THEWlCKED WOODS 
 
 ^ICOBEREf:^,^ 
 
Stifaca, ^ta ^arb 
 
 FROM THE 
 
 BENNO LOEWY LIBRARY 
 
 COLLECTED BY 
 
 BENNO LOEWY 
 
 1854-1919 
 BEQUEATHED TO CORNELL UNIVERSITY 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PR6013.I271W6 
 
 The wicked woods of Tobereevil, 
 
 3 1924 013 617 695 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of this bool< is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013617695 
 
THE 
 
 Wicked Woods 
 
 Tobereevil. 
 
 [^(Stx^U By miss '^ULHOLLANDJ QilWir^ 
 AUTHOR OF "HESTER'S HISTORY," ETC. 
 
 BOSTON : 
 JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY, 
 
 (lATB TICKNOR & FIELDS, AND FIELDS, OSGOOD, & CO.,) 
 
 124 Tremont J Street. 
 UK 1873. 1- -iH Y 
 
Boston : 
 Stereoiype4cM4Prinie^^\l\a^n)^ Avery^ &* Co. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I. HOW THET ■yraRE PLANTED 6 
 
 n. MONASTEELEA 7 
 
 m. LITTLE kAT 9 
 
 rV. THE OAMLOUGH PEOPLE U 
 
 V. THE HELB TO THE WOODS 15 
 
 VI. MISS MARTHA MAKES A PROMISE IT 
 
 Vn. TRYING TO BE ELIZABETH 19 
 
 Vin. THE WOODS BECKON 24 
 
 TX. KATHBEINE WITH A LOVER 26 
 
 X. MAT WITHOUT A LOVER 30 
 
 XI. THE PEDDLER AT MONASTERLEA 32 
 
 Xn. THE PEDDLER AT TOBEEKEVIL 34 
 
 Xm. TROUBLED IN HER MIND 37 
 
 . XIV. PAUL IS A COWARD 40 
 
 XV. BID AND THE HOUSE-MOTHER 42 
 
 XVt. MRS. LEE INSISTS UPON TELLING HER STORY 45 
 
 XVH. EATHEEINE SPEAKS HER MUXD 48 
 
 XVlH. mat is promised a TITLE 51 
 
 XIX. GREAT MISTAKES 64 
 
 XX. THE END OF CHRISTOPHER'S ROMANCE 68 
 
 XXI. MRS. LEE STRUGGLES AGAINST FATE 65 
 
 XXH. SIMON IN TORMENT AGAIN TO 
 
 XXm. THE BLACK CAT MAKES A SPRING 72 
 
 XXIV. THE WICKED FAGOTS 75 
 
 XXV. A MORNING VISIT . . . . ' 76 
 
 XXVr. THE FAGOTS BURN 79 
 
 XXVn. MISS ARCHBOLD'S TRUNKS ARRIVE 83 
 
 XXVm. PAUL'S TROUBLES BEGUST 86 
 
 XXIX. TWO CONGENIAL SOULS 89 
 
 XXX. THE PALSE LOVE 91 
 
 XXXI. THE TRUE LOVE 95 
 
 XXXn. BID'S CASTLE , 100 
 
 XXXni. TIBBIE FINDS A "DEVIL TO DO HBK WILL" .,..;.. 102 
 
 XXXTV. SmON DOES HIS OWN WORK 10« 
 
 XXXV. PAUL AT CAMLOUGH 109 
 
 XXXVI. MAT IS BIDDEN TO AN ENTERTAINMENT 118 
 
 XXXVH. THE FOOL'S DERELICTION 121 
 
 xx^yrn. a strange night 125 
 
 XXXrS. THE FOOL'S SAD FATE 132 
 
 XL. THE LAST TROUBLE 13* 
 
 XLI. CONCLUSION 1*2 
 
THE 
 
 WICKED WOODS OF TOBEREEVIL 
 
 CHAPTER L 
 
 HOW THEY WERE PLANTED. 
 
 SiMOK FrtnsTON was owner of Tobe- 
 reevil, including Monasterlea; and the 
 Wicked AVoods were part of the patrimony 
 of his race. Ou one side of his mansion 
 lay long stretches of unploughed fields, and 
 pathless bog and moor. Behind him rose 
 undulating mountains, clothed with the 
 rich hues of gorse and broom. The thick 
 woods wrapped him round about, would 
 scarce let the sun shine down upon his 
 roof, and crowded in brilliant masses to- 
 wards the horizon on the east. The 
 Golden Mountain, which did not belong to 
 Simon, towered against the southern sky, 
 so that the lower hills beside it looked like 
 the ridges of a wave upon the sea. 
 
 The lands of Tobereevil lie in a remote 
 part of the west of Ireland. They had 
 beauty at the worst of times ; but, now that 
 the curse has passed away, they are lovely 
 and peaceful as a vision of Arcadia. At 
 the time of the beginning of this story, they 
 were sadder and drearier than it is need- 
 ful to describe. The curse was upon them 
 then. Old Simon, the miser, was lord of 
 many mountains and moors, of many waste 
 places that ought to have been fields, many 
 fields that might have been gardens, many 
 hovels that might have been comfortable 
 homes, and some spirit-broken serfs who 
 might have been grateful and light-hearted 
 friends. Yet Simon of Tobereevil was 
 rather pitied than blamed ; for was he not 
 working out the doom, and suffering the 
 punishment, of a race accursed ? 
 
 A strange story is told of this curse of 
 the Finistons of Tobereevil. One Paul 
 Finiston. had come into the district when, 
 as the legend saith, the country was pros- 
 perous, the people well housed and clad. 
 
 He was a man who came no one knew 
 whence, and had amassed money no one 
 knew how. Some said he had made a for- 
 tune by usury. He had, however, the 
 desire to make himself a gentleman ; and 
 had bought the estate of a decayed old 
 family, which, after the usual long strug- 
 gle, had dropped into the abyss of acknowl- 
 edged poverty. 
 
 Tet he had no idea of stepping into other 
 folks' shoes, of beinw only the successor of 
 mightier people. He would not live under 
 their roof, nor walk in their paths, nor even 
 look upon the same scenes which they had 
 looked upon. He would pull down their 
 house, plough up their gardens, and plant 
 trees in the spaces which they had cleared. 
 He would sweep away their fences, and 
 make landmarks of his own. He built a 
 new house to his own taste, stately and 
 handsome, and furnished it in a style of 
 splendor which would have made his pred- 
 ecessors stare. The magnificence of his 
 pictures, the costliness of his carvings and 
 gildings, his hangings and carpetings, made 
 a nine days' wonder in the country. His 
 servants were a small army, his horses were 
 said to be fine enough and numerous 
 enough to furnish mounts for half a cav- 
 alry regiment. His wines were fit for the 
 table of an emperor. His carriages were 
 built luxuriously upon a design of his own. 
 He seemed preparing to lead the life of a 
 prince, when suddenly there fell a blight 
 upon his work. 
 
 Had he been content, says the story, 
 with the alterations above, eniunerated, he 
 had lived his life of enjoyment, and his 
 race had not been cursed ; but, in his pas- 
 sion for changing the face of the countr}-, 
 he had conceived the idea of planting 
 great woods over the land. In pursuit of 
 this idea, he must sweep away the people 
 
THE WICKED WOODS OF TOBEEEEVIL. 
 
 with their farms. He did not want ten- 
 ants : he wanted trees ; and he wanted to 
 see his trees grow tall before he died. So 
 he rooted out the tenants, as he might have 
 rooted out weeds from his garden. 
 
 In one winter week a hundred poor 
 families stood houseless on the snow ; and 
 their cabins and cottages were levelled 
 with the ground. Their master, Paul Fin- 
 iston, knew the way to the great world ; but 
 to these ignorant peasants the mountain 
 side was their world, and they knew of no 
 other. They looked on in amazement 
 while the work of destruction was in prog- 
 ress, and clung to each other with cries 
 when the pitiless night came down. Storm 
 and sleet beat about them, and they could 
 find no shelter for their heads. ' 
 
 Their cruel persecutor took no noticevof 
 their plight. He had toiled for his gold, 
 and now should he be balked of his pleas- 
 ure for a few beggars ? Let them go out 
 into the world and work. For him he 
 would have his trees. And some of these 
 houseless creatures did set out to seek their 
 way across the moors, to carry the tale of 
 their distress to some city where it could 
 hardly be believed. The aged and the 
 women and children must of course be left 
 behind to shelter in the hollows of the 
 mountains, and watch in vain for the arri- 
 val of relief. 
 
 The story goes on to say, that, after many 
 days of hungry wandering, a wretched 
 band mustered on the hills, ,and came to- 
 wards the' dwelling of their landlord, in- 
 tending to appeal to him for food and 
 protection. A terrible snow-storm overtook 
 them on the outskirts of the wood, at a 
 spot whore there is a deep well sunk in the 
 earth. There their strength quite gave 
 way, and they lay down to die. It was 
 not till the next day, when he came by 
 accident to the place, and saw the corpses 
 lying around him, that this wicked land- 
 lord felt some pang of remorse for his sin ; 
 but it was too late then, — too late to res- 
 cue those who had perished, — too late to 
 save his race from the curse which had 
 been miraculously pronounced. 
 
 Tlie legend is told in Irish verse and at 
 great length. A translation of even half 
 of it would weary the reader. It was an 
 infant who uttered the curse : — 
 
 " There was a babe swathed up in snow-flakes, 
 Three dreadful days since first it saw the light ■ 
 It lay upon its mother's broken heart; 
 And she was dead and cold Bince the morning's 
 dawu." 
 
 " Then up and sat that awful babe of death, 
 And oped its frozen mouth, and spoke aloud: 
 And all the people stared to hear it speak, 
 Even the dying raised their heads to hear." 
 
 This woful babe cursed the race of Fin- 
 iston. Their riches should yield them no 
 pleasure. They should perish with cold, 
 and be gnawed by hunger. Their lands 
 should lie waste, and their house decay. 
 Their daughters should never live past 
 childhood ; and even those of their sons who 
 had gentle hearts should become hardened 
 by possession of the gold of the Finistons. 
 The curse should lurk for them in the cor- 
 ner-stone of the wall, in the beam under 
 the roof-tree, in the log upon the hearth- 
 stone, in the meat upon the dish : — 
 
 "In every bud and blade of grass that grows, 
 In every leaf upon their mighty trees. 
 In every kindly face that smiles on them. 
 In every pleasant word that neighbors' speak." 
 
 In conclusion, there was a prophecy. 
 Never should the family be fi-eed from the 
 curse till one of them should be murdered 
 by a kinsman of his own : — 
 
 " Then closed his eyes, this dreary babe of woo, 
 And rolled away from off his mother's heart: 
 Her arms were stiff and cold beneath the snow, 
 And he lies buried in the evil well." 
 
 After 'such a dire event a baneful spirit 
 was, of course, said to haunt the well ; and 
 from this the name of the property took its 
 rise. Theold name was forgotten; and the 
 estate was known as Tobereevil, " The 
 Banshee's Well." 
 
 The curse seemed to set to work at once 
 upon the master of Tobereevil. He was 
 seized with a panic ; and not even his 
 far-spreading, quickly-growing plantations 
 could give him- comfort. He could not 
 forget that it had been predicted ttiat his 
 race should perish with cold, and be 
 gnawed by hunger. He began immedi- 
 ately to retrench his expenses. Gradually 
 he dismissed his numerous servants, send- 
 ing away first one and then another upon 
 some idle pretence. Now and then a car- 
 riage was sent back to the maker's to be 
 repainted, or to get new springs, and never 
 returned to Tobereevil. The horses also 
 disappeared. One was too spirited, an- 
 other too sulky. A fresh stud was to be 
 procured ; but time slipped away, and the 
 stables remained empty. Gardeners and 
 workmen who had been brought from a 
 distance returned whence they°came, gar- 
 dens began to lie waste, and the place took 
 a neglected look. The master, huncrry- 
 lookmg now and ill-dressed, toiled at^his 
 ferm, assisted by a small staff of laborers. 
 His wife, who had come there as a sort of 
 queen, faded away into a melancholy-look- 
 ing spectre. His two sons grew up wild 
 and half-educated. They were instructed 
 in httle besides the history of the curse, 
 
HOW THEY ■WERE PLANTED. — MONASTEELEA. 
 
 and the means to be taken to avert its ful- 
 filment. These means were the saving of 
 money, the stinting themselves and their 
 dependents of the necessaries of life, so 
 that treasure might be hoarded, making it 
 impossible that they should ever come to 
 ■want. The elder was to inherit every 
 thing : the younger was to go abroad and 
 work for his living. This was to prevent 
 all risk of the family property being scat- 
 tered. The elder, however, a gentle, sickly 
 lad, did not long stand in the way of iiis 
 brother. The weight of the responsibility 
 broke his heart, and he sought refuge from 
 the curse in another world. 
 
 The younger son succeeded to the prop- 
 erty at his father's death, and became the 
 first genuine miser of Tobereevil. And so 
 it went on from generation to generation. 
 The curse and gold were handed from 
 father to son, and from uncle to nephew. 
 It was a singular fact that no daughter of 
 the family ever lived to reach womanhood. 
 Meanwhile the accursed plantations had 
 grown up ; and the magnificent Woods of 
 Tobereevil spread for miles over the coun- 
 try, and grew thicker and darker, and 
 grander and more mysterious, as the years 
 rolled alonp-, and the curse tightened its 
 hold around the lean throats of the Finis- 
 tons. The wicked trees grew proudly out 
 of the hearth-places of the vanished homes, 
 no wholesome roots and simples were to be 
 gathered among their shades, but strange 
 and poisonous herbs grew hidden in their 
 depths, nourished by the evil atmosphere 
 of the place. If an old woman were seen 
 rooting in the dark places of Tobereevil 
 Woods, her character was gone, and she 
 was looked upon as unholy, and a person 
 to be shunned. There were stories from 
 old times of people who had been poisoned, 
 and people who had been made mad, by 
 noisome weeds that had been plucked in 
 the heart of the Wicked Woods. 
 
 Six generations had passed away, and 
 Simon Finiston was master of Tobereevil. 
 In his youth he had been gentle and almost 
 generous ; and a hope had been entertained 
 that the curse was worn out, and that the 
 reign of misery was at an end'in the coun- 
 try. The tenants on the estate trembled 
 with delight at the prospect of having a 
 merciful and sympathizing landlord, of see- 
 ing the ■syild places brought to order at last, 
 the decaying mansion restored, the plough 
 furrowing the idle acres, and employment 
 and plenty going hand in hand along the 
 valleys and over the hills ; but these hopes 
 proved an empty dream. As soon as he 
 became master of the property, Simon's 
 character underwent a gradual and misera- 
 
 ble change. His gentleness degenerated 
 into nervous weakness, his firmness into a 
 dogged obstinacy. The friends who had 
 hoped better things of him then dropped 
 away one by one, and left him to his fate. 
 The unhappy tenants fell back into despair, 
 and the air was thick with their complaints. 
 
 And so, at the time of the opening of 
 this story, the curse was still dragging out 
 its evil existence. The heir to the estate of 
 the Finistons was said to be a young lad 
 named Paul Finiston, nephew of Simon, 
 the actual owner, who had always kept him 
 at a distance. The miser was a timid man, 
 and it was said that he had a horror of the 
 prophecy being fulfilled in his own person. 
 He dreaded being murdered by a kinsman 
 of his own. However this may be, young 
 Paul Finiston had never been seen at To- 
 bereevil. His father and mother had paid 
 a visit there once ; but they had hurried 
 away speedily, and had never come back. 
 
 At this time, when Simon was growing 
 old, the mansion of Tobereevil looked grim 
 and dilapidated. It stood in a slight hol- 
 low of the land, with the sombre masses of 
 the woods at its back, and a strong force 
 of loftier trees mustering about it like a 
 guard. The sullen gray walls were 
 bleached and blackened, and rain-soiled 
 and moss-eaten. There were broken panes 
 everywhere, and shutters closed over them 
 to keep out the wind. Weeds and wild 
 plants grew on the pathways, and in the 
 crevices of the steps at the entrance. A 
 solitary cow grazed in the wild field that 
 had once been a velvet-like lawn, and a few 
 starveling hens pecked among the pebbles 
 in the long, rank grass ; and in this dreary 
 abode dwelt the man who was lord of 
 Tobereevil, including Monasterlea. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 MONASTERLEA. 
 
 MoNASTEKLEA was a greenheap of majes- 
 tic and picturesque ruins, standing in the cen- 
 tre of an ancient graveyard ; and there were 
 attached to it some rich abbey lands which 
 made a comfortable farm. It had been 
 built when Christianity was yet very young ; 
 it had swarmed with busy monks, and its 
 bell had been heard for miles around calling 
 over the land. It had sent forth blazoned 
 manuscripts to the readers of its day, had 
 fed the poor, and tilled the earth. The sun 
 had blazed upon its jewelled windows, 
 where saints and angels gazed back again 
 
8 
 
 THE "WICKED "WOODS OP TOBEEEEVIL. 
 
 at the sun. Its music had floated towards 
 ' the hills, and been the melody of paradise 
 to many a wanderer astray upon the night- 
 The legend of its ornaments, its mottoes 
 among lilies and cherubs, had been per- 
 fect to the eye. Kainbows had streamed 
 through its arches, and the breath of in- 
 cense had been warm upon its sculptured 
 stones. Its friars had slept and waked, and 
 prayed and toiled ; then slept and waked 
 no more ; and there were their graves under 
 the carved stone crosses, whose lettering the 
 creeping moss had nigh effaced. The jew- 
 elled saints had been carried to other 
 shrines, walled up in trees, or trodden into 
 dust upon the earth. The winds had rent 
 atsray the hospitable roof, — the fickle winds, 
 which in so many a past winter had set a 
 friendly bass to the chanting of the choir. 
 The sanctuary was but a sheltered field, 
 where the sweet wild-roses would blow out 
 of their season. The tall gray tower was a 
 building-place for rooks, and the clouds 
 peeped through the high hollow arches. 
 
 The graves were everywhere, — in the 
 churchyard, where the people of the coun- 
 try still came to leave their dead ; among 
 the walls ; in the archways ; in the door- 
 ways. Yet this did not deter .», 'Martha 
 Mourne, spinster, from thinking of making 
 a home among the hollows of its walls. 
 
 Miss Martha had had troubles of her own. 
 In her youth she liad been comely and lov- 
 able ; and she had seen before her a certain 
 prospect of wedded life, of matronhood, 
 motherhood, and something of fine lady- 
 hood besides ; but now ? Who could pic- 
 ture old Simon Fiuiston in the character of 
 a wooer ? No one certainly who saw him 
 cowering over a single brand in the winter 
 day in his mouldering mansion, or riding 
 by like a spectre on a spectral horse. Who 
 but Miss Martha herself could remember 
 that he had been once handsome and gen- 
 erous and kind ? 
 
 Miss Martha had travelled since the days 
 she had known him so. She had been sav- 
 ing the pittance of her fortune, actino- as 
 governess to little French children. She 
 was not going to settle down in idleness, and 
 eat up every farthing of her income. How 
 did she know whom she might not have to 
 help before she died ? How could any one 
 tell how useful it might be that she should 
 have a little money saved when she was old ? 
 Now every one could witness how useful it 
 had been when the money had been saved, 
 and an object for her charity had been found. 
 
 It was cause for excitement in the 
 country when she arrived from her foreign 
 exile, and was seen hovering about the lands 
 and the walls' of Monasterlea. A patient- 
 
 looking lady in a brown silk cloak appeared 
 suddenly in the country. She was noticed 
 poking about the ruins with a large um- 
 brella. Peasants passing on the road, or 
 travelling the moors at a distance, saw 
 strange and varied apparitions at this time. 
 One had seen a fairy waving her wand at 
 the ruin, and striving to put an enchant- 
 ment on the blessed walls ; another had 
 seen the ghost of one of the friars ; while a 
 third had beheld a vision of a strange 
 brown bird fluttering among the bushes. 
 
 Old Simon Finiston must have rejoiced 
 greatly when he received a lawj'er's letter 
 offering him a tenant, not alone for the 
 lands, but for the ruin and graveyard of 
 Monasterlea. A heap of waste walls and a 
 wild, useless field full of rugged green 
 mounds and broken crosses ! Let the fool 
 who coveted them have them to be sure, 
 provided he paid a heavy rent. Perhaps 
 the miser received a shock when, the bai-- 
 gain being made, he read a legible signature 
 on parchment. His tenant was called Mar- 
 tha Mourne. 
 
 But when the workmen began, then in- 
 deed there was wonder in the country. 
 Miss Martha chose a corner to the south, — 
 a pleasant little nook, where the sun loved 
 to shine. She roofed in a space, and cov- 
 ered it in with a warm, golden thatch. She 
 had five latticed windows and a white- 
 washed front. She had four odd bedrooms 
 and a quaint sunny parlor. Miss Martha 
 had no fear of the dead. There was • a 
 strange gothic doorway in the parlor wall 
 close beside, the homely hearth. This led 
 away into a long, dim cloister. The clois- 
 ters were rather in the way to be sure, but 
 they could not be got rid of, and were 
 coaxed into service. A piece of one per- 
 sisted in running right across the dwelling, 
 would not be expelled, and so was obliged 
 to do' duty as a passage into the kitchen. 
 Thus right between the -kitchen and the 
 parlor sat a grim stone angel with a font in 
 his lap ; and old Nanny would aver that 
 there were nights when this angel arose 
 from off his perch and walked about the 
 cloister, scattering holy water to keep evil 
 from the place. 
 
 But the little home looked shining and 
 warni with the ivy from the wall, which 
 was its prop and background, trailing in 
 wild wreaths over its amber thatch. A well- 
 stocked flower-garden ran down the slope 
 beside the graves to the river-side. The 
 hedges of sweet briar and acacia flung 
 blossoms over the moss-covered tomb- 
 stones ; and here and there the mutilated 
 crosses leaned a little to one side, and 
 peered through the rifts between the roses. 
 
MONASTEELEA. — LITTLE MAY. 
 
 It was not for the purpose of watching 
 over her, ancient lover, of testing the 
 toughness of his miserly heart, or striving 
 to win him from his unnatural ways, that 
 the woman in the brown silk cloak had 
 come poking with her umbrella about 
 the walls of Monasterlea. There was 
 one to be thought of who was an older 
 and a nearer friend. In days long past 
 Martha had spent her childhood by the side 
 of a very dear mother and two brothers in 
 a home, now swept away, which had stood 
 but a mile from Monasterlea. The elder 
 brother had been many years her senior ; 
 but they had been happy together, when 
 she was but an infant, and he a big boy. 
 He had been good to her, and his memory 
 clung warm round her heart. The gates of 
 a monastery had closed on him early, and 
 she had "seen only glimpses of him during a 
 long, lonely life ; but at last there had come 
 to her a message in her exile, praying her 
 to visit and assist him. The message came 
 from the prior of his convent. The old 
 man, Brother Felix, was weakly. He 
 needed to have some care, some comfort, 
 some change; the convent was too poor, 
 the rules too rigid, to allow of such luxuries 
 as these. Would the sister take compassion 
 on the brother of her youth ? 
 
 " Gladly would I minister to him my- 
 self," wrote the prior, who was the aged 
 superior of an aged community, " but I 
 have not a shilling of my own in the 
 world, and there is nothing I could sell of 
 more value than my girdle, which if I were 
 to offer to a peasant he coxild but use as a 
 spancel for his horse." 
 
 But, ah I how the woman clasped her 
 hands over the letter, and how the tears of 
 joy coursed down her face ! Blessed now 
 be God, who had inspired her to lay by 
 her poor savings 1 Adieu very fast to the 
 little French children, who were all grown 
 up and quite ready to forget the old gov- 
 erness. Ah, Felix, the rogue, he could not 
 do without her 1 Strong as he was, he 
 wanted her to lean upon. Felix had pro- 
 tected her, a child ; but now it was he who 
 was to be the child, and she, Martha, the 
 protectress. 
 
 So the friars in the convent had a visit 
 from Miss Mourne. She came in on tip- 
 toe, with a bloom of delight under her 
 weary eyes. She saw a little withered old 
 man in a coarse brown gown, tied with a 
 rough white cord. His face was wasted to 
 the size of a child's, and his features were 
 not those which Miss Martha had known ; 
 but the countenance was meek and benign, 
 and a placid light seemed to sliine from 
 it. 
 
 " Ah, little Martha I " he said, in answer 
 to her broken words. " She was a dear 
 little girl. Have you met her lately, 
 madam ? I should like to see her again 
 before I die." 
 
 The tears dripped down Miss Martha's 
 face. 
 
 " I am Martha,"" she said with a smile. 
 " I am now grown old ; but it is little 
 Martha's heart which is beating here still." 
 And she pressed his withered hand to the 
 brown silk cloak. i 
 
 " You, Martha ? " he said, and gazed . 
 wistfully in her face. " Nny, do not cry ; 
 forgive me, dear. I am older, a long way, 
 than you. 1 am grown very old and feeble ; 
 but it is so much the better for both you 
 and me^ Eternal }Outh is drawing near." 
 
 Reluctant, but obedient, the old man 
 turned his back upon his convent, the 
 prior, moi'e aged still, kneeling to ask his ■ 
 blessing on the threshold ; and Miss Martha 
 carried him away to the home she had pre- 
 pared for his reception. 
 
 It had been worthy of her love, that 
 thought of making him a nest in the old 
 monastery. It was a spot that had been 
 familiar to his childhood, and as a boy he 
 had delighted to dream among the ruins. 
 His dreams in the place had been to him 
 what poems and fairy tales are to other 
 wonder-loving children. He had lain in 
 the long grass among the graves, and peo- 
 pled the walls with his fancy. In spirit he 
 had swung the censer, and rung the peal 
 of bells from the belfry. Time had been 
 when his mother, missing him long from 
 home, had found him rapt in prayer among 
 the tombs. A long lite had passed over 
 his head since then, of fasting and doing 
 penance, of praying and contemplating, of 
 much labor and little rest ; and now he 
 had come back here to die. Broken and 
 spent and feeble, but infinitely happy and 
 at peace, the old man had found a liome for 
 his last days in the very haunts of his boy- 
 hood's dreams. 
 
 But at the opening of this story the es- 
 tablishment of the home among the ruins 
 was a thing of old date, and a child was 
 growing up at Monasterlea. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 LITTLE MAY. 
 
 Little May Mourne made her humble 
 entry into life in the sunshine of a Roman 
 summer. Her father had been a painter, 
 younger brother of Martha and Felix, one 
 
10 
 
 THE WICKED WOODS OF TOBEEBEVIL. 
 
 of those who give up home, country, and 
 friends to follow art whither she may lead 
 them. She had led him into care and dif- 
 ficulty, had given him hard tasks to do, and 
 bitter bread to eat. He had had too mucji 
 love, and too little power ; and disappoint- 
 ment had broken his heart in the end. 
 May's mother had been a beautiful Roman 
 girl, who had not lived long after the death 
 of_her husband; and the child had dis- 
 ported herself in an Italian vineyard until 
 she was five years old, when the friends of 
 her mother, who were poor people, yielding 
 to the yearning of Miss Martha, allowed 
 her to come to Rome, anM take the girl 
 away with her. Miss Martha had left her 
 home in the ruins, her fireside among the 
 tombs, had left old Nanny taking care of 
 Father Felix, and had journeyed to Romd ; 
 and returned in triumph with the child ; 
 who, with her soft dark eyes and pictur- 
 esque ways, had become a part of this curi- 
 ous household. It was like ingrafting a 
 crinison rose on a wild thorn, to bring little 
 May to Monasterlea. 
 
 Miss Martha brought home various other 
 treasures besides the one whose tiny hand 
 was squeezed in hers. She brought a 
 quaint silver lamp, and a picture painted 
 by l\Iay's father, both for the little chapel 
 which she had made for Father Felix; for 
 she had roofed in a space off one of the 
 cloisters, and set up an altar, and orna- 
 mented the walls. It might have been 
 formerly a chapter-room, or a refectory, or 
 a scriptorium. Now it was a chapel, which 
 May could dress with flowers, and where 
 Felix could pray the day long if he pleased, 
 and the night long too. Miss Martha had 
 not counted upon this when out of sympa- 
 thy she humored him so far ; but he would 
 leave his bed, which she had spread so soft, 
 and would pass whole nights upon the 
 stones. 
 
 No wonder that such things should be 
 talked about in the country. Father Felix 
 had been received with much welcome by 
 the people. They loved him as a Francis- 
 san friar ; for these friars have always been 
 friands of the Irish poor ; but they loved 
 him, also, for his simple face and gentle, 
 sympathetic ways. Now, added to this, 
 was the famje of his sanctity, which went 
 forth in whi>-pers among the hills. It was 
 said he could restore the sick by the great 
 strength and faith of his prayers. The 
 poor had no other doctor, and they ran to 
 bring their sick to him. He prayed beside 
 them; long wrestling prayers, which left 
 him utterly exhausted. The sick went 
 away declaring themselves healed, and the 
 old man was carried fainting to his bed. 
 
 He was looked upon as the saint of the 
 country: his fastings, vigils, and commu- 
 nions with heaven, were talked of at moun- 
 tain firesides. If people caught a glimpse 
 of his white head moving among the ruined 
 walls, up and down between the rose 
 hedges, they went forward on their journey 
 with a lighter heart. The mountain world 
 was the gladder and brighter on account of 
 his coming ; and Father Felix had become 
 a part of the poetry of the district. 
 
 Monasterlea was a very strange home for 
 a child. The stories of the ghosts that 
 walked abroad from twilight in the even- 
 ing till sunrise in the moroing, would have 
 made any ordinary mortal feel uncomfort- 
 able. But the inhabitants of this house 
 were not like other people. Miss Martha 
 had no objection to ghosts. They did not 
 harm her, and she was such a hospitable soul, 
 that she was glad to give a shelter to any 
 thing, natural or supernatural, that chose 
 to seek a harbor under her roof. She ' 
 rather liked to think, as she lay in her bed, 
 that her snug fireside, where the warm red 
 ashes glowed all the night through, was a 
 comfort and a refuge for wandering spirits, 
 who, before she lit her hearth upon the 
 spot, must have had a chill, damp time of 
 it during their inevitable vigils. 
 
 Then there was old Nanny, to whom 
 ghosts were a delight. She knew more of 
 them than she would like to tell ; it was 
 not given to many to see and hear the 
 things that she had seen and heard. She 
 could give form and significance to every 
 shadow on the wall, and could interpret 
 every murmur of the wind. She knew what 
 went on when other folks were asleep ; knew, 
 but dared not tell. If she did not keep 
 their counsel, they would drag her from her 
 bed, and carry her through the mountains ; 
 she should be dashed against every rock, 
 and dipped in every stream, besides being 
 whirled through the air the whole of the 
 night. So, though the ghosts might come 
 trooping down the cloisters in the darkness, 
 raising their voices, and making a tempest 
 in the corners ; though they might meet her 
 face to fiice in the passages, dash the things 
 about the kitchen, and bend over her, and 
 talk to her in her bed, yet of all this and 
 more she dared not tell. She would cer- 
 tainly keep their secrets from light-hearted 
 Bridget, her fellow-servant, who was so 
 laughter-loving that she could laugh even 
 at the ghosts of Monasterlea ; whose red 
 cheeks would dimple, and black eyes glit- 
 ter, to hear the very mention of their freaks ; 
 and whose delight it was to come rushing 
 into the kitchen of a dark evening, pant- 
 ing and laughing, and declaring that the 
 
THE CAMLOUGH PEOPLE. 
 
 11 
 
 great stone angel had risen np and kissed 
 her, or that a terrible apparition had ac- 
 costed her in the cloisters, and invited her 
 out for a walk. 
 
 In the midst of the various influences 
 of the place, the little flower from Italy 
 grew hardily and freshly in the moorland 
 soil. It was a curious occurrence which 
 first drew her towards her visionary 
 uncle. 
 
 The child had feared him ; his looks 
 struck her with awe ; she shrank from him, 
 and dreaded to pass the door of his room. 
 Nevertheless, she fretted about him ; wak- 
 ened in the nio;ht, and wept to think of him 
 prostrate on the cold flags upon the chapel 
 floor. She mourned to see him touch no 
 food, and hid little cakes in his pocket, 
 hoping that he might find and eat them. 
 
 One night, at last, she got up in her 
 sleep, and made her way through the long, 
 dark cloister of the chapel. There was 
 no light within but the glimmer of the 
 sanctuary lamp ; and the.old man believed 
 that he saw a white-robed angel approach- 
 ing to comfort and bear him company. 
 His cry of surprise awakened the child, 
 who, looking wildly around her, shuddered 
 a few moments, and then fled to him, 
 clinging round his neck in her fear. 
 
 The old friar soothed her kindly, and 
 gathered from her sobbing account that 
 anxiety and sympathy for him had caused 
 her to wander in her sleep. He carried 
 her in his arms to her chamber door. 
 Next morning she flew to meet him with 
 smiles, and the blooming little maiden and 
 the aged ascetic became the fastest of 
 simple-hearted friends. 
 
 And thus out of its many odd elements. 
 Miss Martha's household contrived to 
 make a ebeerlul and harmonious whole. 
 As for her, she had her farm to attend to, 
 and her house and her servants, besides 
 her two children, Felix and May- She 
 was a very happy woman, who felt herself 
 a power for the protection of the weak. 
 Slie had known wh:it it was to lead a 
 lonely life ; but now she was in right good 
 company. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE CAMLOUGH PEOPLE. 
 
