,” thought I, after she had left the room, “at all events, I have not been on a wrong scent this time. Kathleen has proved to me that Fleta is the daughter of the late Sir William; and if I escape this snare, Melchior shall do her justice.” Pleased with my having so identified Melchior and Fleta, I fell into a train of thought, and for the first time forgot my perilous situation; but I was roused from my meditations by an exclamation from Kathleen. “No, no, Corny, nor any of ye — not now — and mother and me to witness it — it shall not be. Corny, hear me, as sure as blood’s drawn, and we up to see it, so sure does Corny O’Toole never touch this hand of mine.” A pause, and whispering followed, and again all appeared to be quiet. I unstrapped my portmanteau, took out my pistols, which were loaded, re-primed them, and remained quiet, determined to sell my life as dearly as possible.

  It was more than half an hour before Kathleen returned; she looked pale and agitated. “Keep quiet, and do not think of resistance,” said she, “it is useless. I have told my mother all, and she believes you, and will risk her life to save him who has watched over the little girl whom she nursed; but keep quiet, we shall soon have them all out of the house. Corny dare not disobey me, and he will persuade the others.”