 SiK John and Ladt Akchbold, who 
 lived at Camlough in the hills, had an 
 only daughter, about a year older than 
 May. They loved this child better than 
 their own souls and bodies, and as much 
 
 as they hated the thought of death, which 
 is saying a good deal. The fame of the 
 beauty and spirit of the girl had travelled 
 to Monasterlea ; and many a time May had 
 stood on tip-toe looking over the hedges 
 to see her riding past by her fathei-'s side, 
 with her yellow hair streaming on the 
 wind. 
 
 The little girl at Camlough was one of 
 May's dream-playmates. She had many 
 such companions, who shared all her con- 
 fidences, and joined in her games. Anoth- 
 er was the grim stone angel of the passage, 
 who was petted and talked to in the daj- 
 light, but rather shunned when the night 
 began to come on. The girl from Cam- 
 lough was May's especial friend. This 
 little person was always supposed to be at 
 hand, and her opinion was taken on all 
 subjects. So fond of her was May, that 
 she would sit for hours upon the highest 
 step of the belfry-stairs, gazing through a 
 hole in the ruined wall across the land 
 towards Camlough. There, behind the 
 Golden Mountain, she was told there stood 
 a castle of delights, of which her friend 
 was princess. Wonderful travelling car- 
 riages would' appear upon thu lonesome 
 road, on their way to this palace of en- 
 chantment. May had once been at the 
 inn at the foot of the mountain, wliere Sir 
 John's huge oxen were kept in waiting for 
 his guests ; had seen the horses taken out 
 and the oxen yoked to, and the fine ladies 
 screaming a little, when the oxen began to 
 pull and the carriages began moving up 
 the fine paved road cut in the steep moun- 
 tain's face. From her belfry she could 
 trace the movement of the oxen on that 
 distant road, could watch them to the very 
 rim of the crown of the mountain, see them 
 quiver there for a moment against the sun, 
 then drop out of her sight into unknown 
 realms of bliss. 
 
 But the little girl at Camlough fell sick. 
 The palace of delights was a saddened 
 palace. The echo of th^ anguish of those 
 parents who knew not how to suffer was 
 heard over the moors and through the 
 hills. The child was sick to death ; rallied, 
 fell back, wasted, and grew weaker, and at 
 last was given over as incurable.- Doctors 
 took theur way from Camlough. It was 
 said that Lady Archbold quarrelled with 
 the last who lingered, and would have 
 waited a little longer; that she ordered 
 him from the place because he would not 
 tell her that her child should surely live. 
 Then the fi-antic parents gave way in 
 despair. 
 
 One hot, dark night. Midsummer Eve, 
 Kaiherine Archbold lay in a trance like 
 
12 
 
 THE ■WICKED "WOODS OF TOBEEEEVIL. 
 
 death. Her father was sitting by her bed. 
 Her mother walked about toe room close 
 by, mad with rebelliotis agony. The short 
 darkness of the warm, summer night hung 
 heavily on this dwelling of luxury. The 
 silver lamps burned softly, and the odor of 
 flowers came through the open windows. 
 The servants were afraid to sleep, knowing 
 that, at any moment, death might arrive ; 
 and after that they knew not what to 
 expect, for her ladyship was determined 
 that the child should not die. 
 
 There was a poor fool sitting down in 
 the kitchen, muttering to himself as idiots 
 do, and nobody was minding him. He was 
 an " innocent " from birth, one of those 
 who " live among the people." He wan- 
 dered from place to place, and was wel- 
 come everywhere; for people say such as 
 he bring luck. The cook had placed meat 
 and beer before him ; but the fool had 
 heard rumors of the trouble that was in the 
 place, and he would not eat as usual. Not 
 that he cared much for the young lady 
 herself, for she had often tormented him ; 
 not that he cared much for Lady Arch- 
 bold, who seldom bestowed notice on such 
 as he ; but his heart was sore for Sir John. 
 Sir John always threw him a shilling when 
 he passed him, and sent him to the cook 
 to get his dinner ; and he nodded to him 
 and smiled at him, and Con the idiot knew 
 a smile from a frown. 
 
 Two or three servants were talking of 
 the deadliness of the child's disease, of 
 the uselessness of doctors, of the grief of the 
 father and mother, and of fifty things 
 besides. All at once Con started from 
 his seat, and sped to the kitchen-door. 
 
 " Hallo, my boy ! " cried the cook, 
 " you stay here for the night ! " 
 
 But Con only flung a grin of delight over 
 his shoulder, and disappeared ; not out 
 of doors, but, to the dismay of all present, 
 up stairs, where he had no business to 
 be. 
 
 Sir John, sitting by the side of his 
 daughter, with his face buried in his 
 hands, felt a touch upon his shoulder, 
 and looked up with a great start. There 
 were Con's white face and black eyes 
 gleaming at him in the dull light of the 
 sick room, 
 
 "Master ! " said the idiot caress- 
 ingly. 
 
 Sir John was about to shake him off; 
 but the great tenderness and sympathy 
 in the lad's face caught his attention. 
 
 " Master, take miss down mountain I " 
 said the fool in an excited whisper ; and 
 he pointed with his finger to the open 
 window, beyond which the day was al- 
 
 ready breaking, leaving the dark peaks 
 of the hills all naked against the pale 
 rifts between the clouds. 
 
 " Father Felix, master I Father Felix, 
 master ! " 
 
 Sir John started again, and a flush 
 rose to his face. He guessed on the 
 instant at the meaning of the fool. 
 Every one in the country knew that the 
 sick were brought to Father Felix. Many 
 a time Sir John had laughed at the folly ; 
 yesterday he would have laughed at it; 
 but now, being in despair, he felt differ- 
 ently. 
 
 Within the next half-hour, the whole 
 castle was astir ; and all the people of the 
 place knew that a strange thing was 
 about to happen. Lady Archbold, docile 
 for once, hurried on with quivering hands 
 her riding-habit, and placed a hat, with 
 long feathers and jewelled buckle above 
 her troubled face. A litter was con- 
 structed, and the insensible maiden was 
 placed on it, supported by pillows, and 
 swathed in costly wrappings. A heap of 
 June flowers lay on her feet. Six stout 
 retainers carried the litter on their 
 shoulders, and the woful parents rode 
 a little in advance on either side. A 
 crowd of servants, laborers, tradespeople, 
 and tenants, who poured out at short 
 notice from the settlement of Camlough 
 in the lap of the' Golden Mountain, made 
 a motley rear-guard to the train. Down 
 the rugged passage of the steep mountain 
 came winding slowly this mournful pro- 
 cession, with the glor/of the midsfimmer 
 morning flashing on the rich draperies of 
 the litter, the pale adorned figure of the 
 prostrate child, and the awed, wondei^- 
 ing faces around her; and far on before 
 them fled the swift-footed fool, the herald 
 and vanguard of the train, with his arms 
 extended as a signal of alarm, and all the 
 fires of the sunrise burning in his eyes. 
 
 Early jthat morning little May had 
 climbed the belfry to send the wishes of 
 her heart to her sick dream-playmate. 
 With two level hands above her eyebrows 
 she had screamed aloud, so sharply that 
 the crows started cawing out of the 
 ivy. 
 
 " Aunt Martha," she cried, flying into 
 the breakfast parlor, " there is a strange, 
 slow, procession coming down the Golden 
 Mountain 1 " 
 
 " Guests returning," said Miss Martha 
 comfortably, speaking from behind the 
 steam of her teapot. 
 
 " There are no visitors at Camlough 
 this long, long time," said May, who was 
 as pale as the white rose in the garden. 
 
THE CAML0TJ6H PEOPLE. 
 
 13 
 
 "That is true," said Miss Martlia 
 doubtfully; "but what are you afraid 
 of? " 
 
 " I fear that it may be the little girl's 
 funeral," said May, and burst into tears. 
 
 " Impossible 1 " said Miss Martha : " we 
 should have heard of her death." 
 
 " Do not cry, little one," said Father 
 Felix. "It is no doubt an ordinary 
 funeral from the hills ; " and he stole 
 away to his chapel to pray for the rest 
 of some unknown soul. 
 
 "Now you take the telescope, May," 
 said her aunt, " and amuse yourself watch- 
 ing these travellers ; and don't you fret 
 youself for nothing, my dear. As for me, 
 1 have to boil my preserves." 
 
 Funerals were familiar events to Miss 
 Martha. 
 
 " But there are bright things shining 
 in the riders' hands, and a bier with a 
 cover as white as snow," muttered May 
 in her belfry, telescope in hand. And 
 then about noon she beheld wild Con 
 coming flying along the road to Monas- 
 terlea. 
 
 " News, Con ? News from Camlough ? 
 cried May, speeding to meet him, and 
 clapping her hands to attract his notice ; 
 but he dashed past her without heeding, 
 leaped over the gravestones like a goat, 
 dived into the cloisters through a breach 
 in the wall, nor paused' till he burst into 
 the chapel. 
 
 The old priest had been kneeling in 
 prayer before his altar, but rose in 
 dismay at the rude noise. Wild Con 
 dropped prostrate at his feet. 
 
 " Master bring miss down hill," cried 
 the fool. " Father Felix make her laugh 
 and walk about. Aha ! little missy get 
 up quite well." 
 
 Father Felix patted him soothingly on 
 the head. The idiot was quivering with 
 excitement. He began to laugh and cry 
 as the sound of many feet and voices 
 became audible through the window ; but 
 the priest signed to him to be still and 
 reverent, and he crouched upon the 
 ground, covering his face with his hands. 
 
 The door opened again, and May came 
 radiantly into the chapel, stepping on 
 tip-toe, and looking like a spirit. 
 
 " Uncle 1 " she whispered, clasping his 
 hands, " Sir John and Lady Archbold 
 have come all the way from Camlough 
 with their daughter, who is sick. You 
 will cure her, uncle ? Oh ! you will make 
 her well?" 
 
 The old man changed color, and trem- 
 bled. 
 "My child," he said, "you know not 
 
 what you say; but I will go and learn 
 what they ask of me." 
 
 The procession had poured itself into 
 the graveyard. The litter had been 
 placed upon a fallen tombstone, the 
 white coverlet swept the earth, and the 
 flowers and draperies glowed with new 
 color in the brilliant air. A tawny- 
 cheeked woman in a scarlet shawl held 
 a canopy of white silk over the sick girl's 
 wan face, and over the loose golden hair, 
 which lay in a shower among the nettles. 
 Sir John had alighted, and, with hat in 
 hand, advanced to meet the monk. Lady 
 Archbold sat haughtily on her horse. 
 
 " Good sir," said Sir John, " our daugh- 
 ter is sick. All natural aid has failed to 
 cure her. We come to you, begging you 
 will restore her. We have brought you 
 gifts, — the most precious things we could 
 select on the instant ; but they are a 
 small part of what we are prepared to 
 give you." 
 
 The old man glanced all around, and 
 the pomp and pride of the scene troubled 
 him. As he stood there, with the eyes 
 of these great people upon him, he looked, 
 to worldly view, a meagre figure, both as 
 to flesh and garb, yet with a certain dig- 
 nity of age and holiness which could not 
 be questioned, still less understood. Sir 
 John grew impatient at a moment's delay. 
 
 " Sir," he said, " we are in anguish. Is 
 it not your calling to succor the distressed ? " 
 
 "Alas," said the old man, "take away 
 your gifts. God alone can do what you 
 desire. I can pray in your name ; but he 
 looks to the humility of the heart." 
 
 Lady Archbold now pressed forward. 
 
 " Sir ! " she cried wildly. " Exert your 
 power, — we care not inuch if it be of 
 heaven or not. We only want our child ! 
 Oh, me, we only want our child ! " and 
 she broke out into a wail of despair. 
 
 " Lady," said the old man, looking at 
 her with mild pity, " you speak to me as if 
 I were a sorcerer. I am no such thing ; 
 neither am I a saint, only the poorest of 
 God's servants. And I hesitate, fearing 
 no mercy will be shown which is demand- 
 ed in such a spirit." 
 
 Lady Archbold's face sank beneath his 
 glance. She flung herself from her horse, 
 and went down on 'her knees till the 
 feathers of her hat touched the earth. 
 
 " Oh ! " she moaned, " tell me how to feel, 
 that this be done. You shall put ashes on 
 my head, and I will be the humblest poor 
 woman in these mountains. I have lived 
 without religion, but I will try to be a 
 Christian henceforward. Only ask your 
 God to give me back my child 1 " 
 
14 
 
 THE WICKED WOODS OF TOBEEEBVIL. 
 
 Many -women began to sob around to see 
 the proud lady humbled thus.- The old 
 priest himself had tears in his eyes as he 
 answered her appeal. 
 
 " Daughter," he said, " I -will do as you 
 ■wish. Let us all, then, kneel, and crave 
 this blessing." 
 
 All sank upon their knees in the grass. 
 Some supported themselves a2;ainst the 
 broken cross, some leaned upon the mounds 
 of the graves. Many women were weep- 
 ing, many men trembling. Lady Archbold 
 crouched with her face to the very moss of 
 the earth. It was long, whispered the peo- 
 ple, since she had knelt before. She shud- 
 dered as the priest made a loud distinct 
 prayer, to which the mass of the people 
 responded with a sound that was like the 
 roaring of a troubled sea. 
 
 But soon there was stillness in the grave- 
 yard. The priest had sunk prostrate in 
 silent prayer. The very rooks had stopped 
 their clamor in the , belfry. The people 
 held their breath, and feared even to sway 
 their bent bodies. Only a lark dared to 
 sing, and sang long and ecstatically, rising 
 higher and higher, till, only for the echo 
 of its notes, it might have seemed to be 
 consumed in the fires of the sun. It seemed 
 to May that the singing of this lark was 
 the voice of the old man's prayer, as it 
 pierced its urgent way to heaven. 
 
 An hour passed, and the kneeling peo- 
 ple began to grow weary. Lady Archbold 
 glanced once at her child, crouched to the 
 earth again, and groaned aloud. Another 
 hour passed, and a woman fainted, and 
 some children stole away to play at a dis- 
 tance. It was far in the third hour when a 
 loud scream rang out upon the air. 
 
 The scream came from May, who was 
 close to the sick girl, and had seen her 
 long hair stir among the nettles. The next 
 moment Katherine Archbold sat up, and 
 began gazing curiously around her. First 
 a hoarse murmur of awe ran through the 
 crowd ; then there arose such a cheer from 
 the hearts of the mountain men as had 
 never been heard among these walls be- 
 fore. The startled crows set up a wild 
 clamor round the belfry. The mother 
 rushed towards her daugher, stumbled 
 among the people and fell, but was raised 
 by the strong, kind arms of women, and 
 carried by tliem to the side of her Kathe- 
 rine. Mother, father, and child were locked 
 in a wild embrace, amidst the sobs and ex- 
 clamations of the people. 
 
 It was some minutes before any one 
 remembered the old priest. Little May's 
 shrill voice again raised, and her slight 
 arm beating back the people, first recalled 
 
 him to their minds. Then they looked on 
 the ground where he lay upon his face. 
 They turned hiin on his back, and found 
 he liad passed from prayer into a swoon. 
 Now Miss Martha bustled up in tears. She 
 had knelt in the distance upon her door- 
 step, half joining in the scene and half 
 resenting it, knowing too well the conse- 
 quences of such efforts for her brother. 
 She gathered his frail body in her arms, 
 and, with the help of friends, had him car- 
 ried to the house. 
 
 " Ah, yes, good sir," she said bitterly 
 to Sir John, " he has given your daughter 
 health, but I greatly fear she has given 
 him his death." 
 
 " I pray God no," said Sir John. 
 
 Miss Martha was too hospitable to suffer 
 the people from Camlough to return with- 
 out refreshment, and bestowed on them 
 such entertainment as it was in her power 
 to give. The crowd soon scattered to carry 
 far and wide the story of the morning ; and 
 Sir John and his wife and child honored 
 Miss Martha's dwelling with their pres- 
 ence. 
 
 May invited Katherine to her own little 
 room, having leave to wait upon her, whilst 
 Miss Martha was attending to Lady Arch- 
 bold. To this Katherine submitted with a 
 languid condescension. 
 
 " Have yoftx not a better frock than this ? " 
 asks she, surveying the robe of thick white 
 muslin in which May was attiring her 
 with tender hands. 
 
 " Alas, no ! " said May, crest-fallen. " I 
 always thought it was a pretty frock ; but I 
 see it is not good'enough for you." 
 
 "I should think not," said Katherine, 
 flinging her head about, and tossing her 
 gold mane in May's eyes. " You should 
 see what handsome frocks I wear at Cam- 
 lough ; but what makes your eyes so red, 
 little girl Y " 
 
 " I wept this morning," said May, who 
 was ready to weep again. " I wept because 
 you were so sick." 
 
 " How fianny ! " said Katherine, laugh- 
 ing. " I'm sure I should not weep if you 
 were sick ; but I like you very well, and 
 you shall come to Camlough. You are a 
 nice little girl in your own way ; but you 
 are not so beautiful as I am." 
 
 " Oh, no ! " said May eagerly, " I could 
 not be so silly as to think so." 
 
 " You are a very pleasant little girl," said 
 Katherine : " I shall certainly have you 
 with me at Camlough." 
 
 Before Sir John and Lady Archbold left 
 Monasterlea, they stood by the old priest's 
 bedside, to offer him their thanks. At her 
 husband's suggestion, Lady Archbold ex- 
 
THE HEIE TO THE WOODS. 
 
 15 
 
 pressed her sorrow for wild words which 
 had been uttered in her grief. 
 
 Tlie old man was ill, and could not 
 speak much. " Forget all that," he said ; 
 "but there is one thing 1 would bid you 
 remember. Guard well this soul that God 
 has given back into your keeping. See 
 that in gaining her you have not lost her. 
 Make her modest and holy, gentle and 
 wise." 
 
 But Lady Archbold's pride was on the 
 return. She thought herself lectured, and 
 turned away with impatience, which she 
 hardly took the trouble to conceal. At the 
 same moment Katherine was led unwilling- 
 ly into the>room, glancing about the place 
 with an air of scorn. The pallid old man 
 upon the couch was an object of ridicule 
 in her eyes. When her father placed her 
 beneath the hand which was extended to 
 bless her she drew back in disgust. And 
 then they all departed, and the train went 
 back to Camlough. 
 
 And May hid herself in her belfry to 
 weep. This was her first real grief, Kath- 
 erine had disappointed her. The sweet 
 dream-playmate was no more. Pride shown 
 to herself she did not mind ; but contempt 
 of her uncle the loving heart could not 
 brook. 
 
 And, after all this, Miss Martha's anxious 
 words cg-me true ; for in two days Father 
 Felix was dead. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE HEIR TO THE WOODS. 
 
 Paul Fististon and his mother had, 
 for many years, lived in a high, narrow 
 house on the Quays, in Dublin, close by 
 where a light bridge springs over the dark, 
 running river. Tall spars congregated be- 
 side it, and old brown sails flapped heavily 
 in the water, turning orange and red in 
 the sun. Hish above, there were domes 
 against the sty, and in the shadow of the 
 up-hill distance loomed the ghostly outlines 
 of many peaks and pinnacles. 
 
 Mrs. Finiston was a frail creature, who 
 was chained to a sofa in her dingy room. 
 For years she had had nothing strong to 
 protect her but her trust in God, nothing 
 bright to look at but the face of her boy. 
 Yet with these two comforts she had man- 
 aged to get on- pretty well, and now her 
 son was turning into a tall, brave lad. 
 Only let her live for a few years more, and 
 she might free him forever from the dan- 
 gers that beset him. 
 
 She had saved her husband from the 
 curse of his family, and she would also try 
 to save her son. Her husband had been 
 the brother of Simon the miser. He had 
 obtained with difficulty a commission in 
 the army, and had been sent into the 
 world to seek his fortune. It had been 
 her labor to keep him from longing after 
 ill-oraened possessions. She was tender, 
 upright, and somewhat superstitious, and 
 the curse of Tobereevil had been the 
 terror of her life. The dread of it had 
 made her patient in poverty, and peeu- 
 liarly unselfish in her love ; and her pa- 
 tience and love had so influenced her 
 husband that he had never shown a desire 
 to touch the rusting treasures of his race. 
 Husband and wife had paid one visit to- 
 gether to Tobereevil, and had hasteYied 
 away, shuddering at the wretchedness 
 they had witnessed. But now he had 
 been dead many years. ' 
 
 Mrs. Finiston was in receipt of a small 
 pension, and possessed also a trifling an- 
 nuity of her own. But all this little in- 
 come would vanish when she died. No 
 wonder, then, that she prayed to be spared ; 
 that she stinted and saved with the hope 
 of being enabled to give her son a pro- 
 fession. She had determined against mak- 
 ing him a soldier; as such he would be 
 always poor ; and in poverty, there was 
 that danger of the longing for the riches 
 of the misers of Tobereevil. She would 
 hedge round his future from that risk. 
 
 Her high sitting-room window was bowed 
 out towards the river, and the narrow 
 panes between its ancient pilasters afford- 
 ed a view over the bridge into the sun- 
 shine. The dome of the Four Courts 
 shone finely in the distance above the 
 masts, through the soft amber haze of a 
 summer's day. She had resolved that, 
 under its shelter, her Paul should yet win 
 fame and gold, — honorable fame, which he 
 would prefer to wealth ; gold, honestly 
 earned, which he would generously share 
 and spend. There were many great men 
 even in her own little day who had grown 
 up out of smaller beginnings. The mother 
 on the sofj, recalled a dozen such. 
 
 With a view to all this she had deprived 
 herself of comfort that he might be taught 
 by the best tutors in Dublin. He was now 
 seventeen, a student of Trinity, and had 
 taken a fair share of honors for his time. 
 He was not a genius, nor over-fond of 
 books ; but he loved his mother, and appre- 
 ciated the sacrifices she was making for his 
 sake. And, though he smiled a little at 
 her anxiety about the curse, his horror of 
 it was even greater than her own. 
 
16 
 
 THE "WICKED WOODS OF TOBBEEEVIL. 
 
 Thus Paul i'iniston, sitting among his 
 books in the rude old window, would often 
 also raise his eyes and hopes to that dome 
 of promise against the clouds. He would 
 stifle in his heart certain yearnings for an 
 open-air life ; for travel, for change, for the 
 ownership of country acres, and the power 
 of mastership in a dominion of his own. 
 He would determine within him to let no 
 weakness of purpose throw him in the way 
 of temptation. He would become a learned 
 hard-headed man of business, who should 
 found a new house to redeem the honor of 
 his name ; and above all should have no 
 leisure for bad dreams. 
 
 " Paul," said his mother one evening, as 
 he came in and settled down to his books, 
 " I have had a letter from the west." 
 
 " From the west ! " echoed Paul, star- 
 tled, thinking of the miser. 
 
 " From dear old Martha Mourne. She 
 is coming to Dublin on business with her 
 lawyer ; and she says, ' I will bring poor 
 Timothy's child to see you.' " 
 
 " Who is poor Timothy's child ? " asked 
 Paul. " Her niece ? I hope she is not 
 grown up." For he was very shy of 
 women, having been accustomed to speak 
 to none but his mother. 
 
 " She is a cliild of about twelve years 
 old, if I remember. And you must be 
 kind to her, Paul. You must meet them 
 at the coach, and bring them here." 
 
 Paul pulled a face over his book, a sign 
 of dismay which he would not have shown 
 his mother for the world. He tried to be 
 glad that she should see a friend ; but, for 
 himself, he had a dread of old women and 
 children. Still he would be kind to thom, 
 and civil to them, if he could. He would 
 meet them at the coach-office, of course, 
 and carry all their 6and-boxes, if need be. 
 He would pour out the tea as he was ac- 
 customed to do, and help little missy and 
 old madam to cake. But after all these 
 things were resolved upon, it could surely 
 never hurt any one that he should kick his 
 old boots about his own little room, and 
 wish the good people safely back where 
 they came from. 
 
 At four o'clock next day the coach came 
 in. It was a long, rose-colored evening to- 
 wards the spring, full of soft promises of 
 sweet months yet to come ; bars of red fell 
 across the bridge, and spikes of burnished 
 gold tipped the clustering spars, while 
 masses of light and shade rolled up and 
 down the shifting shrouds, gambolling like 
 living things. 
 
 Paul had laid the cloth, and brought the 
 fat roast chicken and the slices of, cold 
 ham from the nearest cook's shop ; had set 
 
 forth the fresh lemon-cakes and the straw- 
 berry preserves. The tea was in the tea- 
 pot, and the kettle on the hob. He had 
 placed the muffins at a prudent distance 
 from the fire, where his mother on her sofa 
 could turn them at her leisure ; and, all 
 these formidable arrangements made, he 
 sauntered slowly down the quay with his 
 hands in his pockets. He gazed with new 
 interest at the movements of the men in 
 the boats, spoke to them from the wall, and 
 was pleased when they invited him on 
 board ; but the very last moment of linger- 
 ing arrived, and Paul was at his post when 
 the coach drove up. 
 
 He scanned the faces inside, and recog- 
 nized his charge with a thrill of relief. 
 They did not appear awful after all ; and 
 they looked very tired, and very glad of 
 him. at the door. This no doubt made Paul 
 look also glad to see them, and the intro- 
 duction was quite pleasant and friendly. 
 There was nothing to object to about Miss 
 Martha, except that her bonnet was a little 
 bruised on one side; but that was from 
 falling asleep against the side of the coach. 
 She looked thoroughly a lady in her neat 
 garments of lavender and black ; and her 
 quick-witted ways seemed to announce that 
 she was accustomed to be no inconvenience 
 to any one. Beside her sat a slim little 
 maiden, in a gray pelisse and a deep straw 
 bonnet tied down with white, who was 
 cherishing fondly a basket of roses, which 
 had faded, in her lap. And, when the 
 bonnet turned round, there were discover- 
 ed under it cheeks flushed with fatigue, 
 and bright eager eyes, — a sweet little 
 bloomy carnation of a face. 
 
 The travellers, upon their part, saw a 
 strong, graceful, good-looking lad. The 
 face was as good a face as ever woman 
 looked upon. The features were manly, 
 the eyes dark and steady under finely 
 marked brows. They' were sweet-tempered 
 eyes, yet suggestive of passiqn. The fore- 
 head was broad ; and the temples too full 
 for any man but a poet.~' The half-curled 
 locks were thick and fair, and the mouth 
 looked particularly truthful. It was not a 
 very firm mouth, and yet not weak ; truth- 
 ful-looking and changeful, and very apt to 
 smile ; and it smiled broadly as Paul Fin- 
 iston handed young missy and old madam 
 out of the coach. 
 
 As foV. parcels, Miss Martha had only 
 two small bags and a large umbrella ; and 
 it was as much as Paul could do to get 
 leave to carry the latter. 
 
 " No, my dear," she said, " though I like 
 you for offering. It is a good sign to see a 
 lad polite to old women ; but I'd rather 
 
MISS MAETHA MAKES A PROMISE. 
 
 17 
 
 you'd take hands with little May to keep 
 her steady on the crossings." 
 
 So Paul marched forward with May 
 under one arm and the umbrella under the 
 other ; and iliss Martha followed with a 
 bag in each hand. And, in spite of his 
 dread of old women and children, Paul 
 forgot to be uneasy lest any of the Trinity 
 follows sliould happen to stroll down the 
 street at the wrong minute, and behold this 
 procession crossing the bridge. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 MISS MAETHA MAKES A PROMISE. 
 
 Now May had suddenly stepped from 
 dreamland into a world of reality and 
 bustle. AVhat business could have brought 
 so many people together ? Who could 
 have built so many houses ? and how did 
 each person know his own ? The best nov- 
 elty of all, and the one which she had most 
 leisure to examine, was the great, tall boy 
 who had untied her bonnet-strings, and 
 who was looking at her and talking to her, 
 as if she had been some one of importance 
 — a grown person at least — instead of 
 being only little May from Monasterlea. In 
 a world where such people as this were to be 
 found there was no knowing what one might 
 expect. Since the shock of her disap- 
 pointment in Katherine from Camlough, her 
 imagination had been empty of an idol. 
 Her heroine had vanished ; and now, be- 
 hold a hero 1 May, with a well-piled plate 
 before her, folded her little hands under 
 the table, and sighed, — a sigh of ineffable 
 joy, whose flavor was so high as almost to 
 take away her appetite. 
 
 Paul ibunJ May a most unusual little 
 person. He wondered if it was her age 
 that made her so pleasant to him. She was 
 not at all grown up, and yet was far from 
 being a baby. He had never known a girl 
 of this age before. It seemed to him that 
 he had never even passed one in the streets. 
 All the rest whom he had seen were either 
 grown-up women or children ; but this one 
 was child enough to be petted and treated 
 without ceremony, yet woman enough to be 
 a desirable companion. Her laugh was so 
 pleasant, and she was not afraid to talk, 
 and she had such very lovely, purple-col- 
 ored eyes ! 
 
 Mrs. Finiston said, " And this is the 
 
 little Italian I " kissed May, held her off, 
 
 and looked at her, and kissed her very 
 
 heartily again ; but after this she had no 
 
 2 
 
 eyes nor ears for any one save Martha. It 
 was on Martha that her eyes had longed to 
 rest. She had wished for, and been almost 
 hopeless of, this visit. She had much to 
 say to this friend. She could not set out 
 for the other world without first opening 
 her heart to her. She might have written 
 to Martha, was in the habit of writing to 
 her: she told her punctually that Paul 
 was an inch taller, and butter was very 
 dear ; but a gnawing anxiety was stored 
 up in that heart which so protested that it 
 must rid itself of a burden. She had wait- 
 ed and waited, hoping for this chance visit. 
 It is so much easier for a woman to explain 
 herself to a friend, while looking in the 
 eyes or holding the hand, than to put a 
 plain statement upon paper. 
 
 " Paul," said the mother, " will you take 
 the little girl to see the shops ? They will 
 still be open for an liour." 
 
 She spoke pleadingly, and turned to urge 
 her petition by a look ; but Paul was al- 
 ready tying on May's bonnet. 
 
 " Oh, I hope they will not be shut ! " said 
 the little girl earnestly ; " I have so many 
 things to buy, — beads for Nanny, and rib- 
 bons for Bridget, and a cap with strings 
 for Con the fool. He Iosbs all his hats 
 and gets pains in his ears." 
 
 " If the shops be shut," said Paul, " why 
 we shall only have to break in the doors." 
 "But I should not like you to get into 
 trouble on my account," said May, as they 
 swept down the stairs at a flying pace. She 
 was divided between her admiration of 
 Paul's prowess and her fears for his safety. 
 " I'd much rather not make any disturb- 
 ance," said she. 
 
 " We shall see,'' said Paul mischiev- 
 ously. 
 
 The shops were found to be open. Nev- 
 er was there such an expedition of wonder 
 and excitement. Paul led his enchanted 
 companion first into a large boot and shoe 
 shop, and asked for woollen caps with 
 strings for protecting the ears of fools. 
 He next introduced her to a millinery es- 
 tablishment, festooned with bonnets and 
 head-dresses, feathers and flowers, satins 
 and tinsels, the like of which May could 
 not have imagined. And hear Paul polite- 
 ly asked for rosary beads " fit for the pious 
 use of old women in the country." May 
 thought it very odd that it should be so 
 diflicult to get the things she wanted. Af- 
 ter this they went to a picture-shop for cap- 
 ribbons, and to a jeweller's for sugar-stick. 
 In the end, however, and after much perse- 
 verance, they succeeded in getting all they 
 had been seeking for, — and something 
 more besides ; for Paul, happening to have, 
 
18 
 
 THE WICKED WOODS OF TOBEEEEVIL. 
 
 by accident, the price of a pair of new 
 boots in his poclcet, recklessly expended 
 half of it on a cross for May. It was hand- 
 somely carved, and hung round her neck 
 by a pretty black chain. May was so ab- 
 sorbed and transfixed by gratitude and sur- 
 prise, that he had almost to carry her over 
 the next two crossings to save her from 
 being run down by the jingles. And as 
 his mind was rather uneasy about the 
 money, he soothed his conscience by laying 
 out the other half on a present for his moth- 
 er. Ho resolved to wear his boots for an- 
 other half-year. He would send them to 
 the cobbler, and entreat the sullen servant 
 at home to give them a little extra black- 
 ing every morning for the future ; and if 
 all that did not make things right, why then 
 the disagreeable future must take care of 
 itself. 
 
 Meantime the two friends in the high 
 room had been occupied in dividing the 
 mother's trouble, share and share alike, 
 between two faithful hearts. 
 
 It was nothing very new that Miss Mar- 
 tha had to hear ; only the old, old story, 
 with the slight variation of Mrs. Finiston's 
 fears about her boy. The little bit of nov- 
 elty being a vivid expectation of her own 
 approaching death. 
 
 " I know you won't laugh at me, Martha," 
 she said, " though, of course, I do not in- 
 sist that this may not be a fancy ; but you 
 know I have been tolerably brave all my 
 life. For a sick, lonely woman I have had 
 very few whims ; but now I believe that I 
 am soon going to die." 
 
 Miss Martha cleared her throat twice 
 before her voice was ready to answer. 
 
 " Of course I am not going to laugh at 
 you, EiizaVjeth. It may, as you say, be a 
 fancy. Very likely. But then, as we have 
 all got to die, it may happen to come true ; 
 and you would like to arrange for it, just 
 as if it were going to come true. I approve 
 of that. Hi ready for a thing, and it is 
 nothing when it comes. If this appears 
 coming, send for me without the delay of 
 an instant ; and I have no doubt at all that 
 we shall help each other. There, now, we 
 have faced it ; and that being over, let me 
 remind you that I am older than you, and 
 shall probably die first." 
 
 Mrs. Finiston choked back a little flutter 
 of the heart. " I coulil wish to live," she 
 said, " and I will send for you if there is 
 time. In the mean time, I like to have 
 things settled. There is Paul ! Suppose 
 I left him now, he has not a penny nor a 
 friend in the world." 
 
 " He is the heir of Tobereevil," said Miss 
 Martha boldly. 
 
 " Martha I " almost shrieked Mrs. Finis- 
 ton, letting herfriend's hand drop in dismay. 
 
 " Now, Elizabeth, be quiet. There has 
 been a great deal of nonsense talked about 
 that curse ; and I believe that it has worked 
 all the harm. If Simon Finiston had not 
 known that he was cursed he would prob- 
 ably never have been the miser that he is. 
 Weak-minded people will submit to fate. 
 The fascination of being marked out, and 
 prophesied over, is strong for little souls. 
 They like the eccentricity, and fall in with 
 it, and pander to their morbid expectations. 
 Simon Finiston had as good a chance as any 
 man in the world ; and his ruin is upon his 
 own head." 
 
 Mrs. Finiston was aghast at this speech. 
 She was so utterly surprised, that, for a mo- 
 ment, she forgot her own trbubles. Never 
 before had Martha Mourne been heard to 
 condemn Simon Finiston ; but the explana- 
 tion of this outburst was plain, though poor 
 Mrs. Finiston was too pre-occupied to see it 
 at the time. Miss Martha had a fine little 
 morsel of sublimity at the bottom of her 
 simple heart. It may be that, at this mo- 
 ment, the memory of Simon Finiston, as he 
 had been once, was dearer to her than the 
 reality of young Paul in his present state 
 of youthful undevelopment; but Miss Mar- 
 tha saw the drift of lier friend's fears, and 
 her handful of dried sentiment was cast out 
 of the way like a sheaf of old lavender from 
 a drawer. The future of a young man, she 
 acknowledged, was more precious than an 
 old man's past. ' 
 
 The shock of this surprise over, Mrs. Fin- 
 iston returned to her own alTairs. 
 
 " But, Martha, Martha 1 what happens 
 to one man may happen to another." 
 
 " I see no fears for your lad," said Miss 
 Martha. " Unlike his uncle, he has grown 
 up quite apart from the dangerous influence. 
 He knows the evil ; yet he has no morbid 
 dread of it, and I see in his eye that he is 
 no shallow soul. My friend, you must com- 
 mit him to God and to me. If you go first, 
 I will try to be Elizabeth. I am not a 
 mother ; but it may be that it is in me to act 
 a motherly part." 
 
 Mrs. Finiston sobbed, and squeezed the 
 spinster's fingers. 
 
 " Well, let us see. He will one day be 
 called upon to accept the inheritance of 
 Tobereevil. Do as we will, the future will 
 place him in that position. You have 
 prepared him well to receive such a trying 
 stewardship. He will be close to us who 
 are his friends. He will bring a generous 
 ardor to the righting of what is wrong. 
 And you know I am not so credulous as 
 some ; and I hold that when a person is 
 
TRYING TO BE ELIZABETH. 
 
 19 
 
 Btriving to do his best, the Lord is very 
 likely to step ia and help him." 
 
 " It is true," said Mrs. Finiston, with 
 many more sobs. " I have sometimes had 
 dreams like this ; but the bitterness of my 
 fears always frightened them away." 
 
 " And as I have found you so credulous 
 of prophecies," went on Miss Martha, with 
 increased liveliness of manner, " I will ven- 
 ture to foretell something which the least 
 superstitious may expect to come to pass. 
 One Paul Finiston brought evil into the 
 country. Another Paul shall cast it out. 
 We shall see your boy break this ugly 
 spell upon his race, and begin a reign of 
 peace among our hills ! " 
 
 Miss Martha wound up this little period 
 with a most unusual note in her matter-of- 
 fact voice ; and Mrs. Finiston, carried 
 away by the eloquence of her friend, flung 
 her arms round her neck, and wept all the 
 remnant of the tears she had to weep. But 
 in the course of a few minutes this scene 
 was interrupted by the young people burst- 
 ing in at the door. May flourishing invisi- 
 ble purchases over her head, and calling 
 upon every one to admire them in the dark. 
 
 " And, oh, such hunting as we have 
 had 1 " she exclaimed. " We were in at 
 least ten shops before we could get any 
 thing we wanted; and it was so much 
 better fun than if we had got every thing at 
 first. And please. Aunt Martha, do come 
 close to the window, and see what a beau- 
 tiful present he has bought me 1 " 
 
 The entrance of a lamp here revealed 
 Paul's face, which broadly reflected the 
 girl's delight. The mother, who knew the 
 secret of the broken shoes, and the friend 
 who did not, exchanged meaning glances. 
 They said to one another without words : — 
 
 " This lad is not likely to become a churl 
 or a niifcr ! " 
 
 As Miss Martha was going out to her 
 lawyer's next day, Mrs. Finiston put her 
 a question which it may be thought she 
 might have put to her before. 
 
 '■ And now that I have time to think of 
 it, Martha, what is this business that has 
 brought you up to town ? " 
 
 The answer was hard to give ; but Miss 
 ^Martha was honest, and it came out 
 bluntly. 
 
 " My landlord thinks of raising my rent," 
 she said, showing some confusion of man- 
 ner ; " and," — here she was looking over 
 the table for the gloves which were on her 
 hands, — "I do not feel justified in com- 
 plying with his demand." 
 
 Mrs. Finiston knew well who the land- 
 lord was. Truly old Simon's disease was 
 progressing. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 TRYING TO BE ELIZABETH. 
 
 Miss Maetha was right and wrong when 
 she persuaded Paul's mother that her fears 
 of approaching death were unfounded. 
 Three years passed away, and Mrs. Finis- 
 ton still lived, still languished on her sofa, 
 and paid her son's college fees, and wrote 
 letters to her friend at Monasterlea. But 
 one morning, while Mi?s Bourne bustled 
 briskly about her breakfast-room, she got 
 the news that Mrs. Finiston was no longer 
 in the world. The end had been quick : 
 there had been scarcely any warning, and 
 little time for reluctance and regret. 
 
 Then Miss Martha, reading her letter 
 with red eyes, had reason to remember that 
 she had said, " I will try to be Elizabeth." 
 
 She would have remembered it in any 
 case ; but the special reason which sug- 
 gested it came in the form of a messaje from 
 the dead. It was simply, " Go to Simon," 
 scrawled feebly upon a morsel of paper. 
 The dying hand had been unable to write 
 more. 
 
 Well, Miss Martha would go to Simon. 
 She knew all that would have been added 
 to those few eager words had there been 
 time. She would go to Simon. 
 
 Martha Mourne was not romantic. Even 
 in her youth, she had been remarkable for 
 nothing so much as common sense. The 
 experience of a long life had done its ut- 
 most to make her the most matter-of-fact 
 person in the world; and yet there was 
 something within her that made it difli- 
 cult that she should go to see Simon of 
 of Tobereevil, — so difficult that Miss ilar- 
 tha would rather liave marched into a 
 battle-field in her neat, bright goloshes and 
 best black' silk, and taken the few odd 
 chances for her life. It was twenty years 
 since she had seen Simon Finiston ; and, on 
 the occasion of that last meeting, she had 
 broken off an engagement which had then 
 already lasted nearly a quaiter of a life- 
 time. She had sought him as she was go- 
 ing to seek him now ; had spoken to him, 
 and left him before his own door-step. Slie 
 was not going to have the blood of the poor 
 upon her head, and their hungry-crj- in her 
 ears all her life. If he would persist in 
 walking evil ways, why, then, she must let 
 him walk them alone. She had waited and 
 hoped till suspense had gnawed the pith 
 out of her heart ; now she was going away 
 to mend her wounds, and to fit herself for a 
 litii of wholesome labor elsewhere. It was in 
 this way that she had talked to him, and left 
 
20 
 
 THE WICKED WOODS OF TOBEBEEVIL. 
 
 him ; and he had walked his evil ways quite 
 alone ever since. It had pleased her later to 
 come back in her independence, and settle 
 for old age within a mile of Tobereevil ; 
 but it did not please her to confront this 
 old man, who could remind lierthat certain 
 five years of her life had been full of a 
 light which had failed her, and that other ten 
 years had been racked with the worst grief 
 that can be suffered, — the ill-doing and 
 disgrace of one entirely beloyed. To save 
 her.>^elf from death, she would not have en- 
 tered in at that rusty gate, and travelled 
 up that dismal avenue ; but she knew very 
 well what she had meant when she had 
 said, " I will try to be Elizabeth." 
 
 The unkind March wind was making a 
 jest of her all the time, plucking at her 
 gown, and puffing in her face, and singing 
 out a loud, shrill song at her expense, that 
 made the tender buds shiver on the trees. 
 It was as hard upon her as would have 
 been any other raw, blustering thing that 
 prided itself on youth, and had no pity upon 
 the romance of a weather-beaten heart. 
 Sliss Martha often paused to consider her 
 way ; for the trees and the weeds seemed to 
 have eaten up the landmarks which she had 
 known. There were no longer any traces of 
 the long carriage-drive. The branches of the 
 trees hung across the path, and the rabbits 
 scampered past her feet. Here and there a 
 rusted gate barred her way, while a broken- 
 down fence reluctantly allowed her to pro- 
 ceed ; and, as she made her way resolutely 
 past all obstacles, there were other things 
 besides the cruel east wind that plucked at 
 her sorely. She remembered how many 
 and many a time she had been used to trip 
 up and down that avenue. She saw the 
 moss-covered trunk on which she had liked 
 to stand to get a favorite view down at an 
 arch of the trees, thinking pleasantly all the 
 time of what things she and Simon would 
 do when they should become owners of 
 Tobereevil. They would prune and weed, 
 and till and plant, until the wilderness 
 should be changed into a paradise. They 
 would make the mountains glad, and re- 
 store the tarnished honor of the Finistons. 
 Then the desolation of Tobereevil had pos- 
 sessed a charm for her, as the haunt of an 
 evil genius which was to be banished one 
 day by the ibrce of her strong good-will. 
 'J'hen the mansion itself, — the mansion 
 which was just now showing a cold, gray 
 shoulder between the trees, had been as the 
 castle of an ogre, which was to be changed 
 into a home of all blessedness and happi- 
 ness. These had been a young girl's joyful 
 expectations ; yet now all that she looked 
 upon was sunk a hundred times deeper in 
 
 ruin than it had been in the hour of her 
 liope. 
 
 Miss Martha did not dwell upon these 
 thoughts at all, but gathered up her wits and 
 her shirts, and held both well in control, as 
 she confronted the sour visage of the house. 
 She remembered it well : she had known it 
 morose, and threatening, and wo-begone ; 
 but she saw now the marks of twenty years 
 of extra desolation on its front. It had 
 gained an air of surly recklessness, and 
 much of its dignity was gone. There was 
 a savage raggedncss about its chimneys 
 and window-sills and door-.steps; tufted 
 with tall, wild grass, and fluttering with 
 streamers of the most flaunting weeds. 
 The greenness of the earth had nof been 
 content with eating up the approaches to 
 the walls, but seemed resolved to makes its 
 way under the very roof itself. 
 
 Miss Martha saw the one cow feeding on 
 the lawn, and the few farnished hens that 
 were pecking about tlie door'Step. The 
 door was opened by a dreadful old woman, 
 a mass of rags and patches, whose face was 
 disfigured apparently by the grime and 
 discontent of years; a creature who was 
 held in aversion by the country because, 
 for some reasons best known to herself, she 
 had chosen to devote her services to the 
 miser of Tobereevil. It was doubtless but 
 seldom that she was required to answer a 
 summons at that inliospitable door ; and she 
 looked as scared at the wholesome appari- 
 tion of Miss Mourne, as if she had been 
 suddenly confronted by a gang of thieves. 
 
 All across the vast and empty stone hall, 
 and away in the chamber where he stood 
 at the moment, Simon Finiston heard 
 wrangling at his door. Old Tibbie's dis- 
 cordant voice made a noise among the raft- 
 ers like the sound of a loud quarrel. Jliss 
 Martha's tones did not travel so far, but 
 every harsh note of Tibbie's had an echo 
 of its own, and there might have been an 
 angry crowd upon the door-step. 
 
 The miser had been pacing up and down 
 his room, being in a humor more than usu- 
 ally timorous. As he walked he twisted 
 his hands together, and at intervals struck 
 his ibrehead in the agony of his mind. He 
 was beginning to fear that his memory failed 
 him. He .was subject to momentary fbrget- 
 fulness of the exact position of each tittle 
 of his possessions. Sometimes, for an in- 
 stant, he could not remember in which 
 pocket he had placed the key of the drawer, 
 in which he kept the key of the closet, in 
 which was hid the key of the desk, where 
 lay safely, under heaps of yellow papers, 
 the key of the safe in which his money was 
 stored. This noise in the hail alarmed 
 
TEYING TO BE ELIZABETH. 
 
 21 
 
 him. There were loaded pistols upon a 
 bench in a corner, acd he placed his hand 
 upon one in terror, and looked towards the 
 door. The door opened, and SJiss JIartha 
 came in, having vanquished Tibbie, and 
 sent her growling to her den. 
 
 " You need not be alarmed, sir," said she 
 cheerfully ; " I am come to rob you of noth- 
 ing but a few moments of your time." 
 
 Tlien these two, who had been lovers, 
 looked upon one another. 
 
 The old man was tall, withered, and 
 blighted-looking, and so ill-clad that the 
 blast from the door seemed to pierce him 
 where he stood. It was difficult to believe 
 that he had once been handsome ; yet the 
 features were imposing, though hacked by 
 the wrinkles and hollows of the flesh. 
 Once the countenance had been bland ; but 
 there were snarling lines defacing it now 
 that made one shrink from the creature, 
 ■ shadowy as he was. Time had been when 
 the powdered curls had hung gracefully 
 over the polished forehead, when the com- 
 plexion had worn a manly hue above the 
 dainty lace of his ruffles, and when his 
 well-cut profile had looked all the more 
 stately from the becomingness of the quaint 
 and jaunty queue. Time had been when 
 no finer foot and leg had stepped down the 
 country-dance. Now the limbs hung lank 
 and limp, the knees clinging together under 
 the patched and threadbare garb. 
 
 A violent fit of agitation seized him as 
 Miss Martha spoke. Amazement, shame, 
 and embarrassment struggled all together 
 in his face. It was not the fight of Miss 
 Martha that had moved him, but the sound 
 of her voice. The twenty years had done 
 their work upon her too ; and, out of the 
 fogs of his puzzled brain, he might hardly 
 have recognized her. She had never been 
 a beauty, only one of those maidens whose 
 temper and wit idealize the homeliness of 
 their features in the eyes of all those who 
 come under their spell. A husband who 
 had married Martha in her youth would 
 have gone on thinking her a beauty till her 
 death ; but a lover who had not seen her 
 since her youth would now wonder to find 
 that she had altered into a plain-featured 
 woman. The memory would present her 
 as a person of rare charms, rather than a 
 creature of mere freshness and comeliness, 
 shilling with good sense and grace ; but 
 Simon knew her by her voice, it echoed 
 yet her steady self-containment and good- 
 will, and now that the sparkle had left her 
 eyes, it was the truest messenger of the 
 spirit still within her. 
 
 The soul of the miser was stabbed on 
 the instant by the idea that here was his 
 
 former love come in person to reproach 
 him, to try to assert something of her olden 
 power, so as to wheedle him into lowering 
 her heavy rent. He could not talk to her 
 face to face, and he would not ; and as she 
 was there confronting him, and, being near- 
 est the door, in a way held him prisoner, 
 he instinctively put up a blind which 
 might enable him to hold parley with her 
 at ease. 
 
 A look of cunning gleamed out of the 
 confusion of his face, and he became tran- 
 quil. 
 
 " Pray be seated, madam," he said with 
 an assumption of benevolence and stateU- 
 ness. He drew his frail garment around 
 him, and sat down on one of the few old 
 carved oaken chairs that were in the room. 
 To the cushions of these still clung a few 
 fragments of the ruby-tinted velvet, which 
 had made some attempt at covering them 
 when Martha had seen them last. The 
 chilly March sun-gleam flickered down out 
 of the uncurtained window above his head, 
 and laughed over his chair, and lit up the 
 variegations of his many-colored robe. 
 The room was sheathed in oak ; yet the 
 floor was rotted and broken in many places. 
 The spiders had been at work to make 
 draperies for the windows, and cobwebs 
 were the only hangings on the walls. The 
 ceiling had been painted; but the damp 
 had superadded many pictures of its own, 
 whose rude outlines obtruded themselves 
 among flowers, and hid smiling, fading 
 figures under their grievous blots. 
 
 " I have expected this visit," said Mr. 
 Finiston, with a courtly air, while yet Miss 
 Martha was trying to right her thoughts, 
 which had been somewhat thrown awry by 
 the first glimpse of the picture now before 
 her. '■ You ai'e probably a messenger 
 from my tenant at Monasterlea, a rela- 
 tion perhaps. I had the pleasure of know- 
 ing Miss Mourne many years ago, and I 
 see some likeness. A very respectable 
 tenant she is, but pays me such a dread- 
 fuUv low rent, — such a dreadfully low 
 rent ! " 
 
 He shook his head from side to side with 
 his eyes averted from his visitor-, and rub- 
 bed his hands slowly, and rocked himself 
 in his chair. 
 
 Miss Martha drew her breath hard, and 
 gazed at him fixedly. He would not meet 
 her eyes. In a few moments her amazement 
 abated, and her presence of mind returned. 
 She believed that he had recognized her, 
 but she could not be sure. At all events, 
 either his cunning cowardice or his want 
 of memory might make the task she had 
 undertaken less difficult. 
 
22 
 
 THE 'WICKED WOODS OF TOBEEEEVIL. 
 
 " I need not introduce myself," she said. 
 "It is true I am but tlie messenger of an- 
 other. I came from Monasterlea, but not 
 upon the business of your tenant." 
 
 " Ell ? " asked he sharply. " Not upon 
 your — not upon her business ? What 
 flien ? Not, J hope, with a story from any 
 of these smaller rascally tenants who want 
 their land for nothing, and would drive a 
 wretched landlord to the workhouse ? If 
 you come, madam, about them, I will wish 
 )ou a good-morning on the instant. A 
 good-morning, madam. I wish you a very 
 good-morning." 
 
 He arose hastily, and made a grotesque 
 bow, — a tremulous, mocking attempt at 
 courtesy ; and his face had begun to work 
 with a passion which brought outfall those 
 snarling lines upon it. 
 
 " Stay, sir ! " said Miss Martha ; and her 
 quick, steady tone affected him so that he 
 dropped back nervelessly into his chair. 
 
 " I am come altogether upon affairs of 
 your own," said Miss Martha, — "to bring 
 you news. Your brother's wile is dead, 
 Mr. Finiston." 
 
 He pricked up his ears, and sat bolt 
 upright. 
 
 " ^VclI, madam, I should not be surpris- 
 ed. A spendthrift creature who would 
 .not thrive. She came hero to see me with 
 lace trimmings on her dress; but I told 
 her my mind, and I pointed out to her the 
 destitution that would fall upon her. I 
 understand that her husband died of starv- 
 ation, the consequence of his improvidence 
 and her extravagance. They would have 
 dragged me down to want with themselves ; 
 but I was much too wise for that. I was 
 always a sparing man, madam ; and it is 
 thanks to my economy that I have still 
 bread to eat, and have got a roof over my 
 head." 
 
 " I find that you are misinformed," said 
 Miss Martha. " Your brother died of 
 fever ; and he was a happy man, and a 
 prudent one, while he lived. His wife was 
 a noble woman, who for years denied her- 
 self many comforts in the hope of beino' 
 able to provide for her son. She has died 
 without fulfilling this purpose ; and all her 
 slight means have disappeared with herself 
 I have come here expressly to tell you that 
 her son is now alone, and without means of 
 living ; and her son, sir, is Paul Finiston, 
 your nephew and heir." 
 
 The old man's face had grown darker 
 and more frightened at every word she 
 spoke. 
 
 " Well, well, well," he said hoarsely, 
 clutxjhing his chair with both hands, and 
 gazing now straight at Miss Martha, with- 
 
 out thinking of who she was. " Heir, she 
 said heir I Ay I And pray, madam, who 
 says there is any thing to inherit ? Barely 
 enough property to keep a man alive, with 
 the expenses of a servant, and a cat to 
 keep down the rats. Would you rob an 
 old man of his crust, madam ? Would you 
 take it out of his mouth to give it to a 
 young beggar who can work, madam ? " 
 
 " 'That is not what we propose, sir," said 
 Miss Martha unflinchingly. " We ask you 
 to use a small part of your wealth only to 
 help the poor boy to independence. Even 
 a few hundred pounds "^ 
 
 A bitter shriek burst from the old man's 
 lips ; and he got up trembling in a paroxysm 
 of passion. 
 
 " Away ! " he cried, waving his hand 
 over his head. " Away ! you who deserted 
 me in my need, and now come back to rob 
 me ! I will not have you sitting there 
 looking at me. I will not " — He was 
 tottering towards her with his menacing 
 hand ; but poor Miss Martha, cowed at last, 
 here rose in trepidation, and fled from the 
 house. 
 
 She was too old for tears and lamenting ; 
 but she walked home from Tobereevil over 
 miles of ground that had grown infinitely 
 bleaker since the morning. The cold 
 March air seemed to pinch her heart. 
 
 " You who deserted me in my need," 
 quoth she tearfully. " Why, was I not 
 patient ? was I not patient ? " but Miss Mar- 
 tha would have been ashamed to let her 
 doubts and regrets be known. None were 
 in her confidence but the trees, and the 
 primrose drifts, and the chilly blue peaks 
 of the hills. She complained of nothing 
 when she reached home but a slight touch 
 of rheumatism from that pitiless east 
 wind. 
 
 In the evening she was still a little ill 
 from her rheumatism ; so it was May who 
 wrote the letter which Martha had meant 
 to write. And young Paul Finiston receiv- 
 ed the following epistle in his garret : — 
 
 " My dear Paul, — It is Aunt Martha 
 who is really writing this letter, only I am 
 by accident holding her pen. Aunt Mar- 
 tha wishes to tell you that she has been to 
 your uncle, Mr. Finiston ; and that she is 
 afraid he will never do any thing to help 
 you, unless you come here to see him, 
 when, perhaps, he might get fond of you. 
 / am very glad that you have nothing to 
 do with him ; for he is a dreadful old man, 
 and would not give a crumb to save any 
 one from starving. Aunt Martha begs that 
 you will come here, and stay. Shu will 
 give you a nice little room off the cloisters 
 
lEYING TO BE ELIZABETH. 
 
 23 
 
 beside tbe chapel ; and Aunt Martha says 
 you are a great deal too sensible to be 
 afraid of ghosts. She has made some new 
 marmalade, and the garden is full of cro- 
 cuses. / would like you very much to 
 come, but I think it would be happier for 
 you to earn your own money, and never 
 mind that dreadful old man. Aunt Martha 
 sends you a little note, which she says is a 
 loan from me, and may be useful on your 
 journey down here. 
 
 " I am, dear Paul, 
 
 " In aunt Martha's name, 
 " Your very old friend, 
 
 "May MourUe." 
 
 " How odd that the little one should be 
 wiser than the old woman ! " said Paul. 
 This is the way in which people think 
 those the wisest who agree with themselves. 
 " I should like to see her again ; but I have 
 no time to stay dallying with children." 
 
 Paul was a man of twenty-one now, 
 looking old ibr his age, and feeling himself 
 thirty-six at least. Of course Slay was 
 still the little body in tbe prim gray pelisse, 
 and with the sweet dark eyes. " Afraid 
 of ghosts 1 Poor little baby I but she has 
 treated me very honestly, and I will tell 
 her what I am really afraid of." So Paul 
 wrote : — 
 
 " My dear old Friend, — I received 
 your Aunt Martha's letter ; and I approve 
 so heartily of the sentiments of the person 
 who held the pen, that I do not intend vis- 
 iting Monasterlea, nor approaching one 
 inch nearer to ray respectable uncle at 
 Tobereevil. I am not quite sure as to 
 whether I could play the part of beggar or 
 not, having never tried ; but of this I am 
 sure, that some hundreds of leagues of the 
 sea should come between us. Upon nearer 
 acquaintance I might do him some harm. 
 Is there not a prophecy included in that 
 time-honored curse of our family ? I might 
 never be able to forget that I am a kinsman 
 of the miser, and might be tempted to do 
 mischief for the sake of succeeding genera- 
 tions. If you do not understand this, ask 
 your Aunt Martha, and she will explain it 
 to you. Tell her, with my heartfelt thanks, 
 that I am sorry she undertook a painful 
 office for my sake ; that 1 would fain be in 
 the nice little bedroom off the cloisters, but 
 I shall find myself sooner in the rigging of 
 a foreign vessel. There is a captain from 
 Liverpool now lying in the docks who will 
 give me my passage for my services. I 
 have here no prospect that I can see, 
 except that of being a clerk or a porter ; 
 and I prefer bodily labor in a new country. 
 
 " And now, my dear little old friend, 
 good-by. Tell your Aunt Martha that I 
 accept your loan, and will sew it in my coat 
 against time of sickness. Tell her not to 
 count it a bad debt. I commit my mother's 
 grave to her memory and yours. If you 
 keep it in your minds, I shall not feel quite 
 deserted. 
 
 "Paul Finiston.'' 
 
 Paul little thought of the storm which 
 this letter was to create at Mona,sterlea. 
 Miss Martha turned pale when she read it ; 
 and, for the first time in her life, spoke 
 angrily to her niece. 
 
 " May I May ! " she cried, " what was 
 in that letter ? I intrusted the writing of 
 it to you ; and you have driven the poor 
 boy across the sea ! " 
 
 " I did not mean it," said May, weeping. 
 " I only said that I would rather he earned 
 money for himself." 
 
 '' I told you to write a welcome ; and you 
 have warned him away," said Miss Martha. 
 " Oh I why did I not write myself? The 
 boy will be drowned, and we shall have 
 done it between us. Oh, you cruel, 
 strange girl 1 O Elizabeth ! poor Eliza- 
 beth f" 
 
 " Aunt Martha 1 " said May, springing 
 up alert. " Cannot we go to Dublin and 
 stop him ? " 
 
 " Quick, then 1 " said Miss Martha ; 
 and in another hour they were upon the 
 road. 
 
 Arrived in Dublin, they traced Paul 
 from his old dwelling to a humbler lodging. 
 Hei;e they were informed that the young 
 man — a gentleman indeed he was — had 
 left the night before, and gone on board a 
 ship lying at the quay. They hurried 
 down to the quay, disappointed and hope- 
 less, to gaze among the vessels, and ask 
 questions. It was early in the morning ; 
 and they had been driving all day yester- 
 day, and all last night. The sun was shin- 
 ing gayly on the bridge as they half crossed 
 it, and stood leaning over the side. A ves- 
 sel was moving slowly at some distance, 
 clumsily disengaging itself from the craft 
 around. A faint cheer reached their ears, 
 making them look to this quarter; and 
 May saw Paul on the deck of the moving 
 ship. 
 
 " Where, where ? " said Miss Martha. 
 
 " Oh, Aunt Martha, there ! That tall 
 young man with his hat off! " 
 
 They left the bridge, and hurried along 
 the quay. They came almost alongside 
 of the ship ; but it was too far away for 
 any thing but signs to pass between Paul 
 and his friends. He had recognized 
 
24 
 
 THE "WICKED WOODS OF TOBEEEEVIL. 
 
 Miss Martha at once, but not so easily the 
 maiden by her side. Her hat had fallen 
 back on her shoulders, her face was flushed 
 with anxiety and grief, her hands were 
 involuntarily extended towards the ship. 
 Paul folded his arms, and gazed sadly at 
 her figure till the ship carried him away, 
 and crowds of tall masts rose up and hid 
 her from his sight. He took her image 
 thus away with liim, — the loveliest young 
 maiden, he thought, his eyes had ever seen. 
 
 CHAPTER VIH. 
 
 THE WOODS BECKON. 
 
 Five years have passed since Paul 
 Piniston sailed away with the Liverpool 
 captain. Many changes have, taken place 
 of course. For instance. May is a woman, 
 and Aunt Martha has begun to wear spec- 
 tacles. The rose-hedges at Monasterlea 
 have grown thicker between the garden and 
 the tombstones, and the grave of Father 
 Felix has got a cross ; but no events have 
 happened of more importance than these. 
 
 The miser of Tobcreevil is still a m3'stery 
 of iniquity to the people who starve in 
 their cabins to pay him the rents which he 
 extorts. He looks a little more shadowy 
 and ragged than ever as he glides about 
 his grounds, rubbing his lean hands, and 
 looking nervously over his shoulder. Peo- 
 ple who speak to him say he is more irasci- 
 ble than he used to be ; but these are few 
 besides old Tibbie, Con the fool, and a sat- 
 urnine lawyer who appears at proper inter- 
 vals to collect the rents. Con is often at 
 Tobereevil. He picks a bone over the 
 ashes with Tibbie in the kitchen, and sleeps 
 on some straw in a corner. He is the only 
 company old Simon will tolerate of an 
 evening ; but it is true that the miser 
 likes to see him sitting chattering his idiot's 
 speech on one of the old oaken chairs oppo- 
 site his own, or, still better, performing an- 
 tics in the middle of the floor. Perhaps it 
 is because any other visitor would require 
 some kind of entertainment in the way of 
 food, or drink, or firing, and yet that the 
 miser must sometimes see a friend. But 
 Tibbie will tell us that Con has a right to 
 come and go at Tobereevil. Con is her 
 sister's son, and he is also, she says, the 
 nephew of Simon. It is a fact that there 
 was a third brother, who lived and died in 
 poverty at the other end of Ireland. While 
 Con was a child Tibbie appeared at Tobe- 
 reevil with the urchin by the hand, and told 
 
 her story to every one who met her. Some 
 laughed at her, and others believed her ; but 
 none knew whether she could substantiate 
 her claim. At all events she engaged to be 
 the miser's housekeeper, and in this situa- 
 tion she has remained ever since ; and Con 
 comes and goes, and lives about the coun- 
 try. Tibbie will tell us that he will inherit 
 Tobereevil, having full as good a right as 
 the son of that fine captain and his madam 
 who came spying here once ; and she asks 
 eager questions of the lawyer, who nods his 
 head gravely in her witchlike face, and — 
 perhaps being afraid of her, as he now and 
 then passes nights at Tobereevil — does not 
 dash her hopes. As for Con himself, his 
 fool's wits carry no knowledge of the mat- 
 ter. All he knows of the miser is that he 
 hates him with an instinctive hate and fear, 
 mixed with a certain fascination which 
 draws the poor lad to Tobereevil, and pre- 
 vents his daring to run away when it pleases 
 old Simon to call him to his presence. He 
 sits gazing uneasily in the old man's eyes, 
 like a bird charmed by a hawk ; but he also 
 has a curious dread of letting the miser per- 
 ceive his disgust. When urged to amuse 
 him, he does so with the most boisterous of 
 frolics ; no man in his senses could so clev- 
 erly hide an agony of terror under gambols 
 of wild mirth. Con lives so much among 
 the people that their wrongs are rankling 
 in his heart ; and, though he may not be - 
 wise enough to understand all things, yet 
 he knows the sound of a curse or a sob when 
 he hears it; and he has certain ideas 
 linked inseparably in his mind, — curses 
 and sorrow, and the name of Simon Finis- 
 ton. 
 
 As for Sir John and Lady Archbold, the 
 varieties in their lives have been many since 
 the day of that wild visit to Monasterlea. 
 Her child in health by her side, Lady Arch- 
 bold had set herself to work to make up for 
 the little time that had been lost ; to forget 
 her sorrow, and to enjoy her life. She had 
 got her own way, as she had always been 
 accustomed to gfet it ; and she no longer be- 
 lieved it possible that fate or Heaven could 
 have ever meant to venture to conti'adict 
 her. She had long assured her husband 
 that the motion through the air had alone 
 cured their Katherine ; that doctors were 
 humbugs, and priests impostors. That 
 wary old man had known very well the 
 effect of fresh air on such a patient ! Yet, 
 to be sure, they owed it to themselves to 
 seein grateful. They had gone, no doubt, 
 to ask a favor ; and, after all, the favor had 
 been granted. Lady Archbold frowned 
 when her husband attempted to check her 
 in her haughty discourse, which criticised 
 
THE WOODS BECKOIT. 
 
 25 
 
 pretty equally the doings of both heaven 
 and earth ; but she made no objection when 
 he spoke of sending a present to Monaster- 
 lea. Some one there must get a gift from 
 their hands, so a present was sent to Jlay 
 with Miss Archbold's love. It was a valua- 
 ble work-box of Indian carving, with fittings 
 of filigree silver. The little girl had been 
 a nice little girl, said Lady Archbold ; and 
 Katherine had pronounced her to be high- 
 ly agreeable : she was really deserving of 
 such a handsome box. And the present 
 was accepted, after some hesitation on Miss 
 Martha's part, and was duly installed as an 
 ornament in the parlor at Monasterlea ; 
 but May did not hoard it among her treas- 
 ures as she would have done had Katherine 
 not slighted her dead uncle. She did not 
 rub it all over with a loving touch, nor gaze 
 at it with delight, as she often did Paul's 
 black cross. The box took its place as an 
 ornament of the house, and was admired, 
 and nothing more. 
 
 Lady Archbold's plan of self-indulgence 
 included the over-indulgence of her 
 daughter. Katherine was allowed to do 
 any thing she pleased, to have all she 
 wished for, to love and entertain herself 
 with any one she fancied, to dislike whom 
 she chose, and to punish whom she disliked. 
 Slie was Lady Archbold's only child ; and 
 it was good enough work for the world to 
 amuse her with the best it had to give. 
 Had she been less beautiful, her father 
 would have perceived sooner what in the 
 end he had to see ; he had to admit that 
 the girl was growing up ignorant and un- 
 ruly. She would not learn nor obey. Her 
 passions were boisterous, her covetousness 
 unbounded. Her appetite for praise, for 
 amusement,- for display and power, were 
 alike insatiable and intolerable. She was 
 becoming irksome, even to her parents. So 
 Katherine was at last taken from Cam- 
 lough, whence many weeping governesses 
 had departed in their time, and was placed 
 at a boarding-school in England. 
 
 But even then all the trouble was not 
 over. Whatever might be the reason, 
 Katherine Archbold did not remain long 
 at any one school. Mistresses were too 
 harsh, companions too exacting, or Kather- 
 ine was unmanageable and selfish. Sir 
 John and Lady Archbold found the whole 
 world in cruel conspiracy against their 
 idol. At last they took her abroad, and 
 placed her at a fashionable Parisian school. 
 Here, after some time, there were no longer 
 coraplaints of her ; and, after two years, she 
 was found a woman fully grown, with her 
 beauty quite developed, a thousand fascina- 
 tions and accomplishments acquired, and 
 
 with manners as silken as her hair. Aga'n 
 Lady Archbold was triumphant over fate. 
 Her effort had vanquished jet another threat- 
 ened disappointment. The father and mother 
 exulted over her, and carried her away, 
 glorifying her to the fullest satisfaction of 
 their pride. They decked her, and flattered 
 her, and bowed down before her ; And, 
 after some months of travelling up and 
 down in foreign countries, they took her to 
 London, and presented her to the world. 
 And then there came more travelling and 
 visiting among English friends. A home, 
 however noble, being hidden behind Irish 
 mountains, was not likely to be soon souo'ht 
 by Miss Archbold. 
 
 It was just about this time, when Kath- 
 erine was dancing out her first season, and 
 while May Mourne, a young woman of an- 
 other sort, was waxing towards a healthier 
 maturity, that 'old Tibbie made a move at 
 Tobereeiil, which was destined to have an 
 influence on the lives of the two girls. 
 
 The miser was sick. What was the 
 matter with him no one knew outside the 
 gates ; for Simon would not hear of a doc- 
 tor, and Tibbie undertook to cure him. 
 True, it was said that Tibbie knew more of 
 the rank and poisonous growths that were 
 hidden in the darkest spots in the heart of 
 the Wicked Woods than of kindly and 
 healing herbs such as restore human life ; 
 but Tibbie knew what she was about) and 
 she undertook to cure her master. 
 
 He lay in a sick-room, the ceiling of 
 which let in the rain. The windows were 
 stuffed with rags in sundry places, and the 
 wind came in boldly through many loop- 
 holes and crannies. The blankets were 
 scant on the bed; but this did not matter, 
 as the miser would not remove any of liis 
 ordinary clothing. He wore vest and hat 
 and boots as he lay, with a stick at his hand 
 to help him to spring up if needful. Uid 
 he lie in his bed as a sick man should lie, 
 he might be cheated into a serious illness. 
 In the end he should be made away with as 
 dead, while some one would get hold of his 
 possessions. Tibbie's moving shadow, as 
 she prowled about, haunted him from all 
 corners of the room. Tibbie might want 
 to strangle hira were he not ready to defend 
 himself with that stick. He hated Tibbie ; 
 and his fears distorted her into a demon, 
 whereas she was only a cunning old woman. 
 And Con was his only refuge from Tibbie ; 
 yet the miser was too sick to relish the 
 pranks of his fool. 
 
 Tibbie never brought him his scanty 
 messes of food, nor his dose of healing 
 herbs, that she did not also administer a bit- 
 ter which he could not swallow ; to wit, a 
 
26 
 
 THE ■WICKED "WOODS OP TOBEEEEVIL. 
 
 hint that her master should make his 
 will. 
 
 " Make it, an' sign it, an' lock it bye," 
 she would say. " It won't shoot nor poison 
 ye. It won't give ye faver nor cbolic. 
 Ye'Il live the longer for knowin' that all ye 
 havo'll go to poor innieent Con, yer 
 brother's own child, instead of beiu' wras- 
 tled over, an' torn to bits by sthrangers. 
 The simple boy'll put nothin' to waste, but 
 keep up the place as it's always been kep', 
 an' be a credit to the family name." 
 
 The miser groaned under her hands, but 
 gave her fair words, because be was afraid 
 of her. He was obstinate, however, and 
 would not satisfy her. Then she began to 
 punish him. She kindled a large fire in 
 the hungry grate, consuming coals and 
 wooil before his eyes with such speed that 
 the miser cried at the waste, as though his 
 own withered bones had befin crackling in 
 the, furnace. Then she brought wine to 
 his side, and fat roasted hens, and large 
 rolls of butter, and tea, and ham, besides 
 every other delicacy that could be had in 
 the country, taking care to magnify the 
 cost of each dish iie she laid it before him ; 
 and, when she had tortured him sufficiently 
 in this way, she went away, and left him 
 unattended in his lair. At last he declared 
 that he conld deny her no longer, but must 
 crave her to bring him ink and a pen. He 
 woulil beg her to stand by while he wrote 
 to his lawyer. The lawyer must come 
 quickly, and draw up the will. 
 
 Now was Tibbie's moment of exultation. 
 She felt rewarded for all her ingenuity 
 when she saw the miser's le.iu hand scrawl- 
 ing the words over the paper ; but Tibbie 
 was not able to read, or she would have 
 known even then that her master had out- 
 witted her. 
 
 Tibbie had gone too far, had been a 
 thought too clever. She had tortured him, 
 so that lie desired to be revenged on her. 
 He had never believed Con to be his broth- 
 er's son ; would not have suffered him to 
 come near him if he had. Tibbie was an 
 impostor, but she was useful to him. Con 
 was an impostor, but he amused him. But 
 now Tibbie must be punished, and there 
 was a nephew named Paul. He would tor- 
 ment his tormentor by bringing her face to 
 face with the heir of Tobereevil. Heir of 
 Tobereevil I The very thought of such a 
 title enraged him ; but Tibbie must be 
 punished. 
 
 So the letter to the lawyer contained 
 instructions relating to an advertisement. 
 Through the medium of every English and 
 Irish paper notice was to be given to one 
 Paul Finiston that his presence was ear- 
 
 nestly requested at Tobereevil. The lawyer 
 read the letter thrice over, and turned it 
 upside down, and turned it inside out; 
 but there was no mistake about it, and the 
 advertisement went flying over the world. 
 
 But long before the notice fell under 
 Paul's eye the miser was well and stronger 
 than he had been for many years. Tibbie 
 had fallen back into her proper place, 
 knowing that her master had slipped 
 through her fingers this time. The miser's 
 anxiety to punish Tibbie had grown weak- 
 er, while his superstitious dread of his kins- 
 man had returned with more than its former 
 strength ; and he was fully prepared to 
 resist Paul Finiston, if so be the lad should 
 prove so greedy as to obey his uncle's sum- 
 mons. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 KATHEKINE WITH A LOVER. 
 
 The Archbolds had been out of the 
 country for two or three years. Those 
 hopes and fears, and anxieties and delights, 
 about their troublesome and idolized 
 daughter had kept them in such a tumult 
 of going and coming, and not knowing 
 where they were to be next, and what they 
 were to do afterwards, that they never had 
 been able to drag themselves so tar out of her 
 reach as to repose themselves, even for a 
 day in the solitude of Camlough ; but 
 now they were coming home. The news 
 spread gladly over the country. Sir John 
 was a good landlord, and pleasant-spoken 
 with his people. lie was " that kind, you 
 wouldn't think he was a gintleman at all," 
 whereas the agent might be " an imperor 
 for impidence ! " There would be no more 
 ejectments ; there would be no more snap- 
 ping of whips in an honest but helpless man's 
 face ; for the agent was better-mannered 
 when the master was infhe country. Even 
 the ladies got a welcome, which, in truth, 
 they had never earned. It was a fine 
 thing, after all, to have a grand lady going 
 stepping about the mountains, even though 
 Lady Archbold's high nose might be a 
 thing of awe to the peasant. So the Arch- 
 bolds were at home ; and they had brought 
 with them an Anglo-American mother and 
 her son, about whom there is a story which 
 shall be told. 
 
 It may be that this castle of Camlough 
 was not in reality more magnificent than 
 many other dwellings of its kind. Per- 
 haps here surprise added something to 
 
KATHEEINB WITH A LOVER. 
 
 27 
 
 splendor. The castle in itself was an im- 
 posing mass of stateliness, old and gray 
 enough to accord with the scenery around 
 it ; yet with no signs of decay, strong and 
 grand, and overflowing even through its 
 •windows and doors witli the fulness of the 
 adornments and luxuries of the day. The 
 valley in which it stood was in reality 
 " Camlough in the hills; " for the hills had 
 opened and made place for it down among 
 their knees, kept away the harsher winds, 
 fend invited down the kindly sun, till, under 
 their fostering care, it had grown rich in 
 fertility and beauty. The loveliness of its 
 glens and dingles made fairy-land in the 
 fissures of the awful rocks which overhung 
 it, where delicate foliage had climbed 
 dizzy heights, clothed them with color, 
 and softened their wild outlines. The 
 scarlet berries and light plumage of the 
 mountain-ash hung clear against the deep 
 blue sky. A hundred waterfalls made sil- 
 ver tracks down the brown-purple steeps 
 of the mountains, like gleaming stairways 
 into the clouds ; and there were lakes in 
 the violet summits of those broom-covered 
 mountains, and wildernesses of beauty in 
 their hollows. A torrent roared all winter 
 at the back of the castle, on its way ii-om 
 some lofty tarn to the sea ; for at one side 
 the valley the encircling hills gave way, 
 and the blue Atlantic filled the gap on the 
 horizon, with its flecks of creamy rock and 
 amethystine islands, its flights of white 
 birds and rare flitting sails. Craft from 
 the nearest fithing-village on the coast 
 would shelter betimes under the cliffs ; and 
 sometimes a, stranger would alight upon 
 the warm gold sands of the creek to ex- 
 plore this nook of beauty, which was so 
 generously cultivated and so fruitful ; so 
 hidden from the world, as if giants had 
 built it round with strong, high walls on 
 j)urpose to keep it a solitude forever. 
 Seals would bask upon the sand in the 
 sun ; and it was haunted by a mermaid, 
 who was to be seen swimming round the 
 headlands in the gloaming. Golden eagles 
 barked to one another over the mouths of 
 the deep caves through which the high 
 gi'een water with thunder and music rolled 
 itself heavily into mysterious abysses of 
 the earth, coming back- again moaning, 
 with much tumult and confusion. 
 
 The castle itself stood at the back of 
 the valley, well set against the brawniest- 
 wooded mountain of the range. Blooming 
 gardens gathered round it, blushing up to 
 its windows, and laughing in at its doors, 
 and wandering thence into wide, mossy 
 lawns, and soft., leafy slopes and dells. 
 There was an exuberant growth of flowers 
 
 everywhere ; and people fancied that their 
 colors were more brilliant at Camlough 
 than at any other place. Certain it is that 
 fruits would ripen here in open air that 
 would not grow out of hot-house in other 
 parts of the land. A walk round the back 
 premises of the castle explained the mys- 
 tery of how every thing was done in order, 
 and kept in order, in the place as perfectly 
 as though Camlough were an outskirt of 
 London. All around a. vast paved yard 
 cottages stood in rows, which were the 
 homes of the tradesmen whom it was use- 
 ful to have at hand ; and there were trees 
 growing in the middle of the yard, and 
 garden-beds round the windows of the cot- 
 tages. Trees leaned over the walls, and 
 nodded about the chimneys, and the peaks 
 of the encircling mountains looked over 
 into , the yard. The good wives knew 
 better than to be untidy ; for many pretty 
 presents came from the castle to the thrifty 
 housewife : and they would sit out of the 
 sun under their trees with their sewing, 
 while their children were playing about 
 them, and their good men were busy in the 
 sheds at the end of the yard. 
 
 Thus it was that Sir John dwelt among 
 his people like a feudal lord surrounded by 
 his retainers. Numbers of his tenants 
 lived high above on the hills, or their 
 dwellings nestled in bloomy places between 
 the rocks, by the side of running streams, 
 or peeped from behind shelter of rugged 
 cliff's against the sea. There was no scar- 
 city of any thing about Camlough, neither 
 of human beings, nor of kine, nor of flocks, 
 nor of birds, nor of deer and other wild 
 animals, nor of the produce of the earth. 
 
 It was midsummer time ; and Katherine 
 entertained a hay-making group, sitting 
 under a haycock in a meadow, telling 
 them anecdotes of the neighbor.hood, giv- 
 ing ludicrous descriptions of the people, 
 including the miser of Tobereevil and the 
 dead monk who had lived at Monasterlea. 
 It was the midsummer heat that specially 
 reminded her of that strange, wild visit that 
 she had once paid to the monastery ; and 
 she related the story for the amusement of 
 her ffuests. She was aware that this was 
 a picturesque incident in lierlife; and it 
 charmed her to sketch herself as the centre 
 of a picture. There was at least one per- 
 son by lier side who was eager to swallow 
 any morsel which her vanity might throw 
 him. It was scarcely likely that any young 
 man should be many hours at Camlough, 
 and not be written down in the list of 
 Katherine's suitors ; it was still less likely 
 that he should be welcome there if lie 
 chose to keep his heart to himself. Kathe- 
 
28 
 
 THE "WICKED "WOODS OF TOBEEEEVIL. 
 
 rine was a queen who would have none 
 around her but her courtiers. In the pres- 
 ent instance here was a willing if a suffer- 
 ing captive, who had already graced many 
 triumphs of his royal mistress. The name 
 of this unfortunate was Christopher Lee. 
 He was not a wit, nor a genius, nor hand- 
 some ; neither was he as yet a millionnaire. 
 "Whether he ever should be the latter or 
 not was a question at present in the 
 balance. It seemed hanging upon the 
 blowing of a straw. It all lay at the 
 mercy of a woman's little humor, — a yes 
 or a no, a smile or a frown ; for Chris- 
 topher was one of those headlong people 
 who will stake the whole world upon a die. 
 He was a large, light-haired, long-faced 
 youth, with fair, dim eyes, and not over- 
 much brains under his smooth, pale fore- 
 head. His long, eager lips were too nervous 
 and full of feeling to keep safe company 
 with the simplicity of his eyes. He was 
 not like a man to do well with the world 
 unless fortune might choose to take him in 
 her lap, and make a pet of him : and this 
 had seemed a likely chance ; for fortune is 
 very fond of odd playthings. She could 
 not have done better than to take Chris- 
 topher on her knee ; and this is the young 
 man of whom a story could be told. To 
 be the heroine of tliat story was Katherine 
 Archbold's liveliest excitement at this mo- 
 ment ; and it must be said that she looked 
 fit to be the heroine of the most fascinating 
 tale that ever was told, as she sat against 
 a hayrick, holding a hat crowned with 
 poppies above her golden head. 
 
 It ought to be a pleasant task to describe 
 Miss Archbold. The description of a 
 blonde beauty is always charming ; and 
 Katherine was a blonde of the most genuine 
 type. Her hair was of the purest sun- 
 color. "When loosened, it fell round her 
 like a cloak, silken in texture, rippling and 
 flossy, and descending below her knees. 
 "When tied and pinned up in the order of 
 fashion, it was found woven into a massive 
 crown of gold, which alone proclaimed her 
 a queen by its glory upon her head. Her 
 features came as near to the old Greek 
 model as features ever do in these countries ; 
 and her eyes were blue, — the light-receiv- 
 ing, forget-me-not blue. The only thing you 
 could find fault with was the expression of 
 her mouth ; but not many people thought 
 of it, as it certainly did not mar the physi- 
 cal beauty of lier face. The mouth in itself 
 was a handsome one, but to a few observers 
 there was a failure somehow. Through all 
 the many changes of the countenance it was 
 not found to be a mobile mouth. It would 
 keep a hard secret well while the eyes were 
 
 declaring that this face was the most tell- 
 tale face"ever seen. Sometimes a tinge of 
 cruelty constrained it to be frank, and to 
 pain those worshippers who might he 
 watching for its smiles. And unfortunately 
 this cruelty was now the mischievousness of 
 fun ; but the cruelty of a will that would 
 not suffer itself to be crossed. She was tall 
 and robust, and stately in her carriage, 
 and more costly as to her raiment than a 
 princess. 
 
 " I wish I had seen that old monk,'' said 
 Christopher, rolling his pale eyes with en- 
 thusiasm. " But for hiin," he added to 
 Katherine, " you might not be in the world ; 
 and what would my life have been then ? " 
 he asked blankly, as he looked this new 
 idea in the face. 
 
 " You are a fool," said Katherine emphat- 
 ically, but in the softest whisper. 
 
 Christopher wazed up at her, and blinked 
 with delight. He accepted her accusation, 
 and enraptured himself over the idea of his 
 folly. It was true that he had staked 
 every thing on her caprice ; but he dreamed 
 that all goodness and happiness were to be 
 included in the reward of his venture. In 
 the end that was soon to come, his foolish- 
 ness must be found equal to the most cau- 
 tious wisdom. This is what she had hinted 
 in her more serious moods ; and who would 
 dare insinuate that she was untrue ? 
 
 " A ridiculous little mummy of a man," 
 went on Katherine. 
 
 " Who is dead, however," interrupted 
 her father very gently. " Come, Kate, we 
 are not going to laugh at dead men." 
 
 Miss Archbold bowed her head, and 
 frowned under the shelter of her hat, and 
 exerted severe control over her temper 
 while she tore up fresh roses in her fingers. 
 
 " That is how I am afraid you will tear 
 up my heart," said Christopher, trying to 
 make a joke ; but a flash from her e\es 
 made hitn quail as he spoke, while the next 
 moment he was blinded by a shower of 
 rent rose-leaves. 
 
 " Oh, you fool, you fool ! " murmured 
 Katherine, who had seen his fright, and 
 who had melted again as suddenly as she 
 had flamed. Christopher was himsel f again ; 
 for that musical murmur of a curious pet 
 name was the very signal and watchword 
 of his delight. And he was right in expect- 
 ing that she would now be very good to him ; 
 for she dropped hira one sweet word after 
 another, while she picked up her flowers, 
 and pretended to put them to rights again ; 
 as if sorry for the destruction she had 
 made. 
 
 Mrs. Lee sighed as she looked at the 
 picture of the beautiful young woman sit- 
 
KATHEEINE WITH A LOVEE. 
 
 29 
 
 ting smiling in the hay, and the bewitched 
 young man at her feet. Mrs. Lee was a 
 troubled-looking woman, with large brown 
 eyes, and very odd manners. This son of 
 hers was like to break her heart. 
 
 Sir John stood a little aloof from the 
 group, and had evidently at this moment 
 got sometliing on his mind. He had done a 
 good-natured thing, and was nervous about 
 confessing; it. He was not master of his 
 ^ castle which people envied him ; but the 
 truth came out at last, — he had invited a 
 young friend to pay a visit to his daugh- 
 ter. 
 
 " Not the old lady from Monasterlea, 
 I hope ? " said Katherine, without a 
 frown. 
 
 " No,'' said the father, laughing because 
 relieved of his secret. " Not the old lady, 
 only the little girl." 
 
 Katherine hesitated to smile, but after- 
 wards smiled brightly. The recollection of 
 little May was very pleasant to her. There 
 never had been a lover on her list who 
 had admired her more frankly than little 
 May. 
 
 " It was rather premature of you to give 
 an invitation," said Lady Archbold, who 
 had not seen Katherine's smile. " The 
 girl was a nice child enough when we saw 
 her ; but, brought up in the wilderness as 
 she has been, the chances are that she is 
 uncouth and uneducated." 
 
 Katherine rather liked this suggestion. 
 
 " Whether or not," she said imperiously, 
 " we are going to have her here." 
 
 " Certainly, my darling, if you wish it," 
 her ladyship said huriiedly. And then 
 seeing that Mrs. Lee looked strangely at 
 her, she drew away that lady to stroll with 
 her under some distant trees, and to ex- 
 plain by the way how generous and hospi- 
 table her dear Katlierine was, and what a 
 lively attachment she had always cherished 
 to a stupid little girl whom she had not 
 seen fur years. Sir John also made a 
 thankful escape, being relieved of his con- 
 fession, and having regained his peace of 
 mind. 
 
 When the elders had gone, Katherine 
 stood up, 3-awned a httle, threw herself 
 b.ick against the haycock, and remained 
 reclining there, as if lazily enjoying her 
 hfe, and the sunshine, and every soft influ- 
 ence of the moment. She gazed towards 
 the cloud?, the hills, the trees, the lawns, 
 and then slowly brought her eyes to Chris- 
 topher's gaze, which was bent upon her full 
 at the time. Then she smiled in his eyes, 
 just as if she had been , a true-hearted 
 
 woman who had pledged her love, and was 
 not ashamed of its being seen. 
 
 " Katherine, Katherine ! " cried Christo- 
 pher, as if in bodily pain, " why will you 
 love to torture me V Why will you not 
 speak out at once ? When will you an- 
 swer me ? When will you promise to be 
 my wife ? " 
 
 She took his outstretched hand tenderly 
 in her own, and patted it soothingly with 
 her jewelled fingers. 
 
 " Poor little Christopher ! " she said, 
 " poor dear Christopher I why will you not 
 be patient ? " 
 
 '■ Because I love you ! " broke out the 
 poor youth ; " I love you, — bitterly ! " And 
 he iairly burst into tears. 
 
 •' I do not like bitter love," said Kathe- 
 rine coldly, letting fall his hand. 
 
 Christopher dashed off his tears, and 
 turned aside with an impulse of sullen 
 shame. 
 
 '■ It is hard to know how to please," he 
 said, " when one's heart is breaking." 
 
 " Breaking, is it V " said Katherine 
 lightly. " Oh, no I don't let it be so foolish. 
 Come, now, you need not look so sad. Why 
 should we hurry over the pleasant part of 
 life ? Tliere is no reason ibr haste, is 
 there ? " 
 
 " There ii reason for haste," said Chris- 
 topher vehemently. 
 
 " Nay, now, what is it ? " said Katherine, 
 staring at him. 
 
 But Christopher's unruliness was over for 
 the present. He had blushed crimson, and 
 had nothing more to say. He folded his 
 long arms, and gazed doggedly on the 
 ground. 
 
 " Come, now, you are sulky ! " said 
 Katherine. " Caunot you be good-tem- 
 pered V And I was just going to offiir you 
 a treat." 
 
 "A treat," echoed Christopher, without 
 raising his eyes. 
 
 " Yes, a treat." She laid her hand 
 coaxingly on his arm. " Are you quite too 
 ill-humored to ride with me to-morrow ? " 
 
 " Not quite," replied Christopher, un- 
 bending. 
 
 " In that case, I am going to Monasterlea," 
 saiil Katherine. 
 
 " To Monasterlea ? " said Christopher 
 astray. 
 
 " Yes : to unearth a young woman out 
 of the ruins." 
 
 And Katherine laughed gayly, expect- 
 ing a new excitement in the meek-eyed 
 worship which little May was going to 
 give her. 
 
30 
 
 THE WICKED "WOODS OF TOBEEEEVIL. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 MAY WITHOUT A LOVEB. 
 
 Mat was now twenty years old, and 
 she considered herself past her youth. 
 She had known herself a tall youn^ person 
 since the age of fifteen ; and five years make 
 a long time to look back upon. She had 
 now cast off the crazy imaginations of her 
 earlier days, and settled down to serious 
 middle age. She would have given a very 
 bad account of her past life, if you could 
 by any subtlety have entrapped her into 
 talking about herself. She would have 
 told you that she had been an idle, roving 
 scapegrace, spending her time wandering 
 over moors and haunting mountain-caves, 
 making acquaintance with rabbit-burrows 
 and plovers' nests. She had cultivated the 
 excitement of lurking in ambush for hours 
 to watch the flights of an eagle, and the 
 luxury of lying on her back in the long, 
 warm broom, to enjoy with perfect ease the 
 ecstasy of the lark. She had so lived 
 among the animals and birds, that she had 
 made sisters and brothers of them in her 
 own wild way, and believed that they sym- 
 pathized with her. thoughts, while she had 
 a scent and instinct equal to their own. 
 To be sure she had picked up a little learn- 
 ing by the way; but every thing that was 
 useful she had been apt to forget, whereas 
 every thing that was visionary and roman- 
 tic had clung to her without effort upon her 
 part If she had got poetry by heart, and 
 carefully studied portions of Shakspeare 
 and others masters, it was for the pleasure 
 that it gave her, and not through studious 
 desires. Part of her delight in it was the 
 reciting of passages aloud to the winds and 
 the birds, while perched upon a rock in 
 some of her favorite wildernesses. If she 
 had read tales and romances with breath- 
 less excitement, it was that she found an 
 unutterable interest in making her way 
 into a world of life and moveme'nt, thronged 
 with varieties of people who were in every 
 way different from herself and Aunt Mar- 
 tha.. If she devoured the Bible and the 
 lives of the saints, it was because they kin- 
 dled a magnificent sense of awe within her, 
 and made existence supernatural and 
 heroic. She had composed psalms out of 
 her own worshipping heart, and sung them 
 up to the clouds as she tramped about the 
 hills. She had gathered round her dogs, 
 and tame rabbits, and jackdaws, and impro- 
 vised long legends and romances for their 
 benefit, in which figured crowds of motley 
 characters, angels and devils, fairies and 
 
 witches, heroes and villains, every beauti- 
 ful embodiment of goodness and ugly in- 
 carnation of wickedness. She hnjl learned 
 reading from curiosity, spelling from read- 
 ing, grammar by observation, history in 
 brilliant patches and pictures, and French 
 and Italian by instinct, ear, and fancy. 
 She picked up foreign languages as she 
 picked up a tune. Geography, she would 
 declare, had altogether slipped through her 
 fingers ; but she knew the names of most 
 places, whether they were near or far away, 
 and what kind of people were found living 
 in them. She knew all about Australia, 
 because Paul Finiston was there. In her 
 rovings and questiftnings, readings and 
 speculations, one idea had been uppermost 
 in her mind, — life was a great mystery of 
 joy. In order to penetrate it she climbed 
 high rocks, battled with strong winds, con- 
 sulted birds, beasts, and books, basked in 
 the sun, dreamed by the fireside, prayed, 
 laughed, wept, talked, mused ; and at last, 
 when she had explored every outlet of her 
 life to its extreme limits, and wrought her- 
 up to a very high pitch of nervous fancy, 
 Aunt Martha, who had been quietly observ- 
 ing her, spoke. It was now quite time 
 that she should give up her childish free- 
 dom, and settle down into a useful, 
 well-conducted young woman. On that 
 occasion. May had burst into passionate 
 tears. The humdrum life that she was 
 dreading had overtaken her. Time would 
 not spare her to her (Tear wild life. On 
 receiving her lecture she had disappeared 
 instantly, and for the day ; but, in the even- 
 ing, she presented herself in the parlor, tidy 
 in person, serious, and ashamed. She was 
 going to do all, and be all, that was ex- 
 pected of her. 
 
 So now. May, being twenty years old, 
 and having been tor three years laboring 
 earnestly to tame herself, and walk in quiet 
 ways, may be fairly said to have sown her 
 wild oats. She wore housewifely clothing 
 and smooth hair. She had put aside ro- 
 mances and plays and poems, and set her- 
 self to graver studies. She took to making 
 pastry, and spent a considerable time at 
 her spinning-wheel. She relinqui>hed her 
 idea that an excessive joy was the object 
 of life, and prayed night and morning to be 
 delivered from her dreams and fancies. 
 She even thought of a likely spot for her 
 grave, and wondered if it could be possible 
 she should live to be as old as Aunt Mar- 
 tha, and then perhaps live longer still. 
 In the mean time she was good to her poor 
 neighbors, and as helpful as she was able ; 
 and she kept up her intercourse with the 
 animals and birds. When she went out of a 
 
MAr WITHOUT A LOVEE. 
 
 31 
 
 morning to the sunny side of the ruin, and, 
 nestling in the ivy, stretched out a hand 
 and made a cooing sound, they all came 
 round lier, rabbits and pheasants and dogs 
 and ducks and geese and chickens, the 
 calf and the donkey, and the jackdaws 
 from the belfry. Tame and wild, they clus- 
 tered about her, and fed at her feet, or out 
 of her hand ; but she petted them now as 
 a superior being, not as formerly when she 
 was only their companion and playfellow. 
 The enactment of this scene was the one 
 folly of her day, all the rest of the. time 
 being spent in serious behavior and steady 
 occupation. She was as staid and demure 
 as any one could wish, or as any one could 
 regret to see her. Miss Martha beheld 
 the wholesome change in the girl, but 
 thought all the time that the change was a 
 little too extreme. Yet how was this to be 
 avoided ? What ought a young girl to be ? 
 Miss Martha looked back into her own 
 youth, and sought in vain for any experi- 
 ence which might apply to her niece. Miss 
 Martha had never been imaginative. 
 Where one young person lives entirely 
 with elder people, in an atmosphere at 
 once antiquated and still, romantic and 
 wild, it is likely that the young spirit will 
 be either too much oppressed, or too much 
 emancipated. Miss Martha did not quite 
 see this ; but she knew that a little change 
 was sometimes wholesome for young peo- 
 ple, and she wished that May had a little 
 change. 
 
 Thus she had not given an absolute de- 
 nial when Sir John had expressed a wish 
 to see May at Camlough. She had con- 
 veyed the idea to the gentleman, that, if the 
 ladies of his family exerted themselves 
 properly, she would not insist that the thing 
 could not bo done. May, on hearing of the 
 matter, had looked a little frightened, and 
 had said very gravely, " I think I would 
 rather not go." .Yet a certain controlled 
 excitement of expectation had evidently 
 hung about her since. 
 
 On the day when Katherine came from 
 Camlough to seek her, May, as it happened, 
 was busy in the kitchen. Bridget was out 
 for a holiday ; and Miss Martha had stepped 
 down to the meadow with old Nanny to 
 hold' counsel over a sickly cow. The sun 
 was hot and strong, the yellow blind in the 
 kitchen was down, and the window open ; 
 there was a pot of lavender and sweet-mar- 
 joram on the window-sill, and the fire 
 winked under the saucepans; the walls were 
 glittering with tin implements; and, in 
 the middle of the red-tiled floor, sat May, 
 shelling peas into an earthen dish. She 
 was smooth and neat, and looked suitable 
 
 to the time and place in her apron and 
 green gingham gown. 
 
 From fifteen to twenty May had gained 
 in beauty. She was not of more than mid- 
 dle height, her figure full yet slender, and 
 replete with all womanly curves and fair 
 lines. Her features were hardly so much 
 regular as harmonious, large enough for 
 dignity, yet small enough for feminine 
 grace. Her eyes had still that brown-pur- 
 ple hue which Paul Finiston had thought 
 so lovely, still those circling tinges of shad- 
 ow which had charmed the old inonk. Her 
 hair was black, with a tinge of brown in it, 
 her complexion of a creamy fairness, which 
 made the darkness of her eyes very deep 
 and striking, and a blush upon her face very 
 perceptible and beautiful. Her mouth was, 
 perhaps, the jewel of her face. Most lips 
 can express joy in smiles and trouble in 
 heaviness. It is a rarer thin^ to see a 
 mouth which shows involuntarily all the 
 subtle shades of ieeling that hover between 
 pleasure and pain, all the flickerings of 
 fancy, perhaps the nervousness and stead- 
 fastness of a difficult courage. When you 
 knew May a while, you forgot about the red- 
 ness of her lips and the loveliness of their 
 curves : you thought more about their thou- 
 sand unuttered revelations. 
 
 " What an odd, ridiculous place ! " cried 
 Katherine, as she and her cavalier rode 
 up to the gate of Monasterlea. And there 
 was more here to discern of grandness 
 and quaintness than Miss Archbold could 
 take note of in a week. An artist would 
 have seen it at a glance ; but Katherine 
 was not an artist, and saw something very 
 unfinished in the majestic ruin with the 
 homely cottage in its arms ; the picturesque 
 confusion of crosses and rose gardens, 
 blooming hedges and black archways ; the 
 acres of mounded graveyard upon one side, 
 and upon the other, and farther away, the 
 corn-fields and the sweet farm-lands. It is 
 true she had seen the place long ago ; but 
 she had not then thought it so exceedingly 
 inelegant. 
 
 " It is fine 1 " cried Christopher, with a 
 touch of that enthusiasm which Katherine 
 had never felt, but immediately relapsed 
 into a strain which pleased her better. 
 " You beautified the whole place when you 
 visited it years ago," he said, ravin'.^ raptu- 
 rously as he received her into his arms 
 from her saddle. 
 
 The door of Miss Martha's dwelling stood 
 open, and the blinds were all down to keep 
 out the heat. There was no one about, and 
 it suited Miss Archbold's humor at the mo- 
 ment rather to walk in without ceremony, 
 than to stand knocking at the door. , Meet- 
 
32 
 
 THE WICKED "WOODS OF TOBEREEVIL, 
 
 ing no one, she proceeded to explore the I 
 house, looking into rooms left and right, and 
 perfectly unconcerned as to how the dwell- 
 ers in the cottage might approve of her in- 
 trusion. A mocking laugh from the passage 
 came floating over the pea-pods and dishes 
 to May, wlio i-joked up with notice of some- 
 thing unusual in the house ; and there 
 stood Katherine and her lover in the door- 
 way. 
 
 As May arose, with quickened eye and 
 color, in a pretty confusion to meet her, it 
 must be confessed that Katherine received 
 a shock. She had not couuted on finding 
 any thing so lovely here ; did not want any 
 thing so lovely at Camlough. But a mo- 
 ment passed, and the whisper of vanity had 
 soothed and appeased her. She was more 
 beautiful by far even than this ; so much so, 
 that there never could be rivalry between 
 herself and this mountain-reared maiden. 
 And in some sense the whisper spoke truth. 
 As a mere piece of flesh and hlood, as a 
 statue of perfection to be measured and 
 criticised, she was a handsomer creature 
 than May. 
 
 " You have not forgotten me ? " she said, 
 smiling, and holding out. both her hands, 
 while the folds of her riding-habit fell away 
 from them, making graceful drapery all 
 round her on the floor. 
 
 " No, indeed," said May, stepping for- 
 ward to take the hands. 
 
 " This is not my first visit to Monaster- 
 lea," said Katherine tenderly, " and I have 
 very good reason to remember the first." 
 
 " She is changed," thought May trium- 
 phantly. " And how beautiful she is I 
 Now 1 should like to go to Camlough." 
 
 " Your aunt has promised you to us," 
 said Katherine, " and I have come to know 
 ■when we may e.xpect you." And all the 
 while Miss Archbold was wondering how 
 May would look if she were not dressed 
 like a housemaid. 
 
 " But she cannot have much wardrobe 
 here," she calculated, " and we shall get 
 her as she is." 
 
 " Aunt Martha is in the meadow," said 
 May. " Shall we go out and meet her ? It 
 is a pretty walk." 
 
 " Christopher, Miss Mourne ; Miss Mourn e, 
 Mr. Lee," said Katherine, and the three 
 young people stepped out into the sunshine. 
 And then May remembered that she had 
 heard that Mlss Archbold was engaged to 
 be married to a wealthy young gentleman 
 who was staying at the house. This was 
 the second young gentleman whom May 
 had ever spoken to, and naturally she com- 
 pared him with the first. Mr. Lee was 
 amiable and manly-looking enough, but he 
 
 had not the countenance and bearing of 
 Paul. 
 
 Miss Martha was still engaged in her 
 conference with Nanny over the; cow, when 
 she saw the three young figures bearing 
 down upon her from the gate into the fields. 
 
 '• Ah, this is very pleasant ; Miss Arch- 
 bold herself," said Miss Martha. " May shall 
 certainly go : it will do her a world of good. 
 And 1 declare there is the peddler coming 
 across the hill. Nanny, run and stop the 
 peddler. How lucky that he should come 
 at this time 1 " 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 THE PEDDLER AT MONASTBRLEA. 
 
 Two hours afterwards the parlor was 
 all draped with the contents of the peddler's 
 pack, while the peddler himself wsts beino' 
 regaled in the kitchen, with Nanny piling 
 his plate upon one hand, and Bridget co- 
 quetting with him on the other. Silks of 
 many colors were festooned from the man- 
 tle-piece, the table, and a brilliant tabinet 
 had been flung for display round Miss Mar- 
 tha's shoulders. May, meanwhile, leaning 
 with her elbows on the back of an arm- 
 chair, examined these splendors which had 
 been spread out for her choice. 
 
 " Now, May, do look at this tartan silk," 
 said Miss Martha persuasively. " Nothing 
 could be prettier with your dark hair.'' 
 
 " I'd rather have black. Aunt Martha." 
 
 "But you have nothing else nice except 
 white muslin, child. You will make your- 
 self look like a magpie." 
 
 " Not a magpie ; only a crow one day, 
 and a pigeon the next. I needn't be a par- 
 rot, need I V " 
 
 " Well, well, have your own way. la 
 my time young girls did not dress them- 
 selves in black, e.-ccept for mourning." 
 
 " Have the tartan silk yourself, Aunt 
 Martha." 
 
 " No, no, child : my day is over ; but at 
 least I am going to pick you a bunch of 
 bright ribbons." 
 
 The peddler was called in to disclose the 
 prices of his wares. He was a rather gypsy- 
 like young man, with a red-brown skin, 
 bushy black beard, and thick black hair, 
 almost covering his forehead. A pair of 
 bright dark eyes shone from under his 
 heavy brows. He wore a suit of gray frieze 
 and a low-crowned hat, and he blushed 
 uniler the brownness of his skin when ush- 
 ered into the presei^ce of the ladies. He 
 shot one keen- glance at May, where she 
 
THE PEDDLER AT MONASTEELEA. 
 
 33 
 
 stood leaning with her elbows on the back 
 of her chaii', and then drooped his eyes, and 
 blushed again, so that Miss Martha set him 
 down in her mind at once as a highly ap- 
 preciative as well as modest young man. 
 He was a stranger too ; and she was curious 
 to know where he had come from. 
 
 " Ahem ! this is not our own peddler, my 
 dear ? " she said to May, as if willing to be 
 persuaded that her eyes had deceived 
 her. 
 
 " No, aunt. We hope," said May, turn- 
 ing to the stranger, " that nothing has hap- 
 pened to our friend who has been coming 
 here for years ? " 
 
 " I hope not, madam,'' said the peddler, 
 with another delighted look at the young 
 lady ; " but to tell plain truth, I nivir seen 
 him in my life. I'm started this summer on 
 my own account intircly." 
 
 " I hope you may have success, I am 
 sure," said Miss Martha, speaking with 
 hesitation, as she adjusted her spectacles 
 on her nose ; " but I am a little in doubt 
 as to whether it will be honorable in me 1o 
 ■give you my custom or not." 
 
 " That's as ye plase, ma'am," said the 
 peddler readily. " I wouldn't intherfair for 
 the world wid the business of another hon- 
 est man ; but if it would be suitin' ye at all 
 to take any thing I've got for this wanst, 
 I'll give it to ye chape, and not be botherin' 
 ye again." 
 
 " Very fair, very honorable, indeed," 
 said Miss Martha ; " and, as we are at this 
 moment in need of what you have brought 
 us, we must be forgiven for not waiting for 
 the older friend." 
 
 " I have jewellery," said the peddler, pro- 
 ducing a box. " Miss will excuse me, but 
 I have got bright goold crosses, and han'- 
 some 'pearl beads, far gayer nor yon black 
 thing that she has hangin' round her 
 neck." 
 
 " My cross," said May quickly, and her 
 hand went quickly to Paul's chain round her 
 neck. "Thank you, you may put up your 
 jewellery," she added. "This was given 
 me by a friend, and I care for nothing finer." 
 
 The pediUer blushed again, no doubt at 
 the severity of the rebuke, but was silenced, 
 and plungud into the recesses of his pack 
 for moVe treasures. 
 
 " Oh, my man, my good man ! " cried 
 Miss Martha, as she looked over the price- 
 list which he had put in her hand, " you will 
 beggar yourself with the lowness of your 
 prices. Silks like these cannot be sold at 
 such a rate, I can tell you. We shall 
 hardly see you coming back again if this is 
 the way you intend to do business." 
 
 " May be not, ma'am, indeed," said the 
 
 peddler, tossing his head ; " but in the mane 
 time them is my prices. To take a penny 
 more would be the ruin o' my conscience." 
 
 Miss Martha put her head on one side, 
 and looked at the salesman with a troubled 
 air ; but there was something in his man- 
 ner that disarmed suspicion. 
 
 " Prices may have fallen," she said to 
 May reflectively. " And now we can have 
 a couple of these dainty chintzes." 
 
 " Thank ye, ma'am," said the peddler, as, 
 the purchases being made, he picked up the 
 money tendered him ; " and now could ye 
 be guidin' me to the houses of the ginthry 
 in the neighborhood ? I was thinkin' o' 
 payin' a visit to Misther Finiston o' Tobe- 
 reevil." 
 
 " I cannot say that I think you need be 
 at the trouble of going there," said Miss 
 Martha. 
 
 The peddler had shouldered his pack, and 
 turned to go away. 
 
 " The young man hasn't come back yet, 
 I suppose Y " he asked, pausing in the door- 
 way, hat in hand. 
 
 " The young man V " repeated Miss Mar- 
 tha. 
 
 " Oh,_ ay ! Young Paul Finiston, the 
 nephew." 
 
 " Do you know him ? " burst eagerly from 
 both women in a breath. 
 
 " Know him V Ay 1 " said the peddler, and 
 tears rushed into his eyes as he looked from 
 one to the other of the anxious faces before 
 him. " At least I did know Kim, — knew 
 him a young boy when I was knockin' about 
 Dublin. He wouldn't look at a guinea be- 
 fore he'd spend it on the peddler's pack. 
 Notif he had it, the poor gossoon ! But men 
 do change. Think ye, ladies, will he be a 
 miser like his uncle V It's in the blood, so 
 it is, they do say." 
 
 " It is not in Ais blood," said May stout- 
 ly, squeezing her black cross in her hand. 
 '■ He is our triend, and we do not like to 
 hear such questions." 
 
 The peddler here drooped his head in 
 silence, so that his face could not be seen. 
 " I ax your pardon," he said presently, in a 
 very low voice. 
 
 " Oh, I am not angry ! " said May heartily ; 
 " and he must not go away without some 
 tea. Aunt Martha. Here, Bridget, Bridget, 
 make the peddler some tea ! " 
 
 Bridget obeyed readily, and, after the 
 peddler was gone, appeared in the parlor 
 with triumph on her face. 
 
 " Musha, then that's the gintlemanliest 
 peddler that iver walked these roads yet, 
 ma'am dear ! Sure Nanny an' me bought 
 what little we could rache to ; an' afther he 
 was gone, what but two fine shawls should 
 
34 
 
 THE "WICKED WOODS OF TOBEEEEVIL. 
 
 come flying through the winda 1 ' Presents 
 for yez each I ' says his voice out-by ; but, 
 when we run to tlie door, sorra sight o' him 
 ■was to be seen ! " 
 
 Miss Martha left off measuring the yards 
 upon her fingers, and made a careful exam- 
 ination of the shawls. 
 
 " These are worth a guinea each if they 
 are worth a penny. This is something very 
 odd, no doubt," she said to May. 
 
 " You" do not think the goods have been 
 stolen, Aunt Martha V " 
 
 " My dear, I should be sorry to misjudge 
 the young man ; but I have a strong disin- 
 clination to put a needle in this silk." 
 
 " Don't then, aunty." 
 
 " But I must, you goose I If I were to 
 go to jail for it afterwards, you shall have 
 your gown." 
 
 " Well, I don't think thieves are very 
 generous. He could easily sell all he had 
 at his prices." 
 
 " I don't know about letting the servants 
 wear these shawls." 
 
 " But then we must not touch the silk I " 
 
 CHAPTER Xn. 
 
 THE PEDDLER AT TOBERBEVIL. 
 
 In the mean time the peddler was trudg- 
 ing through the woods towards the mansion 
 of Tobereevil. He arrived at the back 
 door, as a peddler should arrive, and was 
 confronted by Tibbie, who looked more 
 hideous than usual in the full blaze of the 
 evening sun. 
 
 " Go 'way out o' this," was Tibbie's 
 greeting. " We don't want no visitors 
 here." 
 
 " Sorra visitor am I," said the peddler 
 gayly ; " so yer conscience may be at aise, 
 ma'am." 
 
 "Nor stragglers nayther," said Tibbie 
 doggedly. 
 
 "Nor straggler nayther,'" said the ped- 
 dler, " only havin' brought ye a few han'- 
 some articles of dhress, ma'am." 
 
 Tibbie fell back, and gazed eagerly 
 on the peddler's bundle. She was well 
 aware that she stood in need of some 
 covering. She was clothed in rags,, and 
 the rags were beginning to threaten that 
 they would no longer hold together. 
 Something she must get,were it only a piece 
 of sacking, against the winter ; and ped- 
 dlers had left off coming to Tobereevil. 
 Did she let this one go, he might never 
 return. 
 
 " Come in, thin, wUl ye 1 " she said 
 
 frufBy, " an' show what ye have got : hut 
 warn ye not to be axin' yer high prices ; 
 for we know the worth o' money about 
 here, so we do." 
 
 The peddler followed her down dark, 
 unwholesome passages into the kitchen. 
 It was a vast underground chamber, paved 
 with black, reeking flags, its ceiling stud- 
 ded with hooks, from which no comforta- 
 ble flitch was seen to swing. There were 
 two great recesses in the wall, arched and 
 chimneyed, holding enormous grates, which 
 were eaten up with rust. Ovens and hot- 
 plates stood idly about, broken, dilapidated, 
 stuffed with rags and dirt. In one of 
 the recesses, a fire was burning on the 
 flags, small and dwindling, fed by a few 
 sticks of wood, and some stray scraps of 
 turf. Before this fire, a woodcock was 
 roasting, dangling from a string. A 
 rough wooden stool drawn up before the 
 fire, and a one pronged fork upon the flags, 
 showed that Tibbie had been interrupted 
 in her superintendence of the cookery. 
 
 " Be smart, my man, an' show us what 
 ye've got ; an' ye needn't be makin' eyes 
 at the bird. It's for Simon's dinner : he 
 shot it hissel' ; an' Tibbie's got to dine 
 off the bones." 
 
 " 'Deed, thin, ma'am, ye're hut a deli- 
 cate ater to be livin' in sich a hungry part," 
 said the peddler, as he unrolled his pack;' 
 " but here's somethin'll give ye a relish 
 for the feast. Here's a chintz'U make ye 
 so beautiful your own friends won't know 
 ye ! Kale rich stuff ! Flowers as big as 
 taycups ! An' .all for no more nor ibur- 
 pence a yard 1 " . 
 
 Tibbie knotted her knuckles together 
 to keep down her amazement, while she 
 glutted her eyes upon the beauties of this 
 bargain. It was many a day since she 
 had dreamed of such a gown as that. At 
 sight of it, long dead memories of past 
 fairs and dances, and youthful frolics, and 
 blithe companions, got up and jostled each 
 other through the old creature's brain. 
 
 " Ye'll make it twopence I " said the 
 wily Tibbie. 
 
 " Sorra penny now undher fippence," 
 said the peddler, beginning with dignity 
 to roll up the stuff. " When a lady doesn't 
 know a bargain when she sees it, why it's 
 part of my profession to tache her at a 
 little inconvanience." 
 " Fourpence, ye said I " 
 " Fippence," said the peddler. 
 " Oh, musha, musha, but ye're miserly 
 an' hard ! An' 'twas fourpence ye tould 
 me at the first." 
 
 " If ye say another word, I'll make it 
 sixpence," said the peddler. 
 
THE PEDDLER AT TOBEREEVIL. 
 
 35 
 
 Tibbie groaned, and rocked herself, 
 •witli her eyes upon the chintz. The 
 material before her was worth eighteen- 
 pence a yard. Tibbie knew it 'vyell. It 
 was strong and soft, and warm and silky ; 
 printed in good colors, and of the most 
 brilliant design. Why, the ordinary ped- 
 dler would not give her a calico at the 
 price ! But to part with so many five- 
 pences cut Tibbie to the heart ; and the 
 thought of walking about Tobereevil, 
 amidst the cobwebs and mildew, dressed 
 out in all this finery, was like to make her 
 crazy between horror and delight. And 
 in the mean time, while she deliberated, 
 the coveted stuff retreated, yard after 
 yard, into the peddler's pack. 
 
 " I'll be' biddin' a. good evenin' to ye," 
 said the peddler, shouldering his bundle. 
 
 " Stop 1 stop ! " shrieked Tibbie, and 
 she huddled herself away across the kitch- 
 en. She seized the poker, so that the 
 peddler thought at first that she was going 
 to lay it about his head ; but she only 
 poked it up the chimney, bringing down a 
 shower of soot, and a grimy little bag 
 which chinked as it fell among the ashes. 
 
 " Wan, two, three, four ! " said Tibbie 
 counting out her money. " Oh ! my curse 
 on you for a villain, would ye take it from 
 me?" 
 
 The peddler put the money in his pocket, 
 Tibbie glaring at him strangely the while, 
 as if she had given him poison, anil he 
 had swallowed it. The peddler cut off the 
 cloth, folded it neatly, and placed it in a 
 roll in Tibbie's arms, where she griped it, 
 and pinched it, so that, had it been a living 
 thing, it certainly would have been stran- 
 gled. 
 
 " Now, thin ! " said the peddler, " would 
 you be lettin' the masther know that I am 
 here V " 
 
 " The masther ? " 
 
 "MIsther FinistonhisselV . 
 
 " All, thin, young man, ye coihe a long 
 piece out o' yer way to get yer head 
 broke." 
 
 " Anan ? " said the peddler. 
 
 " Wid the poker, or the hind leg o' a 
 chair," went on Tibbie. " There's no 
 luck in axin' for a sight o' Simon's money." 
 
 " But I want to show him mine," said 
 the peddler. 
 
 " Is it laughin' at him ye are ? " 
 
 " Sorra laugh in the matter. If so be 
 he has any thin' to sell, — old coats, or 
 gownds, or curtains, or jewellery, — why 
 it's mesel' will give the best price for the 
 goods." 
 
 " Sit down, thin, good man, an' wait a 
 bit ; for that's a quare different tune ye're 
 
 whistliu' now. He's out gleanin' ; but he'll 
 be in for his dinner by'n bye " 
 
 "'Gleanin'? " asked the peddler. 
 
 "Pickin' what he can get," returned 
 Tibbie. " Sticks for the fire, an' wisps o' 
 hay ; wool out o' the hedges', an' odd 
 praties an' turnips out o' the rigs." 
 
 The peddler stared. " It amuses the 
 ould sowl, I suppose," he said. 
 
 " Oh, ay ! " said Tibbie, with a whine, 
 " an' helps to keep the roof over his head, 
 the crature 1 " 
 
 There was silence upon this, during 
 which the black-beetles came a journey 
 across the kitchen flags, and walked play- 
 fully over the peddler's boots ; while Tibbie 
 went on with her cooking, making the 
 woodcock spin giddily from its string as 
 she basted it before the fire. She was 
 considering whether the peddler would buy 
 the rags and bones which she had been 
 storing in the cellar for the past ten 
 years. 
 
 By and by a sound was heard firom 
 above ; and Tibbie left off torturing the 
 woodcock, and placed him on a dish. A 
 slice of bread and a glass of water 
 were added on a tray ; and then the miser's 
 dinner was carried up stairs. 
 
 " Ye may wait, my man," said Tibbie, 
 coming back ; and, when the tray had 
 come down again, she ushered the peddler 
 into the pi-esence of her master. 
 
 He was sitting, all alive with expecta- 
 tion, in the dreary state of his dilapidated 
 dining-room, a little leaner, more wrinkled, 
 more surly, and fretful-looking than on 
 the day when he had scared Miss Mar- 
 tha out of his presence. In a corner of 
 the room lay a small heap of the spoils 
 which he had gleaned off the country 
 since the morning. 
 
 " Take them away, Tibbie, take them 
 away," he said, waving his hand towards 
 the meagre pile, " and be careful about 
 picking up the straws. They have cost 
 me a hard day's work, good woman ; and 
 see that you do not lose the fruits of your 
 ma-ster's toil. You perceive, young man, 
 we will have no waste here ; and I am glad 
 to learn that you are one of those who 
 count nothing too old or decayed to be of 
 use. I am told that you are anxious to do 
 a little business with me ; and, that being so, 
 we will proceed up stairs." 
 
 The miser's nose was long, thin, and 
 almost transparent ; and, as he spoke, he sat 
 sharpening the end lof it — ' as it seemed to 
 the looker-on — with a, many-colored rag, 
 which had once been a pocket-handker- 
 chief. 
 
 The peddler stood, hat in hand, a little 
 
36 
 
 THE ■WICKED WOODS OF TOBEEEEVIL. 
 
 in the shadow thrown by the strong red 
 sunset and the heavy oaken framework of 
 the window. His attitude was respectful ; 
 but there was a strange look of loathing 
 Inixed with fear in his eyes, which now 
 fixed themselves, as if fascinated, on the 
 face of the miser, and now roved about 
 the room. 
 
 " You will see a great house," said the 
 miser, while he shuffled across the hall, 
 looking nervously over his shoulder, as the 
 keys jingled in his hand, — "a dilapidated 
 house, which the owner has no means of 
 repairing. What it costs me, young man, 
 to keep the holes in the windows stopped, 
 so as to shut out the wind, and prevent the 
 roof flying off on a stormy night, — why, it 
 makes me what I am," he said, flapping 
 his patched garment ostentatiously. "It 
 makes me what I am." 
 
 The first Finiston of Tobereevil, the man 
 who had brought the blight upon his race, 
 had had in his princely days a grand idea 
 about the planning of a dwelling. The 
 staircase was wide enough for ei^ht men to 
 ascend its black steps abreast. Inky faces 
 of demons and satyrs grinned fi-om among 
 vine-leaves in the carvings of the balus- 
 trades. Black marble nymphs twined 
 their arms and their hair round pillars on 
 the landing, and lost themselves amid foli- 
 age and shadows. Formerly, all the sinister 
 effect of this blackness had been carried 
 off by the ruddy velvet hangings which 
 had glowed between the arches, and the 
 deeply-stained windows whiqh had loaded 
 every ray of sunlight with a special flush 
 of color. Flora and Bacchus had crowned 
 themselves in the splendors of the illumi- 
 nated glass, making the inner air warm 
 with the reflection of their frolics. Their 
 wreathed attendants had chased each other 
 laughingly under the lower arches of the 
 side-lights. Now Flora's azure robe still 
 fluttered against the sun, and her feet still 
 twinkled among clouds and roses ; but her 
 fair round throat had become a spike of 
 ragged glass, and the sky looked in rudely 
 where her face had used to smile. Bac- 
 chus had had his lower limbs completely 
 shivered away, and seemed to soar out of 
 an intrusive bush of ivy. As the miser 
 crept feebly up the staircase the scarlet 
 midsummer sunset had assaulted all the 
 colors in the window, flinging fire to right 
 and left, and streaming triumphantly 
 through the rents in the glass. The black 
 nymphs were all burning as they clung 
 round their pillars, each like an Indian 
 widow upon her pyre. 
 
 From left and right of this landing 
 another staircase led, one to each wing of 
 
 the house. Simon turned to the left, and 
 brought the peddler along galleries and 
 down passages, and up more stairs, till he 
 reached a low-roofed lobby, where tall 
 black presses were stationed like goblins in 
 the mouldy twiligiit. To the locks of these 
 he fitted one after another of his rusty keys, 
 seeking for valuables which the peddler was 
 to buy of him. And meantime the peddler 
 had leisure to observe how the roof was 
 broken in above the spot where they st6od, 
 and how the walls and the ceiling and the 
 presses and the floor were all stained with 
 rain-marks, as if the rain had poured in 
 there many winters through. 
 
 " You perceive that we have got an ene- 
 my here," said the miser, with a dreary 
 laugh. " But it will be a long time yet 
 before he makes his way down to the lower 
 rooms. We have damp down stairs, plenty 
 of damp ; but never a pouring stream like 
 this. It will suit me well to get rid of 
 this property before next winter comes 
 round." 
 
 The property was dragged out, and 
 proved to be some faded garments, stained 
 with rain, and eaten up with mildew. 
 They were shrunk and discolored, past all 
 recognition of shape or hue. The mice 
 had dined off them at many a pinch, and 
 the moths had made pasture of them for 
 years. That one fine lady of Tobereevil, 
 while sweeping her satin skirts down the 
 sumptuous staircase below, and counting 
 herself the first of a race of queens, had 
 little thought that her faded finery would 
 be thus preserved in the family, and bar- 
 gained over by her descendants, after she 
 and her expectations had long melted into 
 the churchyard mould. Yet there it lay, 
 exposed in its ghastly uneleanness ; and yet 
 this peddler was to purchase it, and take it 
 forth into the world. 
 
 The peddler stood in a recess between two 
 of the presses, and close to his head there 
 was a tiny window. Through this loophole 
 he could see far over the country. He 
 could see a large portion of the estate of 
 Tobereevil, a few hovels, a few sickly 
 wreaths of smoke, vast rich tracks of uncul- 
 tivated land, melancholy moors, and the 
 strong, brilliant woods. The whole was a 
 picture of neglected land, rich in beauty 
 and glowing with promise, but with the 
 shadow of the curse distinct upon its face, 
 amidst all the splendors of the midsummer 
 sunset. The peddler gazed long, as if he 
 had forgotten his bargain, and that lively 
 sauciness which was his business expression 
 did not find its way through the bitterness 
 on his face. 
 
 " You will understand that I expect a 
 
TROUBLED IN HER MIND. 
 
 37 
 
 good price for these articles," said the 
 miser's voice, recalling him to business. 
 " They are rich and fine, and of most costly 
 materials. They will bear cleaning, dye- 
 ing, remodelling, patching, — ah I there is 
 no end to the benefits which the owner 
 will find in them." 
 
 The peddler turned round, and saw the 
 figure of the old man bending and moving 
 as he shook out, straightened, folded, and 
 flaunted his gaudy and unseemly rags, and 
 turning from the dreary landscape, and 
 meeting this more dismal and ludicrous 
 picture, a look of horror and disgust burned 
 gradually in the peddler's gaze. 
 
 " Name your price, and don't keep me in 
 suspense," said the miser irritably, and 
 suddenly raised his greedy eyes, and peered 
 into the peddler's face. Then, as if he could 
 hear no more, and with a glance of terror, 
 the peddler raised both his arms hurriedly, 
 but with nothing violent in his touch ; 
 turned from him without a, word, and fled 
 along the lobby, past the goblin presses, and 
 down the staircase, and to left and to right, 
 mistaking his way, and finding it again, 
 escaping at last out of the door, and away 
 into the Woods of Tobereevil. 
 
 " Stop thief, stop thief! " shrieked Simon, 
 pattering . after him a little way ; then 
 coming back to see that nothing had been 
 taken, and then following again with his 
 cry, unconvinced, " Stop thie — ief I " And 
 Tibbie at last caught the sound in her 
 dungeon underground, and came running 
 and stumbling up stairs ; but when the two 
 old creatures met, panting and vociferating 
 in the hall, they were obliged to declare to 
 each other that the peddler had vanished, 
 and that he was the devil, a gypsy, or a 
 thief at least. 
 
 Yet, after this, they found his pack lying 
 untouched in the dining-room, together 
 with the money which Tibbie had paid 
 him for her dress ; and, in wrangling 
 over the contents of the bundle, they had 
 ample occupation for the rest of the 
 evening. 
 
 CHAPTER Xm. 
 
 TKOUBLED IN HEK MIND. 
 
 It was a moment of some excitement to 
 May. when she climbed into the great trav- 
 elling-carriage of the Archbolds, and was 
 taken from the gate of Monasterlea. Miss 
 Martha inspected her departure with pride. 
 
 " I have done my best to turn her out 
 
 like a gentlewoman," thought that kindly 
 spinster, " and, let them have whom they 
 may, they can never see a sweeter face at 
 their board. Ah, deary me 1 why does 
 Paul not come home while she is looking 
 like that ? " 
 
 And Miss Martha returned to her lonely 
 parlor to follow out the train of this idea, 
 with her knitting in her lap, her spectacles 
 on her nose, and her mouth at a reflective 
 angle. Slie had been busy as a bee for the 
 past few days ; but now the delicate laces 
 were all cleared and pressed, the fair mus- 
 lin gowns were all folded, the little knots 
 and rosettes of gay ribbons were all stitched 
 in their places, the excitement of trunk- 
 packing had come to an end, and the hum- 
 drum knitting had returned to its place 
 between Miss Martha's fingers. Her child 
 was gone ; but, though Monasterlea might 
 be sleepier and lonelier than ever. Miss 
 Martha was neither sleepy nor lonely. She 
 was accustomed to live out a great deal of 
 life within her twenty-four hours ; and she 
 could live it out as well in her silent par- 
 lor, over a silent occupation, as though she 
 had been haranguing a multitude, or plough- 
 ing the rustiest field on Mr. Finiston's 
 estate. It was a gift that she had got in 
 the order of charity, this unflagging vitaUty, 
 which would not be unoccupied. It had lit a 
 comfortable hearth in this ruin surrounding 
 her, it managed her farm, made a pride of 
 her meadow-grass, drew beauty and fatness 
 from her garden and dairy, and made a 
 pleasant proverb of her housekeeping. 
 When constrained to be quiet, she could 
 employ her energy in planning good things 
 for other people. There were many within 
 her reach who were worthy of a thought, 
 and very many more who were in need of 
 it; and, when all those were reckoned, 
 there was not found one who was not infin- 
 itely the better when the fruit of such 
 remembrance was dropped, ripe and unex- 
 pected, into his lap. Was there thirst or 
 hunger or nakedness or repining hiding 
 itself in anguish in the holes of the land ? 
 The trouble was a lion, and Miss Martha 
 was but a mouse, — but a mouse who never 
 left off gnawing at the nets and the 
 chains. 
 
 On the present occasion Miss Martha 
 was thinking about Paul. She could not 
 tell why, but she had thought a great deal 
 about the young man lately. For the past 
 few days he had scarcely for a moment 
 been absent from her mind. She had 
 dreamed about him every night, and she 
 had talked about little else every day. This 
 was the more remarkable, as a new event 
 ought to have sent all her ideas in the di- 
 
38 
 
 THE WICKED WOODS OP TOBEEEEVIL. 
 
 reetion of Camlough. Miss Martha was 
 fully aware of the important step that was 
 taken when an attractive young girl like 
 May was sent to establish afHendly footing 
 in a house like that of the Archbolds, where 
 she should be admired, and coveted, and 
 taught the way^of the world. Miss Mar- 
 tha's pride on this point knew no bounds. 
 A stray duke might find his way to Cam- 
 lough, and might want to place his coronet 
 on May's simple brow. Well, and was it 
 for her own desolation upon the consumma- 
 tion of such an event that Miss Martha 
 could fret over her knitting ? Was it for 
 her own sake that she cherished so fierce an 
 enmity towards that imaginary duke? 
 No, there was nothing about that: it was 
 Paul who would be defrauded, Paul who 
 would be wronged. Miss Martha, I have 
 hinted, was a faithful soul; and she had 
 accepted Paul Finiston as the son of her 
 heart. Whilst his mother had lived, he had 
 been nothing to her ; but his mother was 
 dead, and he was second with her now ; 
 and Miss Martha's second was far better 
 than very many people's first. It was an 
 object of her life to bring him home from 
 his wandering, to pet him, to worship him, 
 to watch over his interests, and constrain 
 fortune, if it might be, to relinquish her old 
 grudge against his family, and to shower 
 favors for the future upon this innocent head. 
 And in order that her heart might no^ be 
 divided, she would make her first and her 
 second into one precious whole ; so that one 
 could not hurt the other, whilst she herself 
 must be just to both. Thus best would 
 she pay her debt to the dead Elizabeth. 
 Yet here, and amid these day-dreams, was 
 May, with all her sweetness, whirled away 
 into the chances of the world, and Paul 
 beyond seas, and that imaginary duke com- 
 ing post-haste to Camlough. So Miss Mar- 
 tha might have guessed very well how for 
 the past few days she had been thinking so 
 incessantly of Paul. Now, when she was 
 alone, she drew his last letter from the 
 pocket of her apron, and spread it upon her 
 knees, and read it many times. There was 
 not one word in the whole about coming 
 home. 
 
 In the mean time May had passed over 
 the rim of the Golden Mountain, and for- 
 gotten her own identity in marvelling at 
 the beauty of the world. This midsummer 
 eve seemed like to be the first of a new era 
 in her life. The oxen planted their feet 
 on the steep pavement, the carriao-e slid 
 slowly from brae to brae, and from hillock 
 to hillock, moors, fens, and lakes shimmered 
 and burned in the sun, and shifted with a 
 magical intermingling of lines and hues, 
 
 floating off in flecks of blue and silver, and 
 amethyst and amber, to become mere pen- 
 cillings of tinted glory in the distance. In 
 the midst of all this flush of nature, on went 
 May like a queen of summer upon a royal 
 progress, with golden weeds brushing her 
 cheeks, and crimson berries dropping ripe 
 into her hands, till the castle appeared 
 in sight, and then a little accident oc- 
 curred. 
 
 A shrill wailing sound had been for some 
 minutes coming lirom a distance towards 
 the carriage. 
 
 Accustomed to the strange cries of birds 
 and shepherds, May did not mind it; 
 neither did the coachman nor the drivers 
 of the oxen. At last it arose out of a bush 
 above their heads. 
 
 " Aye — aye — aye — aye — aye ! " 
 
 This was a human voice, and, moreover, 
 there was a white pocket-handkerchief 
 waving madly from the point of a very long 
 umbrella. Yet no human being was to be 
 seen. 
 
 " It's a banshee I " murmured one of the 
 men who led the oxen. " Go on, ye baste I " 
 he said, whacking the animals in trepida- 
 tion. 
 
 " Ye idiot 1 don't ye see it's a lady in 
 disthress I " thundered down one of the 
 coachmen from his perch upon the box. 
 
 A figure had appeared upon the bank 
 above, looming largely against the sky. It 
 was dressed in a long, dark gown, a scarlet 
 shawl, and a white kerchief over the head 
 and under the chin. The face was long 
 and fat, and suffering from recent sunburn. 
 The arms were waved with a tragic appeal 
 towards the travellers. 
 
 " It's Mrs. Lee, a lady from the castle, 
 miss." said the coachman, touching his hat 
 to May. " It's likely she wants a sate in 
 the carriage. Lost herself, I suppose, she 
 has. Ye've no objections, miss? Yea 
 ma'am, comin', ma'am. Lane on me 
 ma'am ! Oh, begorra, you'll have to come 
 an' help us, Darby ! Press yer weight 
 betune the two of uz, ma'am I it'll balance, 
 betther. Now, si — ither down, ma'am 
 and ye'U come safe to the bottom ! " And 
 the tall, stout lady was fairly dragged down 
 the sandstone cliff, and deposited panting 
 on the road. 
 
 She looked helpless, travel-soiled, and 
 weary. Tears and dust were mingled in 
 her eyes. 
 
 " My dear ma'am," she said piteously to 
 May, " I beg your pardon, but I am obliged 
 to intrude." 
 
 " Not at all," said May. " I shall be 
 glad of a companion." 
 
 " Thank you, thank you, thank you 1 " 
 
TKOUBLBD IK HEK MIND. 
 
 39 
 
 Mrs. Lee all round, as the men 
 once more put their hands under her elbows, 
 and hoisted her respectfully into the car- 
 riage. 
 
 " A-a-ah ! " she groaned, sinking back 
 into the seat, and sitting upon May, and 
 unfurling a large umbrella against the 
 sun. " My dear ma'am, I am exceedingly 
 obliged to you. We cannot be introduced 
 till we get to the castle. You are particu- 
 lar in these countries, and that is quite 
 proper ; but, in the mean time, might we 
 not have a little conversation ? " 
 
 "I should be very glad of it," said 
 May. 
 
 " A-ah I " groaned Mrs. Lee again. " If 
 you had been lost on the hills ever since 
 breakfast-time this morning you would not 
 be, a very entertaining companion. You 
 would be hungry and tired, and in a bad 
 humor, like me." 
 
 Mrs. Lee's long, smooth face was chiefly 
 expressive of softness and feebleness, and 
 her great brown eyes were full of meek and 
 irritating patience. She had a complain- 
 ing voice ; and her words fell out of her 
 mouth as if the wires that managed her 
 speaking were out of order. She had come 
 from America ; but it was not very clear to 
 what country she belonged, as she had 
 neither the smartness of an American, the 
 elegance of an Englishwoman, nor yet the 
 liveliness and humor of an Irishwoman. 
 She was not exactly coarse or vulgar, but 
 she was heavy and unrefined. Her accent 
 was of no nation, and her manners were 
 peculiarly her own. She had been heard 
 to address Sir John as "My dear ma'am." 
 It seemed odd that this lady should be a 
 guest at Camlough ; but she was Christo- 
 pher's mother, and this was Katherine's 
 doing. 
 
 May was naturally wondering what could 
 have brought this good lady so high up on 
 the hills, alone, and without her bonnet. 
 Her figure did not seem suited to climbing 
 or jumping ; yet, to enjoy solitude on the 
 braes of Camlough, climbing and jumping 
 were indispensable accomplishments. 
 
 " You will be quite surprised at finding 
 me here," said Mrs. Lee, answering her 
 thought, " but, my dear ma'am, a troubled 
 mind will not let a person rest. It walks 
 one about. It gets one into scrapes. 
 What I would give for leave to sit and rest 
 myself a whole long day, my dear ma'am, 
 — I could not describe it to you ! " 
 
 May murmured something to the effect 
 that she was sorry to learn that Mrs. Lee 
 was troubled in her mind. 
 
 " My dear ma'am," said Mrs. Lee, 
 
 " troubled is no name for it. Tortured is a 
 more natural expression." 
 
 This was said with such earnestness, and 
 with such a face of distress, that May be- 
 came sympathizing, and looked so. 
 
 "A-ahl Tortured is the word. And 
 there has been no one to confide in here. 
 The truth is, I am afraid of her ladyship ; 
 and besides, how could I speak to her on 
 such a subject ? I have already appealed 
 to the girl herself; but she is as hard as 
 flint, and as wicked as a witch. And 
 Christopher is mad and blind. My dear 
 ma'am, my son is being ruined before my 
 eyes." 
 
 May at this point got a lively fear that 
 the lady beside her was a little' more than 
 troubled in her mind. A marriage with 
 the beautiful and wealthy Katherine seemed 
 the strangest disguise in which ruin could 
 attack a young man. 
 
 " I hope you are mistaken," she said. 
 
 " Well, well I This is no place for enter- 
 ing into particulars," Mrs. Lee said, waving 
 her umbrella towards the coachman. " An- 
 other time I will pour out my troubles to 
 you." 
 
 Here the carriage swept round before 
 the castle entrance, and May had hardly 
 time to protest that she was the very worst 
 person in the world for a confidante. 
 Figures were sca;ttered on the lawn, watch- 
 ing for the travellers. Sir John welcomed 
 May very kindly as his special guest ; Lady 
 Arohbold gave her the outside of her 
 cheek and the tips of her fingers, and 
 Katherine embraced her. The greetings 
 were made in the midst of laughter. Scouts 
 had been sent to the hills in search of Mrs. 
 Lee. 
 
 " Go away, young man," said that lady 
 to the footman ; " I will have my own son to 
 help me out." 
 
 Christopher stepped forth with a good 
 enough grace, blushing, smiling, and knit- 
 ting his brows. He wasfond of his mother, 
 and anxious to be good to her; but she was 
 apt to try his patience before strangers. 
 
 " Why do you go roving about the hills 
 like a gypsy, mother ? " he said depre- 
 catingly, as she leaned on his shoulder, 
 and heaved herself slowly to the ground. 
 
 " Why ? " she said turning upon him 
 with meek wrath. " To keep you from 
 harm if I can ; but it seems I might as 
 well stay at home." 
 
 " Quite as well," said Christopher, with 
 angry eyes, and then laughed foolishly, and 
 told his mother to go in and dress ; that 
 she was a dear old goose, and made great 
 mistakes. 
 
40 
 
 THE WICKED WOODS OF TOBEEEEVIL. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 PATJL IS A OOWAKP, 
 
 When the peddler fled from Tobereevil, 
 he struck off across an outskirt of the 
 woods, and got up among the hills. When 
 ho had walked for half an hour, and while 
 the sun was still red in the sky, he reached 
 a purple terrace of the mountain on which 
 lay a lonely lake. Here he flung himself 
 down to draw breath, and to gaze back- 
 ward upon the lower world. He leaned 
 over the edge of the lake to drink from his 
 hand, and started as his own face met his 
 eyes looking at him from the placid water. 
 
 " What nonsense this is 1 " he said, and 
 immediately began pulling off his shock of 
 black hair, his large bushy beard, and his 
 heavy dark eyebrows. He dipped his face 
 and head in, the water, and rubbed both 
 severely with a large pocket-handkerchief ; 
 after which divestment 'and ablution the 
 peddler had disappeared, and a gentleman 
 had taken his place. 
 
 This gentleman had light-brown hair and 
 mustache, with very dark eyes and skin. 
 His nose was large, his forehead broad, and 
 with already some nervous lines upon it ; 
 his mouth sensitive but firm. It was a 
 face that was sure to be called handsome 
 because noble and pleasing ; yet if this were 
 manly beauty, it was that of the boldest 
 and least regular type. 
 
 For a few minutes he looked pale and 
 languid, like one who had undergone 
 • great fatigue or mental trouble ; but by and 
 by he started up, muttering, — 
 
 " I am Paul Finiston ; and I had a right 
 to come here ; and I go away without 
 harming any one." 
 
 And, as if re-assured by this declaration, 
 his face brightened, and he set o3" to ascend 
 the mountain sturdily. 
 
 Paul Finiston had come a long way 
 across the world, attracted by his uncle's 
 advertisement. It had found him settled 
 down in a distant country, with employ- 
 ment in his hands, and a good prospect for 
 life before him. An old friend of his 
 father had met with him, taken him into his 
 business,promised him a partnership. Paul 
 had thankfully accepted the good luck 
 thrust in his way, had applied himself to 
 work, and had striven to forget home in the 
 excitement of making a fortune. It was a 
 dream of his to forget that he was a Finis- 
 ton of Tobereevil, to acquire the means of 
 livelihood by labor of his own, and, this 
 done, to go home in search of something he 
 had left behind, and could not manage to 
 
 do all his life without. How diligently he 
 had worked, and with what fair hopes, and 
 how, meanwhile, he had been teased and 
 haunted, it is better to let him tell with his 
 own lips by and by. That he was a way- 
 ward, fanciful, and passionate nature, cer- 
 tain rough notes in a little pocket-book 
 could tell. It might also be gathered from 
 these jottings that there was a sort of 
 woman-like twist abcfut his heart and 
 brains in spite of his masculine energy and 
 bearing, — something which made him il- 
 logical, tender, and uncertain in his moods. 
 With a littlfe more generosity, nature had 
 made him a poet ; with a little less, a more 
 contented man. 
 
 The advertisement had found him pursu- 
 ing his way steadily. It had shaken his 
 purpose with a, great shock, and had 
 brought him face to face with the longings 
 which had been tempting him to give up 
 his projected exile of years. Here was a 
 good reason for going home at once : his 
 uncle, who was so rich, and whose heir he 
 must be, desired his return without a mo- 
 ment's delay. Even Paul's matter-of-fact 
 employer had looked upon his obedience as 
 a thing of course. " There is no doubt at 
 all," he said regretfully, " that a bird in the 
 hand is worth a good many in the bush. A 
 fortune in prospect, and in exile, is pretty 
 good ; but a fortune at home and ready-made 
 is better." So Paul had come home, not 
 dragged by a love of gain, but by a hungry 
 heart. 
 
 By the time he had landed in Ireland, 
 however, the idea of presenting himself to 
 the miser of Tobereevil had grown so re- 
 pulsive to his mind, that he had almost 
 stepped from one ship to another, and fled 
 back whence he came ; and only that 
 that hunger of the heart was unappeased 
 within him, his employer must have re- 
 ceived him back ere he had ceased to be 
 missed. 
 
 It was in the midst of a confusion of at- 
 traction and repulsion which seized on him 
 when he thought of the land of his inher- 
 itance, that he gave way to that freak of 
 jealous, inquisitive humor, which brought 
 a peddler over the mountains to the gate of 
 Monasterlea. He would see these women, 
 and he would know if they remembered him. 
 May might be married : he Would hear all 
 about it. May might be cold, unamiable, 
 and forgetful : he would see it at a glance. 
 And if either of these speculations proved 
 the right one, then he would go back un- 
 known to the other side of the world. In 
 that case, he would not trust himself to the 
 tortures of Tobereevil. The miser might 
 have his gold all buried in his coffin, if he 
 
PAUL IS A COWARB. 
 
 41 
 
 pleased; he might will his estate to be 
 kept as a vast burial-ground for his re- 
 mains, and the mansion of Tobereevil a 
 monument over his bones ; he, Paul Fin- 
 iston, would at least be rid of haunting 
 terrors and worrying superstitions for the 
 remainder of his life. But if May should 
 be found a maiden, still kind, still mindful, 
 with still in her heart all that anxiety for his 
 welfare which had been painted in her face 
 on that morning when she had stretched 
 out her hands to him from the quay, why 
 then Paul would be a man, and brave the 
 curse of Tobereevil. 
 
 Well, he had gone happy from Monaster- 
 lea. He had seen May tender, true, and 
 worthy to be loved. He would shelter 
 himself under her womanhood, and defy the 
 curse. His fears had become phantoms. 
 His hopes had taken a lovely form of flesh 
 and blood. He walked towards Toberee- 
 vil a royal peddler, ready to bestow gifts on 
 all whom he might meet ; but the long, 
 foul shadow of Tobereevil in the evening 
 sun had been too much for Paul Finiston. 
 The old superstition, the old unaccountable 
 terror that had made him feel himself a 
 murderer when he confronted the miser 
 even in fancy, had fallen upon him with 
 tenfold force, now that he had looked on him 
 in the flesh. May and his good genius were 
 forgotten. The spirit of evil had taken 
 hold of him again. Let him fly from this 
 blight, this temptation, this curse I Let him 
 return to tis honest work beyond the sea 1 
 
 So, having spent a little his passion in the 
 wood and on the hills, and rested a while by 
 the margin of the lake, he set ofl" to cross 
 the mountains on his way back to Aus- 
 tralia. 
 
 Soon the heat of his eagerness to be gone 
 had abated, and he paused as he went, to 
 look behind and beneath him. The glow 
 of the evening was still ruddy on the land. 
 A golden film had bluiTed the line of meet- 
 ing between sky and sea. Higher, long 
 bars of weightier gold had shot from 
 behind the hills, and laid themselves level 
 along the west, as if barring the gate 
 through which the sun had passed. The 
 hills on the horizon had wrapped them- 
 selves in violet, and seemed to nestle close 
 against the warmth of the sky. The mid- 
 landscape rose towards the light in every 
 tint of yellow-green and flame-color and 
 tawny-brown, and fell under the shadows, 
 saddened with every hue of gray and olive 
 and brown-purple. Here and there a lake 
 or a fragment of a streamlet glanced up- 
 ward, like a flame out of the depths of a 
 hollow. Here and there a farmhouse or a 
 cabin stood wrapped in a luminous haze of 
 
 its own smoke ; and the woods curled out 
 and wreathed themselves over all the fore- 
 ground, — one half amber and ruddy, fused 
 in the burning glamor of the hour ; the 
 other buried under the sombre purple of 
 their own dense shade. 
 
 The beauty of the country smote him, 
 like a blow from a friend. AH this might 
 be his ; all this barren, wasted loveliness 
 might be nurtured into teeming strength. 
 He might do it, with his strong will and arm, 
 helped by the meaner but mightier power 
 that lay rotting and rusting among guineas 
 and title-deeds in the miser's safe. How 
 strange it was that Heaven's work should 
 be defaced by the wickedness of one poor 
 dotard ! How strange that Paul Finiston, 
 who panted to give renewed life to a crowd 
 of his fellow-creatures, should have to fly 
 from the fear of hurting an old man I 
 
 He went more slowly now, onward and 
 upward, higher and higher, into the upper 
 mountains. The plovers cried, and whirred 
 close to him, as they descended to their 
 nests among the heather. A few faint 
 echoes came floating up from the valleys, 
 too few and too faint to bring a throb of 
 human life into the lonely stillness ; yet 
 there, and quite suddenly, Paul came face 
 to face with a fellow-creature. 
 
 It was Con the fool ; and he was sitting 
 on the heath, one leg gathered up in an atti- 
 tude of pain, the other extended at full 
 length, the foot quivering and swollen. He 
 grasped the heather with both hands as he 
 leaned on them. He made no complaint ; 
 but the tears rolled heavily from his round 
 black eyes, and there was a tragic look 
 upon his broad white face. 
 
 " Halloo ! " cried Paul, " what's the mat- 
 ter, my good fellow ? " 
 
 " Con's foot killed," answered the idiot. 
 " Con walk no more. Con die, too, on the 
 mountains." 
 
 " Die ? " said Paul, " nothing of the kind. 
 Come, now, where am I to carry you to ? " 
 
 By this time he had seated the idiot on 
 his back. 
 
 " Nan ! " cried the idiot. 
 
 " Where am I to find Nan ? " asked 
 Paul, in a puzzle. He made two steps for- 
 ward, but seemingly in the wrong direc- 
 tion ; for the fool began to cry again. 
 
 " This way, then," said Paul, and took 
 another course. The idiot laughed, and 
 clapped him on the back. 
 
 How long he might have strayed over 
 the hills, seeking the way to Con's friends 
 by means of such signs, we need not guess. 
 Chance sent a guide to his aid. 
 
 Coming up the hill he saw a figure, 
 wending slowly, and with the help of a stick, 
 
42 
 
 THE WIckED WOODS OI" TOBEREEVIL. 
 
 up the slippery braes. It was a little 
 woman dressed in a long, gray cloak which 
 had seen many winters, a scarlet handker- 
 chief on her head, her face brown as a 
 nut, and her hair lying like a, white silk 
 fringe along her wrinkled brow. 
 
 " God save yer honor ! " cried she cheer- 
 ily. " Who'd think to meet a gintleman on 
 the mountains, — let alone wid a poor 
 omadhaun on his back ! " 
 
 " Are you Nan ? " asked Paul. 
 
 " Nan V Ochone ! is it Nan Kearney ye 
 mane V Then it's fifty long years since I 
 was the cut o' Nan Kearney I " 
 
 " I never saw Nan, and how am I to 
 know ? " said Paul. " I'm a stranger here, 
 and I found this poor fellow lying hart on 
 the heath. He calls out for Nan." 
 
 " Nan and Bid ! " cried Con, joyfully, and 
 with a friendly gaze at the old woman. 
 
 " Oh, ay 1 thrust him for a fool ; but he 
 knows his own friends," said.the new-comer. 
 " I'm Bid, an' I know the way to Nan's : 
 an' if it'd be a thing, young gintle- 
 man, that ye would carry him that far, — 
 why it's the Lord himsel' that'll give ye a 
 lift for it in yer need I " 
 
 Paul laughed, and forgot that he was 
 the miser's heir, and strode on contentedly 
 with the fool on his back, and the old 
 woman for his guide. They struck out on 
 a path which leaned slantwise through a 
 pass between two peaks of a cloven hill ; 
 and, following along this, they heard a soft 
 girlish voice saying, somewhere near, — 
 
 " Come back, now, Patsie ! Don't go 
 down there, or ould Simon'U catch ye I " 
 
 " Nan I " cried the fool in a tone of de- 
 light. 
 
 And then they turned the corner of a 
 rock, and came upon a rustic scene. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 BID AND THE HOUSE-MOTHER. 
 
 It was a scene like one of Mulready's 
 pictures. Against the tall red sandstone 
 cliff, a cabin had been propped. It hung 
 clinging to and slipping from this wall at 
 its back, with its slanting thatch wreathed 
 with moss and brilliant weeds, its gables 
 awry, its windows, one up and one down, 
 its chimney crowned with an old upturned 
 basket, its smoke hovering upward, its door 
 low and dark, but gilt round with the sun- 
 glare like the gate of a royal palace. A 
 slim young girl sat leaning against the 
 wall, weaving a basket, with a pile of rods 
 at her feet. She had a fair ruddy look of 
 
 innocence and health, short, saucy features, 
 and large blue eyes. Her loose auburn 
 locks hung in a heap of bronzed flakes 
 upon her neck. The sun had browned her 
 cheeks, her hands, and her naked feet, 
 which were prettily crossed before her, 
 where she sat ; but her temples, and her 
 throat, and her little ears were white. Two 
 mahogany-colored urchins with curly black 
 hair were playing with the rods that lay 
 beside her. Another, younger, swarthier, 
 and sturdier, had wandered to a distance, 
 and looked back over his shoulder with 
 audacity in his arch black eyes. All these 
 wild creatures were clothed in dark red 
 flannel, the girl with a white kerchief 
 across the bosom. In the doorway a wo- 
 man was spinning wool. All round about 
 them spread the red and purple mountains 
 with their rich tawny patches, where the 
 grass and tender herbage had broken out 
 through the heath. Below lay the sea, and, 
 in the distance, the white gleam of a vil- 
 lage on the coast. And over all, and 
 through all, glowed that after-glare of the 
 sunset, upon red cliffs, ripe cheeks, cabin, 
 heath, and ocean. 
 
 The repose of this scene was disturbed 
 by the new-coihers. The girl sprang to 
 her feet, spilling her rods ; the children 
 shrieked, and clapped their hands in de- 
 light at seeing Con perched on another 
 man's back ; the spinning woman ran out 
 from under the shadow of the doorway. 
 There they were laughing, gesticulating, 
 making themselves more picturesque at 
 every turn, till they found that Con was 
 hurt. Then there was a sudden hush, then 
 little cries, and grieved faces, and the 
 scene wore an air of vivid tragedy, till 
 they found that he was not much injured 
 after all. Then the laughter broke out 
 again. The fool was placed reclining on a 
 couch of dried heather, clapped on the 
 shoulder, cheered, pitied, and purred over. 
 Nan fetched a pitcher of water, and bathed 
 and bandaged the hurt foot. 
 
 ■ " Is he her brother ? " asked Paul of the 
 spinning woman, whom Bid had introduced 
 as Mrs. Kearney, the house-mother of this 
 homestead. 
 
 " Her brother, is it ? No, no, he's no 
 son o' mine. But sure if he isn't what's 
 the differ ? He comes, an' he goes. We'd 
 be lonesome an' quare without the fool. 
 As for Nan, he's just like one o' the bab- 
 bies till her. An' he'd kiss the groun' she 
 walks 1 " 
 
 •' See that now I " said Bid, striking in, 
 " how fools does flourish I Gets purty 
 girls to bathe their feet, an' gintlemen to 
 carry them on their shouldhers." 
 
BID AKD THE HOUSE-MOTHER. 
 
 43 
 
 " And kind-hearted women to lead them 
 back to their friends when they are astray," 
 said Paul, smiling. 
 
 " Och, och ! sure, I'm only a poor beg- 
 gar I " said Bid, tossing her head sadly. 
 
 " Beggar ! " said the house-mother indig- 
 nantly, as if an insult had been flung at her 
 own head. " Thin, Bid, have sinse 1 Who 
 calls her a beggar, I'd be glad to know, yer 
 honor ? If ye seen the purty house she 
 had till Simon put his clutches on it, an' 
 threwn her out upon the road 1 An' if ye 
 seen the fine man she had for a son, afore 
 he died of the cold he caught in the snow 
 that black night. Don't cry. Bid I Keep 
 up yer heart, alanna I Sure I'm not goin' 
 to let ye make little o' yoursel' to sthrangers 
 that might believe ye 1 Whiles ye pay us 
 visits, an' it rises our hearts to see ye, an' 
 whiles ye stay away, an' we're lonesome 
 till ye come roun'. That's- the way it is 
 wid her, yer honor : she lives among the 
 people; but there's nobody in the whole 
 counthry that would dar' call Bid a beggar 
 but hersel' I " 
 
 " God love ye, Mary Kearney 1 " said 
 Bid, drying her eyes, and throwing up her 
 head, " an' now I'll have my say. i e hear 
 that woman, yer honor," she said, address- 
 ing herself to Paul. " An' ye'd think 
 maybe she was that well to live that she 
 had nothing to do but hand away her 
 creelfuls o' potatoes, an' her mugfuls o' 
 male to every hungry mouth that comes 
 lookin' a bit through the hills. An' ye 
 don't know that her good man is dead, an' 
 her hunted out o' the nate little houseen 
 that he built wid his own hands. Ye don't 
 know what a waste bitteen o' land this wa,s 
 whin she got it, an' how her an' her soft 
 gossoons hammered it. wid their spades till 
 they dug the little fields up out o' the rock. 
 An' maybe ye don't know, but she has ten 
 childher till her share, an' nine o' them 
 younger nor Nan ; all like steps o' stairs. 
 An' her spinnin', an' diggin', an' planfin', 
 an' sowin', an' the agint holdin' a whip 
 over her head all the time I Ye didn't 
 know her afore, yer honor, but maybe ye'll 
 know her now. Look at her there I Mary 
 Kearney, that always has a corner for 
 thim that's worse ofl' nor hersel' ! " 
 
 Bid gesticulated with her hand, as if she 
 were denouncing Mary Kearney. She 
 stopped, out of breath ; and the two women 
 looked away from each other, and cried in 
 a sort of passion over each other's troubles, 
 till Nan's clear voice came ringing between 
 them, like the sound of a pleasant bell 
 across the storm. 
 
 " Ye're all thankin' an' praisin' other," 
 said she, blithely, " but here's a poor boy 
 
 that wants to be praisin' somebody too. 
 Con wants to thank the gintleman that 
 carried him when his foot wouldn't walk. 
 May the Lord love yer honor, an' lift yo 
 clane over yer throubles, if ye have any I " 
 
 She had risen up from her position on 
 her knees beside Con, and stood, comely 
 and tender, looking from Con to Paul, and' 
 from Paul to Con. Paul left the other 
 women to calm themselves, and came for- 
 ward to offer his further good-will to the 
 fool. 
 
 " He's just like to love ye for it his whole 
 life long 1" said Nan. But as Paul drew 
 nearer to her. Con's face changed. He 
 threw one arm round Nan's little sunburnt 
 feet, and waived Paul backward with the 
 other. 
 
 " Don't mind him, yer honor," said Nan, 
 smiling indulgently, and patting the fool's 
 rough head with her hand. " There's 
 whiles he's quare ; an' ye'd think it's jealous 
 he'd be," she said, blushing instantaneously 
 all over her pretty ripe face, " an' then he 
 don't like anybody to spake to me but his- 
 sel'. An' sure it's wicked to tease the likes 
 o' him, an' maybe dangersome as well." 
 
 Here Mrs. Kearney stepped forward, 
 without her tears, and invited the young 
 gentleman to join the frugal supper of her 
 family. Bid and she had carried out a table 
 from the cabin, on which they had placed a 
 huge dish of fine new potatoes, some coarse 
 earthen platters, and some salt. " Well 
 would it plase us to offer betther to a gin- 
 tleman an' a sthranger I " said Mrs. Kear- 
 ney. Paul declared that nothing could be 
 better. And then they all sat down to- 
 gether in the soft purple twilight, — the heir 
 of Tobereevil, the beggar, the fool, the 
 house-mother, the pretty maiden, and a 
 troop of hungry children. 
 
 By this time Paul was quite at home 
 with the party. He humored Con by tak- 
 ing no notice of Nan, and giving all his 
 attention to the elder women. He had 
 many questions to ask, not mere idle ques- 
 tions, but in search of information which 
 he felt to concern himself. He had a 
 friendly fellow-feeling for these simple 
 mountaineers. They and he were sufier- 
 ing under the weight of a common curse. 
 
 " I'm a stranger, you know, " said Paul, 
 with a blush at his own cunning ; " and I 
 want to hear something about this Simon 
 whom you talk about. Tell me about 
 him." 
 
 The house-mother and Bid looked at 
 one another, as if to say, " Where can we 
 begin 1" ' 
 
 " 'Deed, sir," said Bid, " it's but fool's 
 work to talk o' him. He's the scourge o' 
 
44 
 
 THE WICKED WOODS OF TOBEEEEVIL. 
 
 the counthry that has the curse o' him for 
 a lan'lord ; and if it wasn't that the peo- 
 ple has some hopes .o' thim that'll come 
 afther him, it'd be well they were all dead, 
 an' in their graves." 
 
 Tbis was the very point that Paul wished 
 to arrive at. He wanted to hear from their 
 own lips what they expected from the 
 miser's heir. 
 
 " Who is to come after him ? " he said. 
 
 " He's wan Paul Finiston," began Bid. 
 
 " A bad name ? " groaned the house- 
 mother. 
 
 " Whisht wid yer nonsense ! " cried the 
 beggar woman ; " sure the heart o' a man 
 isn't in his name 1 He's a young man, yer 
 honor, an' they say he's good ; an' some day 
 he'll be comin' here wid the mercy o' God 
 in his tvfo ban's for the poor." 
 
 " How do you know that ? " asked Paul. 
 
 " We're prayin' for it," said Bid patheti- 
 cally ; " an' we've prayed for it long. It 
 won't give me back what I have lost when 
 it comes ; but, whiniver I look at one o' 
 Mary's gossoons sittin' there, 1 think he'll 
 live to see the good times I " 
 
 " Why don't he come home at once ? " 
 cried the house-mother passionately. 
 " Why couldn't he come wid even a prom- 
 ise that'd keep us alive 'I What is it that 
 makes quality so hard, I wondher 1 There's 
 nobody comes here but only to tant us, an' 
 crass us. The last that come here he was 
 a rale fine gintleman, an' he was shoot- 
 in' for his' pleasure over the mountains. 
 An' I lighted his, — that thing that the 
 quality smokes instead o' a pipe, — I lighted 
 it for bim, an' he sat down there foment 
 me, an' he tould me the Irish was a lazy 
 people, an' axed me why didn't I work ; 
 an' he faulted the ould basket up on the 
 chimley; sure it was the best that Nan 
 could do for it I au' he faulted the stuffin' 
 I had put in a winda-hole to keep out the 
 cruel blast. I could ha' tould him that I 
 loved a bit o' glass as well as he did, an' 
 that I had wanst a purty houseen with 
 windas as bright as diamonds ; but I sick- 
 ened ower it someways, an' I hadn't a word 
 to say. I couldn't give him an answer ; I 
 just turned on my heel, an' went in an' shut 
 my door." 
 
 "Ay, ayl" said Bid soothingly, "we 
 know the cut o' him ; but this gintleman's 
 none o' that sort." 
 
 " I ax his pardon," said Mary Kearney 
 humbly, " for maybe he'd think 1 evened it 
 till him ; but we know he's none o' that 
 sort." 
 
 " And what if this Paul Finiston should 
 turn out to be one of that sort ? " asked 
 Paul. 
 
 The woman turned a startled glance upon 
 him, and then cast a look of anguish on her 
 children. 
 
 " Why, thin, if he do sir," she said, sigh- 
 ing, " thin the best frind that we had 'd be 
 somebody that'd take us out, wan by wan, 
 an' shoot us down wid a gun I " 
 
 " Heaven forbid ! " said Paul hastily ; 
 then added, "I suppose he keeps away in 
 disgust at the whole thing." 
 
 " Oh, yer honor ! " said Nan, speaking up 
 in her fresh voice, " if the Lord had kep' 
 away in disgust from all sinners, what'd ha' 
 become of the world ? " 
 
 " Nan, Nan ! " said her mother quickly 
 " yer tongue's too free." 
 
 " She's right," said Paul ; " and I think, if 
 he believed he could be of use, that Paul 
 Finiston would come here." 
 
 " Do you know him ? Are ye his frind ? " 
 cried three voices together. 
 
 " I know something of him, " said Paul. 
 
 " You do ? " cried Bid. " Oh 1 thin, I'll 
 make bould to send a word till him, if yer 
 honor'U take the charge o't." 
 
 " Willingly," said Paul : " I promise he 
 shall surely hear your message." 
 
 " First tell him to come, for the love o' 
 God an' the poor. It would rise cratures' 
 hearts to hear a bit o' a promise, from him, 
 an' he might stop some harm, an' do many's 
 the good turn. An' thin, if that doesn't 
 touch, just tell him that if he doesn't come 
 soon there'll be a poor fool body put stannin' 
 in his shoes 1 " 
 
 "HowV" asked Paul. "Who is 
 that ? " . 
 
 " Yondher I " said Bid, pointing to Con, 
 who had fallen sound asleep on the heather 
 at Nan's feet. 
 
 " Tell me what you mean 1 " said Paul. 
 
 " There's wan Tibbie, an' she calls hersel' 
 Misther Fiuiston's housekeeper, an' she 
 lives there an' houlds the grip o' him ; an' 
 she says she's Con's aunt. An' she gives 
 out that her sisther, Con's mother, was 
 married on Simon's brother ; an' she calls 
 Con the heir of Tobereevil. An' there's 
 a lawyer comes here, the agint — may the 
 curse o' the counthry " — 
 
 " Stop, Bid ! " cried the house-mother. 
 
 " Ay, sure I " said Bid, " I needn't sm 
 my soul on him. God forgive him, an' me 1 " 
 
 " Go on, please," said Paul. 
 
 " Well, this lawyer knows the way o' 
 makin' wills ; an' some fine mornin' Simon'll 
 die, lavin' all he has to Con : and Tibbie 
 and the lawyer'll have Tobereevil betune 
 them. What would Paul Finiston say to 
 that, yer honor ? " 
 
 Paul had turned pale. "I think," said 
 he, " that, if he wouldn't come for the first 
 
BID AND THE HOUSB-MOTHEE. 
 
 45 
 
 part of your message, he would not for the 
 second." 
 
 " But, don't ye see, it's the same thing V " 
 cried the house-mother passionately. " 
 Lord I what way will it be wid the people 
 in this counthry at all ? " 
 
 " I did not say be would not come,'' said 
 ■Paul gently. 
 
 It was now dark, with that clear darkness 
 of the mountain world on a summer's niijht. 
 
 The moon came floating up from the lower 
 world, swimming in faint gold through the 
 black-purple atmosphere. The party broke 
 up ; and the various figures moved about 
 like pleasant shadows in the luminous 
 twilight. The firelight began to glow 
 through the cabin doorway. Counsels were 
 being held about the housing of the 'stranger, 
 the guest of the night. Tlie women spread 
 new straw in an out-house, where they all 
 meant to sleep, leaving the cabin to his 
 honor. Paul frustrated their intentions, 
 however, by taking possession of the out> 
 house with Con for a companion. Soon all 
 was silent on the mountam-side. Paul slept 
 soundly on his bed of straw. Once during 
 the night he awoke. Through a breach in 
 the wall he could see the moon still hover- 
 ing over the hills. In her wake he saw a 
 face floating, — May's face, with that look 
 which it had worn as she clasped her black 
 cross. 
 
 " What a coward I have been ! " he said. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 MRS. LEE INSISTS UPON TELLING HER 
 STORY. 
 
 Mat soon found herself domesticated 
 pleasantly enough with the inmates of the 
 Castle of Camlough. Just at first she felt 
 somewhat oppressed by attentions : from 
 Lady Archbold, who prided herself on being 
 an excellent hostess ; irom Sir John, who 
 was desirous that his special guest should 
 not find herself neglected ; from Mrs. Lee, 
 who looked upon this girl as a windfall 
 which fate had sent to herself; from Kath- 
 erine, who was resolved to dazzle and to 
 patronize ; and from Christopher, who was 
 but bent upon pleasing his love. May 
 accepted the treatment as quietly as though 
 she had been used to it all her life ; but once 
 or twice she got tired of being asked if she 
 were sure she would rather go out than 
 remain in-doors, if she were quite sure she 
 would not like this chair better than that 
 sofa, and if she were very sure indeed that 
 
 she would not prefer another game of chess 
 before going to bed. It crossed her mind 
 that things were pleasanter at home, at 
 Monasterlea, where people came and went 
 as they liked, without questioning or cere- 
 mony. Very soon, however, she fitted her- 
 self to the place ; and the people got used 
 to her, and gave her peace. 
 
 Mrs. Lee had taken possession of May as 
 her own property since their first meeting 
 on the mountain. She had chosen her a 
 place by her own side at the dinner-table, 
 chiefly addressed her conversation to her, 
 and after dinner, until the moment when 
 she, Mrs. Lee, fell asleep in her easy-chair, 
 related to her the principal events of her 
 life. Mrs. Lee in the drawing-room was 
 not so alarming a person as Mrs. Lee lost 
 on the heather ; but, in a brown-velvet robe 
 and scarlet tiurban, she looked sufficiently 
 imposing. Her sad looks at her son, and 
 her bitter looks at Katherine, caused much 
 amusement to May, who did not pity her 
 in the least. If a mother could not be con- 
 tent with a bride like Miss Archbold for her 
 son, why a mother ought not to be encour- 
 aged in her folly. 
 
 Some days passed before the storm of 
 Mrs. Lee's full confidence broke, as had 
 been threatened, upon May's devoted head. 
 She had several times seen it coming, but 
 had taken timely shelter under the wing of 
 some third person. Mrs. Lee required 
 leisure and privacy for her story ; and though 
 the people of the house could hardly be 
 said to do any thing all day, nor yet to be 
 particularly sociable, still, in their habits 
 within doors, there was little privacy or 
 leisure at Camlough. May was invited to 
 join the lovers in all their walks and rides, 
 and it often fell to her share to feel herself 
 one too many. She learned a trick of letting 
 her horse lag behind the others, and of losing 
 herself in the dingles in quest of wild straw- 
 berries. Sometimes Sir John Archbold 
 made a fourth in the rides, and paid her old- 
 fashioned compliments, and told her of the 
 new improvements which he meant to make 
 about the place, — a rustic bridge here, a 
 plantation there ; and May cheerfully stud- 
 ied the points of view, and faithfully gave 
 him her opinion on these matters. But 
 quite as often she was entirely left to her 
 own reflections. This did not trouble her ; 
 for she had a vast love of beauty, and a turn 
 for noting character ; and the new images 
 that crowded her own mind made a constant 
 entertainment for her from morning till 
 night. The lovers were an unfailing source 
 of delight to her. Her heart leaned towards 
 them in quite a motherly fashion. She had 
 read about lovers, but she had never beheld 
 
46 
 
 THE WICKED WOODS OF TOBEEEEVIL. 
 
 a real pair before. She followed in their 
 •wake, admiring, in her simplicity, what she 
 conceived to be an example of the greatest 
 happiness of life. She spent long, dreamy 
 days, thinking over the matter, down among 
 the lilies and sedges under the bridge, or 
 wandering through mazy and shimmering 
 dingles. The world was very glorious, 
 thought May, in her maiden meditation ; and 
 human life was very beautiful, and richly 
 blest. 
 
 Mrs. Lee and May and Katherine were 
 all lodged in the same wing of the castle, 
 and their windows all opened upon a great 
 balcony. May was rather afraid to trust 
 herself on the balcony alone, lest Mrs. Lee 
 should loom forth and take possession of her. 
 Mrs. Lee had a handsome sitting-room ofl' 
 her bedroom, and it often pleased her to 
 spend the day in its solitude. May, a less 
 important person, had only a pretty little 
 dressing-room, furnished with writing-table, 
 books, and pictures ; but she, too, liked to 
 spend an hour in her retreat. This sitting- 
 room and this dressing-room adjoined one 
 another, the wall between being but a par- 
 tition. When Mrs. Lee heard May stirring 
 in her nest, she was apt to leave her own 
 and come knocking at May's door. When 
 May heard Mrs. Lee leave her room, she 
 was apt to fly to the balcony, and thence 
 escape to the gardens. Upon the strength 
 of many disappointments Mrs. Lee built a 
 theory that the dressing-room was haunted. 
 "My dear ma'am," she would confide to 
 May, " I heard some one move in it quite 
 - plainly ; but when I entered there was no- 
 body to be seen I " And May would answer 
 slyly, "Lideed, madam, I don't believe it 
 is haunted by any thing more mischievous 
 than myself I " 
 
 This was all very well ; and, for a time, she 
 kept the ponderous lady at a distance. The 
 hour of her defeat was at hand, however ; 
 and one night she heard Mrs. Lee's gentle 
 knock upon her bedroom door. For a mo- 
 ment May thought of making no answer, 
 and pretending to be asleep ; but " it would 
 be quite useless," she decided the next mo- 
 ment, " for she would come in and wake me, 
 I believe." 
 
 " Mrs. Lee, I am just stepping into bed," 
 was her answer. It was certainly true ; for 
 she had put out her light, and, stood in her 
 night-ilress, in the moonlight, in the middle 
 of the floor. 
 
 " My dear Miss May," came back to her 
 through the keyhole, "j'ou will not object 
 to an old woman's sitting at your bedside 
 for an hour ? " 
 
 May saw tliHt she was conquered. She 
 opened her door, and retreated to her bed, 
 
 where Mrs. Lee followed her, and sat down 
 before her like a nightmare. Mrs. Lee had 
 on a large white nightcap, and even the 
 moonlight had no power to make her look 
 like a spirit of night or mysterious angel 
 visitant. 
 
 " My dear," began Mrs. Lee, " I should 
 not torment you with my complaints if I had 
 any one else to go to for sympathy." 
 
 This was said in an accent of such real 
 sadness that May gave up her impatience, 
 and became attentive. 
 
 " I'm very sorry if you are in trouble, 
 Mrs. Lee," she said. 
 
 " Thank you, my dear," said Mrs. Lee, 
 " and truly I am in sore trouble. Love has 
 always been a mischief-maker, they say, but 
 young men used sometimes to take advice 
 from their mothers. My son used, but now 
 he will not listen to a word that I speak. 
 My dear, I want you to say a few words to 
 the lady." 
 
 In the earnestness of Mrs. Lee's affliction 
 she had forgotten the formality of her usual 
 style of address. May's patience, however, 
 was not proof against this speech. She sat 
 up and spoke out her mind. 
 
 " Now, Mrs. Lee, I should like to show 
 respect to all you say ; but I find it very 
 hard to pity what you seem to feel. I think 
 nothing could be more fitting than the 
 match; and as for your son, I think Miss 
 Archbold only too good for him, if there be 
 any difference between them." 
 
 "That's what she thinks herself, I dare 
 say," said Mrs. Lee, beginning to weep ; 
 " and I do declare I believe there is no kind- 
 heartedness left among young women now- 
 a-days ; but if she does think so, why does 
 she not tell him so, and send him away ? " 
 
 " Send him away ! " echoed May : "I don't 
 understand you at all, Mrs. Lee." 
 
 " I see that plain enough, my dear, and I 
 will tell you all about it. You think that 
 Miss Archbold i.s going to marry my son ? " 
 
 " Of course I think so," said May. 
 "What else could I think?" 
 
 " What else, indeed ? But she is not go- 
 ing to marry him, and she is going to ruin 
 him for life." 
 
 " Oh, no ! I could not believe it." 
 
 " That will not alter the matter at all," 
 said Mrs. Lee crossly. 
 
 " That is true ; but I mean — you know, 
 even were she capable " — May paused. 
 " In that case, Mrs. Lee, she would not be 
 worth thinking of. Your son would not be 
 ruined for life, I dare say." 
 
 "You know nothing about the matter 
 when you say so," retorted the distressed 
 lady. "My dear ma'am, I came here to 
 tell you the whole story. I suppose you 
 
MRS. LEE INSISTS UPON TELLING HEE STORY. 
 
 47 
 
 have heard my son spoken of as a man of 
 ■wealth ? " 
 
 May admitted that she had heard him 
 so spoken of 
 
 '• Well," said Mrs. Lee grimly, " I have 
 three hundred a year whicli my husband 
 left me. It was all he had to leave. And 
 he said, ' The child is a boy, let him work.' " 
 
 May was 'silent, not daring to ask if upon 
 the reversion of his mother's three hundred 
 pounds a year rested Christopher's sole 
 claim to be considered a man of wealth. 
 
 " And so he should have been brought 
 up to work, and he would have worked," 
 went on Mrs. Lee, " if I had not had a 
 brother who was a rich bachelor. He was 
 an old man, and all his great wealth had 
 never made him happy. He had been al- 
 ways called a woman-hater ; but when he 
 was dying he sent for me, and he made me 
 some confessions about his views of life. 
 He said he believed a single life led to all 
 sorts of folly and wickedness, and that he 
 had been a miserable man because he had 
 been so lonely. He had willed all his for- 
 tune to my son, on condition that he should 
 marry beibre he was twenty-three. ' If a 
 young man has any good in him,' said he, 
 ' he has always fallen in love with some 
 nice girl before that age. Let him marry 
 her at once, and not wait till he has begun 
 to think that she is not as handsome, or as 
 clever, or as angelically tempered as he 
 would like her to be. Most young men are 
 prevented by want of money. He shall 
 not be so prevented.' In this humor my 
 brother made his will ; and so, my dear 
 ma'am, it happens that if Christopher be a 
 married man before the last day of next 
 Septeaiber, he will be richer than most 
 men in the kingdom. If he be not married 
 by that time he will be poorer than any 
 other poor young man by just this much, 
 that he will not know ho.v to work." 
 
 " And this is July," said May : " they 
 ought to be getting ready for the wedding." 
 
 " There will be no wedding here," said 
 the troubled lady. 
 
 " Oh, Mrs. Lee ! " 
 
 " There is no_ wedding thought of, ex- 
 cept in my son's poor bedazzled brains. I 
 told you before, that it was this girl's 
 amusement to lead him on to his ruin; 
 and I tell you so again." 
 
 " But does she know the circumstances, 
 as you have told them to me V " 
 
 " I told them to her myself seven or 
 eight months ago. She only laughed, and 
 said the old gentleman had made an ex- 
 ceedifigly awkward arrangement." 
 
 " Pevliaps she does not like to be tor- 
 mented about the matter. She may choose 
 
 to be a little mischievous ; but I will not 
 believe that she can be so wicked as you 
 think. " ■ 
 
 " You don't know her as I know her. 
 You have not seen her with other lovers 
 around her, my dear. She was the centre 
 of a crowd of them when we met her first ; 
 and she turned them off one by one, and 
 seemed to delight in their vexation. At 
 that time I thought Christopher would have 
 married a sweet little girl, the daughter of 
 his tutor in England. She was fond of liim, 
 I am sure ; and though she had not a penny, 
 he need not care for that : but this Kath- 
 erine put her clear out of his head." 
 
 " Would it not be well to appeal to her 
 father and mother ? " said May, now 
 throughly roused to comprehend the situa- 
 tion, and feel interested in averting this 
 threatened danger^ 
 
 " I tried that before, " said Mrs. Lee 
 gloomily, " but I might have saved my pains. 
 I believe they are afraid to interfere with 
 the girl. They declared politely that they 
 never could think of influencing their 
 daughter's affections. As if I wanted them 
 to do so ! I asked for nothing but that she 
 should make up her mind." 
 
 May began to share in the poor lady's 
 dismay. 
 
 " So then I should have left this place in 
 anger, " said Mrs. Lee, " only for fear of 
 making a quarrel, and destroying any hope 
 that might be left. If the lady would marry 
 my son I should be thankful, though, indeed, 
 I do not like her. My poor boy loves her, 
 and, at all events, his fortune would be 
 secured ; but if she turns him away now, at 
 the last moment, when he finds himself 
 ruined and disappointed, he will fall into a 
 despair which she with her light ways could 
 scarcely even dreani of And things are no 
 better to-day than thefy were weeks ago." 
 
 This conversation went on for some time 
 longer ; and, during the course of it, much of 
 the heaviness and unsightliness of Mrs. 
 Lee's outlines became softened away, and 
 was never after visible to May's pitying 
 eyes. These two new friends parted at last 
 with an understanding that May should, if 
 opportunity offered, make interest tor Chris- 
 topher, and plead his cause \vith Katherine ; 
 and, after Mrs. Lee had gone away. May 
 lay a long time still awake, wondering over 
 the iniquity that had just been made known 
 to her. She found it in the end too mon- 
 strous to be believed in. 
 
 Before she went to sleep she had per- 
 suaded herself that Katherine must come 
 forth, triumphant in honesty, from under 
 the cloud of this suspicion which was at 
 present hanging over her. 
 
48 
 
 THE "WICKED WOODS OF TOBEEEBVIL. 
 
 CHAPTER XVn. 
 
 KATHERINE SPEAKS HER MIND. 
 
 It was not long before May had an oppor- 
 tunity of learning Katherine's sentiments 
 towards Christopher, as well as towards 
 some other people and things. 
 
 One morning she was entertaining her- 
 self after her own fashion, alone, in the 
 dingle beyond the rustic bridge over the 
 stream. She was sitting in the shelter of a 
 large oak, stringing the ripe rowan-berries 
 into a long sp.arlet chain. So occupied she 
 heard a rapid step, and a muttering voice 
 coming over the little bridge, a crunching 
 in the underwood close by, and then some 
 one fell prone upon the moss at the foot of 
 her tree, — the other side of the tree at 
 which she was sitting. This was Christopher 
 Lee, in deep distress. He had broken the 
 stately, fan-shaped ferns by the recklessness 
 with which he had flung himself down. 
 His face was buried in the grass, and he 
 was sobbing ; and May could not move to 
 go away and leave him, for the reason that 
 he was lying upon her muslin skirt. She 
 tried to draw it away without disturbing 
 him, but this was impossible. He started 
 at the movement, and looked up. 
 
 " O Mr. Lee, I am so sorry I " said May : 
 " I could not help being here ! " 
 
 He looked at her angrily for a moment, 
 with a burning blush on his perturbed face ; 
 then he laughed uncomfortably, and begged 
 her pardon. 
 
 " I see I have spoiled your dress," he 
 said, " but of course I did not do it inten- 
 tionally. Of course, if I had seen you I 
 should not have come here." 
 
 " It was very unlucky," said May, " at 
 least if you mind it ; but my dress has got 
 no harm." 
 
 " Mind it ? " he said. " Of course I mind 
 that you should have caught me lamenting, 
 like a woman ; but I trust myself to your 
 charity : and, believe me, I have reason for 
 grief. At least I think I have," he added 
 slowly, passing his hand over his face. " I 
 may be foolishly wrong ; and, if so, I will 
 come and tell you, some day sOon, of my 
 happiness. I dare not describe to you what 
 that happiness would be like ; but I think 
 that 1 have reason for grief" 
 
 " I hope with all my heart that you are 
 wrong," said May, " and that you may get 
 your happiness. If you aon't " — 
 
 "Well, if I don't?" 
 
 " I was going to say something which I 
 had better not say," said May. " You 
 would perhaps think me impertinent and 
 interferinsr." 
 
 "Perhaps I should," said Christopher, 
 reflecting, " and that would be unfair. I 
 will not ask you to say another word. 
 Good-morning, Miss Mourne : I am going a 
 little further down the stream to fish." 
 
 And so he walked off, forgetting that, in 
 order to fish, it is necessary to have a rod 
 or some other apparatus for the purpose ; 
 but May was a gentle critic, and would not 
 have laughed at him for the world. 
 
 After that May dropped her brilliant 
 chain from the bridge, and watched it fly- 
 ing down the stream ; then ' she turned 
 away, and walked up the hilly garden 
 towards the castle. Katherine was leaning 
 over the balcony, alone. She had been 
 looking down towards the dingle, and could 
 see a long way. May mounted the bal- 
 cony, and approached her, seeing that, as 
 she drew near, Katherine looked expectant, 
 and ready for conversation. This was 
 unusual, but it was what May desired. She 
 was too much disturbed by the mistakes of 
 her neighbors to be at peace with her own 
 thoughts. She was full of indignation 
 against somebody. Who that somebody 
 might be it behooved her to find out, that 
 she might not in the zeal of her fancy make 
 a martyr of the innocent. 
 
 " Stay here a little," said Katherine 
 winningly, as May hesitated, not knowing 
 whether to pass her or remain unbidden at 
 her side ; and May seated herself on the 
 edge" of the balcony, leaning back against 
 an urn full of geraniums, folded her hands 
 in her lap, and expected to be catechised. 
 
 " You have been walking with Mr. Lee ? " 
 said Katherine, not rudely, but with the air 
 of one who considered she had a right to 
 ask questions : " where have you left him ? " 
 
 " He. said he would go farther up the 
 river to fish," said May demurely. 
 
 " Oh I " Katherine looked surprised and 
 a little disappointed. She had perhaps 
 expected some pitiful tale of her lover's 
 desperation. 
 
 " You were walking with him soine 
 time V " she asked again, after a minute, 
 during which she had been eying May, 
 who sat with her dark head against the 
 geraniums, her eyes half shut, gazing 
 drowsily down through the sunshine to the 
 river, the way by which Christopher had 
 gone. 
 
 " Not walking," said May ; " sitting and 
 standing." 
 
 " Oh I " said i Katherine impatiently, 
 " and talking, of course. He was com- 
 plaining to you of me all the time ? " 
 
 " No," said May mischievously : " we 
 never even mentioned your name." 
 
 " I am glad to hear it, I am sure," said 
 
KATHEEINE SPEAKS HEE MIND. 
 
 49 
 
 Katherine, ■with a mortified smile ; " but 
 I had thought it might be otherwise, know- 
 ing his habit. He is a dreadfully low-spir- 
 ited youncr man. T am tired to death of 
 him. I wish they would go away." 
 
 " Then, why do you not tell him so, and 
 send him away at once ? " asked May, rous- 
 ing up so suddenly, and speaking^ with such 
 energy that she quite startled Katherine. 
 " You know, — you know it is you who 
 keep him here." 
 
 Mmj trembled as she spoke, believing 
 that Katherine would think her interfer- 
 ence quite outrageous ; but Katherine's 
 uneasiness all vanished at the attack. 
 Her face kindled with smiles. 
 
 " My dear little girl," she said indulgent- 
 ly) " you don't know what you are saying. 
 Lovers will not be shaken off so easily. I 
 speak from much experience. While you, 
 — you have never had a lover, have you ? " 
 said she, looking at May keenly. 
 
 " No, indeed 1 " said May hastily, and 
 blushing a vivid blush, that wandered from 
 her cheeks to her forehead, creeping up 
 even among the little rings of her hair. 
 She felt vexed with herself for blushing ; for 
 she knew of no reason why the question 
 should annoy her : and there was Kathe- 
 rinelooking on with amused curiosity. 
 
 " How red you turn ! " said Katherine, 
 who had never blushed, save with anger, in 
 her life ; " but you need not be ashamed. 
 It is no , reproach at all, living out of the 
 world as you do." 
 
 " I am not ashamed," said May, " and I do 
 not wish for a lover ; but I think I can 
 understand how a man ought to be treated 
 by a woman whom he loves, — ; for whom he 
 is willing to give up every thing in the 
 world." 
 
 " Do you, indeed ? So you have studied 
 the matter. Come now, tell me all about 
 it," said Katherine, looking delighted. 
 
 '' He ought not to be encouraged, and 
 then left to break his heart," said May, with 
 another subtle quiver of excitement dyeing 
 her cheeks. " Even if" — 
 
 " Even if what ? " asked Katherine. 
 
 " Miss Archbold, I am afraid I shall make 
 you very angry." 
 
 " No such thing,'' said Katherine. " I 
 am accustomed to hear dirges about broken 
 hearts. You are not such an original per- 
 son as you think ; and your enthusiasm 
 about lovers' rights is exceedingly amusing. 
 Go on with that speech which you were 
 afraid would overwhelm me." 
 
 " I was going to say your conduct would 
 be cruel to Mr. Lee, even if his fortune as 
 well as his happiness were not so entirely 
 at your mercy." 
 
 " So you have picked out that story al- 
 ready," said Katherine, looking right well 
 pleased. 
 
 " I picked out nothing," said May indig- 
 nantly. 
 
 " Well, let that be : we cannot help the 
 truth getting about ; but, my rustic maiden, 
 how am I to blame if people' will make a 
 mess of their family arrangements ? If a 
 man chooses to lose a fortune for my sake, 
 how am I to prevent his being so silly ? If 
 I had been his mother, I should have brought 
 him up better. The world will talk about 
 it, and call me a monster ; but they ought 
 rather to cry out on him for a fool. As for 
 encouragement, how am I to judge of a 
 lover, unless 1 have proper time ? People 
 ought to be capable of taking care of their 
 own affairs ; if a person sees a risk, why not 
 turn upon his heel, and go another way ? 
 Now, if a man were to show spirit, and 
 prove manfully rebellious " — 
 
 " Well," asked May, " what would hap- 
 pen then ? " 
 
 " Why, then, I should think him worth a 
 little pains. I have no mercy on a fool." 
 
 " Poor Mr. Lee ! " said May. " And 
 have all your lovers been fools. Miss Arch- 
 bold ? " 
 
 " All," said Katherine, " or at least I 
 have found it easy to make them fools for 
 the time." Katherine had warmed won- 
 derfully with her subject as she went on : 
 it was evidently one upon which she loved 
 to discourse. " There is just one person," 
 she continued, " whom I have thought 
 worth an effort ; for whose sake I could ac- 
 knowledge that my heart is not made of 
 flint. While such a one lives," here her 
 lip curled, " I have no pity for such simple- 
 tons as Christopher Lee ! " 
 
 Have yon told Mr. Lee of the existence 
 of this person ? " asked May gravely, after 
 some rueful reflections upon Christopher's 
 hard fate. 
 
 Katherine laughed gayly. " You amus- 
 ing little goody ! " she said blithely, " do 
 you think that I, also, am a fool ? I have 
 been frank enough with you ; but you don't 
 suppose it is my habit to carry my heart 
 upon my sleeve V " 
 
 " Was this person rebellious ? " asked 
 May, rushing into another question to avoid 
 the opportunity of ■ declaring what she 
 thought about Miss Archbold, and her ha- 
 bitual line of conduct. 
 
 " Not quite,-" said Katherine, with an 
 air of mystery ; " but he looked as if he 
 could be. You will see him, 1 have no 
 doubt, by and by." Here the young lady 
 suddenly became thoroughly confidential. 
 
 " The first time we met was on board 
 
50 
 
 THE "WICKED- "WOODS OF TOBEBEEVIL. 
 
 ship, when we were returning from our 
 travels, quite a short time ago. We were 
 coming from Calais to Dover ; and there 
 was a storm, and people were frightened. 
 Everybody behaved badly, including 
 mamma and papa, who were both ill. 
 He took care of us all ; and, as I had fully 
 expected, he made himself my devoted 
 attendant. Towards the end of the pas- 
 sage the wind fell, and all the stars came 
 out. Nothing could be more favorable to 
 a romantic impression, and we had some 
 hours of charming conversation. Mamma 
 
 £ave him our cards, and he came to us in 
 rondon. There is no doubt that we shall 
 see him here soon : he belongs to this coun- 
 try, and his history is quite interesting. 
 He has been some years abroad, and is 
 coming to visit his inheritance for the first 
 time. He was reserved about himself, but 
 we heard all his story from a friend of his 
 father's. Mamma does not quite approve 
 of him ; for the old man may live a long 
 time, and is not very reputable. Still, 
 he must die ; and the nephew will be quite 
 a millionnaire." 
 
 " Who is this gentleman ? " asked May 
 suddenly. " What is his name ? " 
 
 " Did I not mention ? I thought you 
 linew. He is Paul Finiston, handsome 
 and proud ; and they say he is a poet. One 
 could see it in his eyes that night on board 
 the ship. He had a way of folding his 
 arms, and seeming to forget every thing and 
 everybody, himself as well as the rest. 
 This was, of course, when the danger was 
 over, and there was nothing more to be 
 dqne. It piqued my vanity at first ; but I 
 soon saw that, though a gentleman indeed, 
 it was evident that he had not been accus- 
 tomed to the ways of polite society. It is 
 little things like this that made me say he 
 might be inclined, to be rebellious ; but 
 dear me. Miss Mourne, how white you are 
 grown 1 " 
 
 " Am I ? " said May ; " never mind 
 Tell me something more about Paul Finis 
 ton." 
 
 " Do you know him ?" asked Katherine 
 sharply. 
 
 " I cannot say that," said Mayj " for I left 
 my Paul Finiston in Dublin a great many 
 years ago. I have no acquaintance with 
 your admirer. Miss Archbold." 
 
 " Your Paul Finiston ? " said Katherine, 
 with a sudden elevation of her handsome 
 chin. 
 
 " Forgive me if I speak awkwardly," 
 said May. " I mean the Paul Finiston 
 with whom I had some acquaintance." 
 
 This was said with dignity, and Kathe- 
 
 rine was at a loss how fitly to express her 
 displeasure; but, fitly or unfitly, her sense 
 of May's audacity must be made known to 
 the ofiender. 
 
 '" And with whom you hope to renew 
 your acquaintance," she said bluntly, and 
 with a look and a tone that made May 
 again turn pale. 
 
 " Do not speak to me like that," said the 
 young girl quickly. " I shall be glad if 
 you will talk upon some other sdbject." 
 
 " But I will not drop the subject," said 
 Katherine stormily, her eyes beginning to 
 burn, and her face to grow dark. " I will 
 not quit it till we understand each other 
 perfectly. You have drawn from me a 
 confidence." 
 
 " Pardon ! " said May. " You volun- 
 teered it." 
 
 " I repeat that you drew it from me," said 
 Katherine, " with your sentimental looks 
 and your sympathetic speeches about lovers. 
 Now I may as well go farther ; and I warn 
 you not to meddle between me and Paul 
 Finiston ! " 
 
 " I ? " exclaimed May, springing to her 
 feet, and standing a little off from Kather- 
 ine, straight and quivering as a very shaft 
 of fire. 
 
 "Yes, you," said Katherine. "You 
 have thought of him as a lover. I saw it 
 in your face when I first mentioned his 
 name. ' 
 
 " It is false," said May, in a low thrilling 
 voice. " How dare you accuse me ? — you, 
 who know ijothing of me 1 " 
 
 But Katherine was not softened by the 
 sight of May's honest indignation as she 
 stood panting before her, her eyes like dark 
 flames, her cheeks redder than the reddest 
 roses round about. 
 
 " Your enthusiastic modesty is very 
 pretty," sneered Katherine ; " but I am not 
 deceived by it. I see that you " — 
 
 But here May suddenly put her fingers 
 in her ears with a childish impulse of im- 
 patience. Katherine stood speechless at 
 finding herself treated with such utter dis- 
 respect ; and, before she could find words 
 to express her sense of the indignity. May 
 had turned away, and fled through the 
 window into her room. 
 
 " But I will not be treated so I " cried - 
 Katherine at the window. " Come out, 
 Miss Mourne, for I have not done speaking 
 to you. Or else I shall go in " — 
 
 But in the twinkling of an eye the win- 
 dow was locked inside, the shutters closed 
 and barred ; and May, having thus ended 
 the battle, sat down upon the floor in the 
 dark, and had a hearty cry. 
 
MAY IS PROMISED A TITLE. 
 
 51 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 MAT IS PROMISED A TITLE. 
 
 The two girls did not meet again till 
 evening ; and Katherine was then so gentle 
 that May could scarcely believe she had 
 not dreamed all the scene which had hap- 
 pened in the morning. Katherine and 
 Christopher seemed exceedingly good 
 friends, Mr. Lee looking feverishly happy, 
 and Katherine pensive, with a tenderness 
 of manner which was wont to be shed about 
 her freely in her most fascinating moods. 
 May devoted herself to Mrs. Lee, that lady 
 showing a sense of comfort from her sym- 
 pathy, which was touching to the young 
 champion of a motherly heart. The even- 
 ing was tedious ; and May was thinking 
 that she must request Lady ArcUbold to 
 send her home to Monasterlea ; but at bed- 
 time Katherine came to her in her room. 
 
 " I have come to ask pardon ibr my rude- 
 ness of the morning," she said. " You 
 must not believe- a word I said. It was only 
 one of my freaks. Now, don't think of go- 
 ing, or I shall say you cannot forgive. I 
 am an insulting wretch, when my temper 
 gets the better of me." 
 
 And Katherine sighed, and looked splen- 
 didly regretful. 
 
 " Never mind me," said May : " what 
 about Mr. Lee ? " 
 
 " I told you not to believe any thing I 
 said to-day. You may safely trust Chris- 
 topher and his happiness to myself." 
 
 May looked up out of the trunk which 
 she had been persistently packing. Kath- 
 erine met the questioning eyes, .and there 
 was a reservation in her tone which con- 
 veyed more than the words might imply. 
 May tossed back a dress into her wardrobe. 
 
 " Oh ! if you are in earnest now," she 
 said, " I will do any thing you like. But 
 how am I to know when , you are in ear- 
 nest V " 
 
 Katherine turned aside, and smiled curi- 
 ously. Might she not as well let this little 
 fool go home V She had a serene contempt 
 for her, but could understand that some 
 people might like her tor her innocence. 
 
 " Believe that 1 am in earnest when I 
 tell you so,'' she said. " Never believe me 
 when I am in a passion." 
 
 " So now it is Paul Finiston who must 
 suffer," said May ; " but is he really coming 
 home, and does he love you ? or was that 
 a story too ? " 
 
 Katherine shrugged her shoulders, and 
 looked mysterious. 
 
 " We cannot help these things happen- 
 
 ing," she said. " Don't you think that it is 
 likely to be true ? " 
 
 May surveyed the beauty ruefully, and 
 acknowledged to herself that it was likely 
 to be true. Katherine watched the changes 
 of her face for some moments with interest, 
 and then began to talk quickly in her most 
 lively manner. 
 
 " Come, let us be comfortable,'' she said. 
 " Shut up the trunks, and don't look at 
 them for another month. We are going to 
 have visitors, and I intend that you shall 
 charm them. You must not be offended if 
 I give you some lessons on your appearance. 
 You must know that your style of dressing 
 makes a fright of you. Now, don't look 
 dismayed, for we will change all that. Wo- 
 men ought to take a pleasure in making 
 themselves attractive. Your hair in a bet- 
 ter style, and a little pearl powder upon 
 your face ; you blush too much, and a bright 
 color' is very vulgar ; but you must not think 
 that I mean to discourage you. On the 
 contrary, I will turn you out quite pretty if 
 you will let me. Only put yourself in my 
 hands, and I promise you shall have a title 
 before a year is past." 
 
 May Jistened in silence, glowing with the 
 condemned blush, at the sudden revelation 
 that she had been found so unpleasing. 
 The startling promise with which Kathe- 
 rine finished her speech had not the desired 
 effect in elating her spirits. 
 
 " But I do not want a title," she said 
 slowly, " and — and " — She was well 
 aware that Katherine was a skilful artist of 
 the toilet. " I like a clean face, and I in- 
 tend always to have one. If I am ugly as 
 God made me, then I choose to remain 
 ugly." 
 
 " Who said you were ugly ? Not I, I am 
 sure ; but you are an obstinate, old-fash- 
 ioned little goody, and I don't mind telling 
 you so to your face. The world has gone 
 round a few times since your respected 
 Aunt Martha learned those very prim no- 
 tions which she has so faithfully handed 
 down to you : what in her day was propri- 
 ety is now mere affectation. However, 
 promise that you will stay with me, and I 
 shall see about your conversion at my lei- 
 sure." 
 
 " I don't mind staying," said May, " since 
 you wish it so much ; but I mean to keep to 
 my own way of thinking all the time." 
 
 So Katherine had her way ; but her plan 
 was nevertheless not to be fulfilled. 
 
 The next morning May was up early and 
 abroad among the flower-gardens. She had 
 got a letter from home which should have 
 been given to her last night. Aunt Mar- 
 tha bade her return without delay. " Paul 
 
52 
 
 THE "WICKED WOODS OP TOBEEEEVIL. 
 
 has arrived," wrote the old lady, " and he 
 wants to see you. At any rate, it is time 
 for you to come home." 
 
 May was not so much astonished at the 
 news as she would have been but for that 
 unpleasant conversation with Miss Arch- 
 bold. So he was already come to seek 
 Katherine ; and Katherine, if she had truth 
 in her, ought to be wed to Mr. Lee within 
 a month. What could be done for Paul, 
 the good-natured boy who had been so kind 
 to her in Dublin ? The Paul described by 
 Katherine had passed away from her mind, 
 becoming but one of the crowd of those fine 
 lovers of Miss Archbold, of whom May had 
 been hearing much since she had come to 
 Camlough. It was for the friend of her 
 own memory that she was sorely vexed. 
 
 Rambling in an alley, among all the dewy 
 rose-trees, she came upon Mr. Lee. He 
 seemed as wretched this morning as he had 
 looked happy last night. He was pale and 
 worn, and his dress was out of order. 
 
 " You look as if you had been up all 
 night I " said May. 
 
 " I have been up all night," said Chris- 
 topher ; " but I shall now go and dress, so 
 as to appear as if I had had my sleep like 
 other people." 
 
 " B.ut what is the matter with you now ? 
 You know that you are going to be happy. 
 I was about to congratulate you, but your 
 face does not invite me." 
 
 " You are a true-hearted girl, and may 
 the world never spoil you I I believe that 
 I have made one friend here at least." 
 
 " That is true, if you mean me," said 
 May kindly. "I would do any thing in my 
 power to help you out of your difficulty ; 
 but I have reason to believe that you will 
 be happy before long. Indeed, I speak the 
 truth. I wonder if I ought to tell you " — 
 
 " You ought to tell me every thing : I 
 have a right to know ! " cried Christopher 
 eagerly. 
 
 " Well, then, she admitted to me last 
 night that she intended " — 
 
 " Intended what ? " interrupted Christo- 
 pher. " Intended to destroy me, — to spoil 
 all my life V I saw it long ago, though I 
 strove to shut my eyes to it. It is coming 
 upon me now, and I deserve it." 
 
 " Why do you interrupt me ? " said May, 
 impatient in her turn. "I had good news 
 to give you, and it seems you will not have 
 it." 
 
 "Forgive me! but did you say good 
 news ? My head seems confused. Did 
 yon mean to say good news ? " 
 
 " I understood from her," said May, 
 " that she intends to be your wife." 
 
 " Did you ? " said Christopher joyfully. 
 
 " God bless you : you are a stanch friend. 
 What a wretch I was to doubt her ! What 
 an evil-thinking coward ! No doubt she 
 has a right to be capricious if she pleases. 
 A girl like that does not readily throw 
 herself away ; but when once she makes up 
 her mind she is true as steel. I will not 
 say what thoughts were in my mind when 
 I met you ; but think what a ruined crea- 
 ture I behold myself both in heart and in for- 
 tune, in my whole life's career, when I 
 fancy she may be false ! I deserve to suffer 
 well for letting a doubt come near my mind. 
 You will forgive my disorder, and I will go 
 and trim myself After the night I have 
 passed I must appear like a savage." 
 
 " And you will tell me of your happiness 
 when it is fully secured ? " said May, as 
 they parted ; and she watched him stride 
 away, big and glad, towards the house. 
 Your six-feet men have not always giant 
 intellects, but they often carry very tender 
 hearts. 
 
 May did not tell Katherine the chief news 
 of her aunt's letter. She could not speak 
 again to Miss Archbold about Paul : she 
 only made known her aunt's wish that she 
 should go home ; and, after no little difficul- 
 ty, she was suffered to depart. 
 
 How small and odd her home looked 
 after Camlough, and how wholesome Aunt 
 Martha, in her clear-starched kerchief and 
 fair white cap ! Paul was coming in the 
 evening. He had taken up his quarters in 
 a farmer's house a couple, of miles away. 
 As May took off her bonnet at her own 
 little dressing-table, she saw her face look- 
 ing charmingly brightened up. In spite of 
 KaLherine's judgment, she was not quite a 
 fright. What a glorious thing was joy 
 which could thus burnish people's looks I 
 She dared not look long enough to assure 
 herself that beauty had actually taken 
 possession of her face. Katherine had told 
 her that it was all mock-modesty for a 
 young woman not to think of her appear- 
 ance ; but Katherine lived in the world. 
 Fine ladies had, perhaps, little time for 
 self-respect ; but people who were not fash- 
 ionable had a great deal of leisure to per- 
 ceive when they were going wrong. 
 
 So May bustled about her room, briskly 
 putting herself and the chamber into the 
 order which her fancy approved of She 
 was wiser than she had been a month ago, 
 inasmuch as she had got a lesson in coquet- 
 ry for life : she was now going to profit by 
 the lesson. A month ago she would inno- 
 cently have dressed in her prettiest to meet 
 Paul, without thinking why she did it, or 
 that she ought not to do it ; now it could 
 not be done without taking away her ease. 
 
MAY IS PROMISED A TITLE. 
 
 63 
 
 This was not Camlough, so she need not 
 , change her dress beeause it was evening. 
 She kept on the thick white gown which 
 had been fresh at breakfast-time that morn- 
 ing : a crimson rose was already fastened in 
 the bosom, and that might stay ; nice braids 
 of hair were nothing unusual, and there 
 could not be any vanity in a pair of newly- 
 washed hands. She took her way to the 
 parlor, as on the most ordinary occasions, 
 such as the long, silent, uneventful summer 
 evenings of last year ; as if no sound were 
 going to disturb the mute monotony of the 
 hours but the click of her aunt's knitting- 
 needles, the ticking of the clock, the distant 
 piping of some cow-boy in the valley, the 
 wail of a sleepy plover shuddering in at the 
 open window, or the sound of her own 
 voice reading a chapter of Thomas a 
 Kempis aloud to Miss Martha in the 
 dusk. 
 
 A great glare had flashed over the hills, 
 and down the paths, and through the open 
 door into the hall. As May reached the 
 door, a long shadow and a quick step came 
 out of the blinding red glow, and stopped 
 at the threshold. Here, then, of course, 
 was the visitor arrived, but not the lad 
 whom May remembered. This was not 
 , May's merry friend ; but it was Katherine's 
 handsome lover, without a doubt. 
 
 " Mr. Finiston 1 " said May, giving her 
 hand. She could not say " Paul " to this 
 important-looking gentleman. 
 
 " Miss Moarne 1 " said Paul, uncovering 
 his curls. He could not say " May " to 
 this dignified-looking maiden ; but he held 
 the proffered hand as tightly as if he had 
 got at last what he had been in want of all 
 his life. And May was regarding him with 
 sympathetic curiosity, wondering if he had 
 hea,rd as yet the report' ot Katherine's ap- 
 proaching marriage, and, if so, how he was 
 bearing it. Miss Martha stepped out of 
 the parlor, where she had been setting 
 forth her dainties on the tea-table. 
 
 " So you have been walking over your 
 property all day," said she to Paul. " May, 
 you go in, and pour out the tea. I have had 
 to 'do it for myself during the past three 
 weeks. 1 have just got her home, and I 
 intend to make her work. She has been 
 living like a line lady among the magnates 
 of the land." 
 
 Paul thought she looked a fine lady in 
 the finest sense of the word ; excellently fit 
 for household work like the present, as her 
 quick hand flitted about the board, and her 
 face smiled at him and dimpled above the 
 teapot. It was nectar and not tea which 
 she handed to him in a cup. She had a 
 love-philler in her cream-ewer, this wilch- 
 
 maid of the mountains. Paul had, until 
 now, held three images in his mind ; now 
 they paled away, and became faint forever- 
 more. A little gray pelisse making pur- 
 chases in Dublin ; a maiden with outstretch- 
 ed hands upon a bridge ; a gracious young 
 gentlewoman holding parley with a peddler. 
 These three young people had been succes- 
 sively his loves : now let them vanish, for 
 their day had gone past.' They could not 
 bear comparison with this radiant tea- 
 making creature, who could not hide her 
 gladness that hijr friend had come home. 
 
 Not a word was spoken about the miser 
 of Tobereevil. Paul shirked the subject, 
 and the evening was given up to his own 
 adventures abroad. The three friends sat 
 all through the sunset, and far into the 
 dusk, while Paul poured forth his recitals, 
 and the audience drank in every word he 
 spoke. The little parlor with its queer 
 fittings seemed Paradise to the love-sick 
 and home-sick wanderer. May sat opposite 
 to him on a bench along the window. Two 
 huge jars filled with roses and sheaves of 
 lavender stood between them, making a 
 bank of scent and color across which their 
 eyes and words travelled. IMiss Martha sat 
 in her straight-backed arm-chair before the 
 two, with her hands folded in her lap, no 
 knitting being tolerable on this particular 
 evening. The window was, open to the ut- 
 most folding back of its latticed panes, and 
 the climbing roses were dipping over the 
 strong brown frame-work, and lying along 
 the lintel. As Paul told his foreign adven- 
 tures, he felt himself to be only some lucky 
 Othello, or less savage Feramorz. He 
 forgot that he was a Finiston, and the heir 
 of Tobereevil. May's eyes glowed towards 
 him through the fading light ; and he saw in 
 her an embodiment of all the fair hopes 
 that had withdrawn him from the influence 
 of his dreads and difficulties, that he might 
 sit here at this hour in delicious peace at 
 her side. He saw in her here present all 
 the beauties with which his fancy had ever 
 gifted her in absence ; besides a tender 
 paleness of cheek when thrilled by grave 
 interest, and a spiritual abstraction of the 
 eyes at times, out of which he gathered for 
 himself the assurance that she could search 
 far with him into whatever mysteries might 
 trouble him. And yet — he delighted to 
 discover — he could call back the merry 
 smiles and the laughter-loving dimples. 
 
 All these satisfactions he did not note 
 oh the moment, while he lingered in the 
 dim atmosphere of the parlor among the 
 cloisters ; but they were duly recalled and 
 gloated over as he walked home to his 
 farmhouse under the moonlight. While 
 
54 
 
 THE WICKED "WOODS OP TOBEEEBVIL. 
 
 sitting by her side, within reach of her 
 hand and the sympathy of her face, he 
 could not analyze the charm which had so 
 swiftly mastered his fancy ; her presence, 
 then, had been only the nearness of a 
 lovely and luminous soul and body, full of 
 kindred warmth and dreams ; it was 
 after he had left her that he remembered 
 the strong breadth of her brow with all its 
 girlish fairness, the deep fire in her eyes, 
 tlie sweet curves of her mouth, the tender 
 firmness of her softly-moulded chin. It 
 was then that she seemed to show herself 
 to him in the many changeful attitudes 
 that her character could assume, without 
 losing a line of strength or a curve of 
 grace. On that warm July night, Paul 
 was deeply dipped in love. He had been 
 parched in his exile, and he had brought 
 himself to drink ; but he was only the 
 more athirst after this first draught. 
 
 Miss Martha and May had walked a 
 little way with him through the field-paths 
 towards the moor. The twilight blurred 
 and blended the ghostly outlines of the 
 ruins ; and garden and graveyard were 
 wreathed together in oiie gleaming, fra- 
 grant acre. The warm wind swept over 
 the uncut grass, which had already the 
 breath of hay ; and the river glinted in the 
 hollow, under its bending rows of trees. 
 The moonlight hung like a faint silvery 
 veil along the moorland, and the lights in 
 distant farmhouses shone like will-o'-the 
 wisps in a marsh. The weird watch-note 
 of some sleepless wild-bird came floating 
 up at intervals from the meadows. Sum- 
 mer beat in every pulse of the night. 
 
 Very slowly, and with few words, the 
 three friends had sauntered along. At the 
 gate that parted the farmlands from 
 the open hills they touched hands, and 
 said good-night. 
 
 " Well, my dear, and what do you think 
 of him ? " asked Aunt Martha, as the 
 women returned homeward. 
 
 May did not answer for a few moments. 
 She was pacing a little in advance, with 
 her arms crossed on her breast, a trick she 
 had from childhood when in musing 
 humor. Two or three times her feet fell 
 on the grass as if to the rhythm of some 
 music that was solemn, but passing sweet. 
 
 " Eh, aunty ? " she said at last. " Did 
 you speak to me ? " 
 
 " I was asking you what you thought of 
 him, my dear." 
 
 " Don't ask me to-night, then,'' said 
 May, stopping suddenly, putting her hands 
 on her aunt's shoulders, and looking frank- 
 ly and smilingly in her face : " moonlight 
 makes people mad, you know, and I might 
 
 be too enthusiastic. To-morrow we shall 
 see him better as he is." 
 
 " Well, well, my love I " said Miss Mar- 
 tha, " I am not going to bother you. Let 
 us now get into bed." 
 
 But as Maywent into her bedroom she 
 thought of Katherine; and she remem- 
 bered that for some hours she had forgotten 
 to pity Paul. 
 
 CHAPTEIi XIX. 
 
 GREAT MISTAKES. 
 
 " Aunt Martha," said May the next 
 morning, "do you remember the ped- 
 dler?" 
 
 They were standing in the morning sun, 
 looking over a sweet-brier hedge, in the 
 direction of Paul's farmhouse. Paul had 
 invited himself to breakfast, and break- 
 fast was now waiting for the guest. 
 
 " Of course 1 remember the peddler," 
 said Aunt Martha, — "a most civil young 
 man, who did not know his own interests. 
 Has he turned up again ? " 
 
 " I think he has," said May. " I think 
 Paul Finiston and he are the same. That 
 is why we got our silk so cheap." 
 
 " Nonsense ! " said Miss Martha, in great 
 consternation. 
 
 At this moment Paul appeared coming 
 towards them. May had said, " To-mor- 
 row we shall see him better as he is." Now 
 she had the early glory and freshness of 
 the morning by which to criticise him ; and 
 something of that glory and that freshnesS 
 seemed reflected in the young man's bear- 
 ing as he approached. He was not qCiite 
 a six-foot man like Christopher Lee; but 
 he had a better knit frame, and was of a 
 finer build. He had in his face a look of 
 vivid, nervous life, keen in the eyes, sensi- 
 tive about the mouth, warm and impetuous 
 in the vigorous glow under the sunburnt 
 skin ; yet with all the advantages of this 
 happy moment for observation. May did 
 not seem one whit more inclined to criticise 
 than she had been the night before. 
 
 The small, dim. parlor looked sweeter 
 than ever that morning with lowered blind, 
 and open, rose-hung sash, and filled with a 
 tempered sun-haze which brooded over all 
 the little oddities and grotesquenesses of its ' 
 shape and adornments. The people at the 
 table were merrier and more familiar than 
 they had been the night before. 
 
 " Paul," said Miss Martha, " this girl 
 sometimes dreams when she is awake, just 
 
GREAT MISTAKES. 
 
 55 
 
 as some people walk about in their sleep. 
 She dreamed this morning that she had 
 seen you tramp the country as a peddler." 
 
 " I did so once," said Paul, in some con- 
 fusion. " I meant to confess it. You will 
 think it was a foolish trick to play upon my 
 friends." 
 
 The shook of Miss Martha's surprise was 
 over before now. She had been studying 
 Paul's face, and was not unprepared for 
 the confession when it came. 
 
 " It seems foolish enough, but I suppose 
 you had a motive. I knew there was some- 
 thing wrong about that silk. You remem- 
 ber. May, how uneasy I was." 
 
 " Aunt Martha thought the goods were 
 stolen," said Blay, laughing, " and that we 
 should have to go to jail." 
 
 Paul looked rather foolish, but joined in 
 the laugh. " I meant no harm," he said. 
 " It was nothing but a freak." 
 
 " Have you quite given up business ? " 
 asked May merrily. " You had a great 
 many pretty things unsold in your pack." 
 
 " The p.ack ! " said Paul, recollecting. 
 He had never thought of it since the mo- 
 ment when he fled frantically out of the 
 doors of Tobereevil; away from that fear 
 and hatred of another human creature 
 which had made him feel for an instant as 
 if he mightf be a murderer against his will. 
 AH the old haunted feeling swooped back 
 over him as he sat there, and the sunsliine 
 seemed to vanish from the walls of the 
 little parlor. He laid down knife and fork, 
 and found that he could eat nothing more. 
 
 " I left the pack at Tobereevil," he said, 
 with an effort at speaking lightly. " I quit- 
 ted the place rather abruptly, and, — for- 
 got to bring my goods." 
 
 " Did — did he recognize you 1 " asked 
 Aunt Martha anxipusly, seeing that some 
 painful memory had laid hold of the young 
 man. 
 
 " Oh, no, nothing of the kind ! He re- 
 ceived me very well. We made some bar- 
 gains together. It was only that a panic, 
 seized me ' — 
 
 " A panic 1 " said Miss Martha. 
 
 " A fit of panic to which I am subject. 
 I had to run away." Miss Martha looked 
 troubled, and May was in a puzzle. 
 
 "Don't let us talk of it," said Paul, 
 with a swift return of gayety. " I have a 
 longing to be happy a while before I settle 
 down to look the future in the face. Hu- 
 mor me, dear madam. Give me a whole 
 week " 
 
 " I will give you as many as you like," 
 said Miss Martha, smiling, " only tell me 
 how the gift is to be made." 
 
 " I want to see the country," said Paul. 
 
 "I want to wander about, gypsy fashion, 
 and see the beauties of the land. If you 
 and -^ and " — 
 
 Paul glanced pleadingly at the bright 
 face opposite. 
 
 " May," said the girl, smiling. 
 
 Paul's face grew radiant. " If you and 
 May," he said, " will come with me, if you 
 will trust yourselves to my care, I think 
 we can have some pleasant days." 
 
 The young girl's eyes flashed delight ; 
 but Aunt Martha's cap began to bob in 
 deprecation. 
 
 "You have never had the rheumatism, 
 either of you," she said ; but nevertheless 
 she promised in the end to do her best to 
 turn traveller, for the sake of these two. 
 
 So this little party set out to do what 
 people so seldom think of doing. They 
 contrived a tour of pleasure in their own 
 country. They went driving leisurely 
 along unknown roads, seeing fine sights, 
 and arriving by sun-down at sequestered 
 inns, in romantic byplaces of extraordi- 
 nary beauty. They mounted ponies ; at 
 least two of them did, for Miss Martha 
 would have nothing fiercer than a donkey. 
 They chmbed mountains, they sat upon 
 wonderful crags, they floated about lakes 
 in the blue atmosphere of enchanted days, 
 and looked at each other through the spray 
 of the great waterfalls. The week length- 
 ened itself into a bewitching fortnight. 
 And even after that time had passed, many 
 more rosy days still dawned and set, and 
 left them wandering. 
 
 The acquaintance of the young people 
 ripened well during this time. Aunt 
 Martha's donkey was an obstinate brute, and 
 was always taking sulky fits, and lagging 
 behind the ponies. Aunt Martha did not 
 much fancy boating upon lakes. The young 
 people had many a quiet hour in which 
 to learn each other off by heart. Paul 
 was extravagantly happy: he was com- 
 panion, mentor, and often guardian, of 
 this girl whom he loved, . — loving no one 
 else in the world ; but by and by, out of 
 the fever of his delight, he got a great new 
 fear which outweighed all else that had 
 ever troubled him before. He fought with 
 it a while, vowing that he would win that 
 thing on which he had set his heart. He 
 was not a coward, he thought, though hard 
 beset with shadows which threatened to 
 darken his whole life. He had an arm fit 
 to wield a sword, or to break stones on the 
 highway, a heart ready to grapple with 
 any substantial danger which might con- 
 front him ; but it seemed to him that nature 
 had given him no refuge from the plague 
 of his imagination, had given him over to 
 
56 
 
 THE WICKED WOODS OF TOBEREEVIL. 
 
 the malice of the creatures of his bad 
 dreams. Nature had offered no refuge, but 
 he had found one for himself in another 
 human soul ; and now — if he should lose 
 her? 
 
 As for May, when her observation of 
 certain sad fits of Paul's had reminded her 
 that he had a trouble, she found herself not 
 so well able to pity him as she had fancied 
 she should be. If Katherine had treated 
 him hardly, why not let the past go to the 
 winds ? What was there about her so pre- 
 cious that she should be mourned for all 
 through life ? She was frivolous and fool- 
 ish ; but a man might not see that. Yet 
 why not enjoy the lovely summer while it 
 staid ? Why look on the ground and 
 sigh, and turn silent and pale, while the 
 world was all in a glow, and full of joy op 
 every side ? She had no patience with 
 such blindness. For her part, she believed 
 that people ought to be happy when they 
 could. Dbath and parting were sad enough 
 when they came ; but when people were 
 well, among birds singing and flowers 
 blooming, they deserved to be miserable if 
 they would not try to be a little glad. One 
 thing she would do for him, and she did it 
 with all her might : she would avoid the 
 slightest mention of Gamlough and its be- 
 longings. And she kept this resolution so 
 well that she made mischief. She got a 
 nervous dread of mentioning Katherine or 
 her lover ; but Paul forced her to mention 
 them in the end. 
 
 We have said that Paul Finiston was in 
 the habit of talking to himself in a note- 
 book : it could not be called a diary, for 
 he did not write in it every day ; he had 
 been too busy in his foreign life foir the en- 
 joyment of such a regular indulgence ; yet 
 he was a man so full of fancies and moods 
 and- unrealities, that there were times 
 when it was a reljef to pour them out in 
 black and white. He used to say to him- 
 self, that these jottings helped him along 
 his life in the way of common sense. He 
 could look back and laugh at his odd hu- 
 mors, and take measures to hinder their 
 return ; but, if nature has learned a trick, 
 it is not easy to keep her from playing it. 
 
 Paul returned to his note-book in the 
 little tourists' inn. 
 
 " I have been unutterably happy," he 
 wrote, " but now I have got a new devil to 
 torment me. It is hard to understand how 
 a man's mind can be so changed in a few 
 weeks. It is little more than three since 
 my old enemy drove me back over the hills ; 
 and I went, leaving h^r to a future from 
 which I excluded my own life for evermore. 
 Now, if I were so urged, I would take all 
 
 risks, and I would not go, unless further 
 driven by some sign flrom her. The fears 
 which were so lively when the enemy let 
 them loose upon me are gone, and I be- 
 lieve will come near me no more. I have 
 only one fear ; that she will give herself 
 away from me. 
 
 " When I loved her less I had no dread 
 of failing to win her love. I don't think it 
 was quite aS a coxcomb that I said to my- 
 self that I would try to do it within this 
 holiday month. It seemed to me that her 
 life must have been such a child's life, that 
 she must still be a child. I thought her 
 past was a white path, and that my own 
 and her Aunt Martha's were the only full- 
 sized shadows that had been cast upon it, 
 I had liberty and opportunity to woo the 
 shy yet frank and unconscious creature ; 
 andVoo her I would, with all urgency and 
 devotion. There was no one to interfere 
 with me ; for the mountains do not seek 
 mates, and, though the trees might be in 
 love with her, they had to suflFer in their 
 dumbness : so that, unless she hated love 
 and worship, and the tender care of a life 
 given up to her, I had a fair chance of win- 
 ning her to be the angel of my life. 
 
 " So I let my love have full sway, neither 
 checked it nor stinted it in hopes ai^d 
 present delights. I waked in the morn- 
 ing and said, ' In an hour I shall see her 
 face, and perhaps she will give me her 
 hand ; not for life, indeed, but for a happy 
 moment. She will dazzle me with the 
 morning sunshine of her eyes, and her 
 mouth will be smiling like a half-open rose. 
 Her very gown will have the freshness of 
 an uncrumpled rese-leaf. and I will give 
 her roses with the dew on, which she will 
 wear in her bosom. I shall meet her 
 blooming in open air in the cool of the 
 morning, delighting the early sun, and put- 
 ting all the flowers to shame. At a dis- 
 tance I shall compare her to the" wet 
 blossoms in my hand ; but when she sees me 
 I shall discover that she has a beauty which 
 they lack, for the rose cannot change color 
 with that variety which is the charm of her 
 young face. I shall live all day by her 
 side. She will address to me her quaint re- 
 marks, and laugh at me with her laugh 
 which makes me merry, whether I will or 
 not. I shall say to her what I please ; for 
 nothing is too odd to amuse her, and I 
 think she likes to be dazzled. I shall ask 
 her questions, drawing out her opinions on 
 this matter and that ; and the answers will 
 be so original, that it is of no use for me to 
 speculate on what they are likely to be. I 
 shall enjoy all this from morning till night, 
 and then see many more of such days be- 
 
GEEAT MISTAKES. 
 
 57 
 
 fore me, — how many I do not care to count ; 
 for I have hopes that the future may be in 
 itself a great treasury of them. I shall 
 breathe in bliss with the common breath of 
 life, because I have found a creature both 
 soft and wise, both keen-witted and simple, 
 to be loved apart from the world with an 
 only and perfect love.' 
 
 " But my raptures and self-gratulations 
 have been a little premature. 
 
 " Yesterday we sat together, she and I, 
 in a rainbow among the mists of the great 
 waterfall. She looked like some slim 
 water-nymph in her limp muslin gown, all 
 damped and clinging with the dews from 
 those mists. I had seated her on a mossy 
 slab of stone, with my cloak about her feet 
 for protection from the wet. An ash-tree 
 from the rocks above had laid some clus- 
 ters of its red berries upon her shoulders, 
 and hung more like fantastic tassels about 
 her head. We had walked a good deal, 
 and she was tired, showing it in that deli- 
 cate paleness which sometimes spiritualizes 
 her face, in ■ an unusual tenderness and 
 duskiness of the eyes. It strikes me as a 
 sample of that egotism which is a part of 
 myself; and I then and there for the first 
 time thought of asking her about-the events 
 of her life. I had claimed her wonder, her 
 sympathy, and she seemed to give it all 
 willingly, — so willingly that I had poured 
 out more and more of the rubbish of my 
 own mind and experience into her ears. 
 But I had been content to gather from her 
 mere comments her longings, puzzles, fan- 
 cies, and beliefs. I had not asked what 
 she had seen, what she had heard, whom 
 she had met. 
 
 " I said as we sat there, ' I have told you 
 a great deal about myself. Will you now 
 tell me a history of your life, — your life 
 from the day of the gray pelisse ? ' 
 
 " She laughed, with a little sob of ec- 
 static glee at the climax of her laugh. 
 
 " ' As well ask to hear the history of a 
 squirrel or a rabbit,' she said. ' I have been 
 as wild and as happy as one or the other, 
 and my Hie has been as monotonous and 
 uninteresting as theirs. It is years since 
 there was an event in my life ; until ' — 
 
 " ' Until when ? ' I asked eagerly, as she 
 hesitated, hoping that she would say ' until 
 you arrived.' 
 
 " ' Until my visit to Camlough,' she said, 
 with a slight contraction of embarrassment 
 in her eyes, which were averted from mine 
 as she spoke. She gazed before her with 
 that effort not to look at me but to look at 
 something else, which seemed to plead not 
 to be questioned, and yet which urged me 
 intolerably to question. A sense of un- 
 
 shaped trouble darkened my mind, a 
 shadow of uneasy, incredulous bewilder- 
 ment, such as I remember to have felt be- 
 fore, when there was a vague, cruel rumor 
 about the failure of our bank, — our bank 
 which held our credit between its finger 
 and thumb. 
 
 " ' Ah 1 ' said I, with a sudden, jealous in- 
 terest in the subject, ' I should like to hear 
 of Camlough. You have never told me 
 one word of the things that happened 
 there. Is Miss Archbold still as beautiful 
 as a Greek goddess V You see, I also know 
 her. And are you and she the tenderest 
 of friends V ' 
 
 " ' Miss Archbold told'me of your meet- 
 ing,' said she, in a hurried way ; ' and I 
 don't think we could ever be called friends,' 
 she added, with a sudden flash of fire dan- 
 cing across her sweet eyes. 
 
 " ' They have quarrelled,' I thought. 
 ' About what, about whom ? ' I was now 
 all alive to hear more about Camlough. 
 
 " ' Who were your company ? ' I asked ; 
 ' and had you a very gay time ? Had you 
 any thing or any one to interest you ? ' 
 
 " ' Not quite a gay time, and yet I had a 
 great deal to interest me, enough for, — 
 
 " ' Enough for what ? ' I asked, becoming 
 savagely impatient, yet dreading in my 
 jealousy to hear mention of a third name. 
 
 " But she blushed ruby red, and would 
 say nothing more. It may be that she was 
 displeased,' and thought me brutally rude ; 
 but there was something more than anger 
 under that blush. 
 
 " ' Were there any other visitors besides 
 yourself? ' I asked again. 
 
 " ' There was a gentleman called Mr. 
 Christopher Lee,' she said ; and the color 
 which paled from her face rushed back 
 again. We had come to the point at last, 
 — Mr. Christopher Lee. 
 
 " ' A young gentleman ? ' I asked. 
 
 " ' A young gentleman.' 
 
 " ' And you and he probably became 
 very good friends V ' 
 
 " ' Very good friends,' she said, drooping 
 her eyes. • But that does not hinder me 
 from pitying you.' 
 
 " This was said with tender, deprecat- 
 ing, half-raised eyes. The waterfall seemed 
 to gather itself out of the rocks, and fling 
 itself into my face. Pitying me I So she 
 not only knew my secret, but she could 
 speak to me of it ! ' And by your leave, fair 
 lady,' I thought, ' you might have waited 
 until I mentioned it to you.' I felt scorn- 
 ful, wrathful, desperate. 
 
 " ' Thank you,' I said fiercely. And 
 then I am afraid I commanded her to come 
 home out of the wet. She looked pale and 
 
THE WICKED "WOODS OF TOBEEEEVIL. 
 
 proud, and a little wistful ; but she obeyed. 
 As I handed her over a stile, I saw the 
 tears big in her eyes. We walked home 
 in silence, Now 1 reflect upon these 
 things, the world is as black as a cave, 
 but my rage is gone away. Had she been 
 safe at Monasterlea, I had disappeared 
 during the night-time, never to excite her 
 pity any more ; but I must stay by her 
 till I bring her home, whence I brought 
 her. And now I am going to wait until I 
 hear more of this Christopher Lee. My 
 love has cut down my pride, and I have 
 forgiven her for her pity. I have swal- 
 lowed the tender insult, and overlooked the 
 gentle boldness. 
 
 " I will cling to her hand till another 
 comes to claim it ; then I shall go away." 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THE END OP CHKISTOPHEE'S ROMANCE. 
 
 Paul wrote later, "I was reading to 
 her aloud in a safe green refuge which we 
 had sought out of the heat. I had chosen 
 a volume of very sweet, old-fashioned poe- 
 try, which treats of the passion of love 
 with more delicacy, and not less fervor, 
 than some of our modern poets think well 
 to use. We stopped to laugh at a squirrel, 
 who had "put his nose out of a tree ; and 
 she said, as if the squiiTel had reminded 
 her of something, or she had not been 
 thinking of the squirrel after all, — 
 
 " ' I have heard that you are a poet. 
 Will you show me some of your rhymes ? ' 
 
 " I did not stop to ask who had told her 
 a thing so monstrous. Some verses I had 
 just written lay in the book I held in my 
 hand. I had net thought of showing them 
 to her, nor any thing of their kind. She 
 would pity me again. Yet some wild 
 whim seized me, and I put the paper in her 
 hand. 
 
 " ' There is a secret in this,' I said. ' If 
 you find it, be tender with it.' 
 
 " She was taken by surprise, and the 
 paper fluttered as she opened it. 1 stood 
 a little aloof while she read my crazy lines. 
 1 don't know what I had hoped for as I 
 watched her read. A blush, a confusion, 
 a look of consciousness without displeasure. 
 What right had I to look for these, after a 
 former rebuff'? Had I seen them I should 
 have spoken, and learned the truth, and 
 the whole truth ; but nothing of the kind 
 met my eyes. Her face got a little paler 
 as she read, and there was a look of grief 
 
 on it when she had done : her arm dropped 
 by her side, and she crushed the paper into 
 the heart of her folded hand. 
 
 " ' Such love ought to be returned,' she 
 said coldly. ' I am very sorry.' And we 
 parted like two people made of ice. I hope 
 I am sufficiently snubbed now : I shall re- 
 turn to Australia as soon as I have brought 
 her safely to Monasterlea." 
 
 " She was right to think that he is a 
 poet," said May. " At least, he can write 
 love-songs." 
 
 She was talking to herself in a certain 
 little inn chamber, her own for the time, 
 where of late she had given herself up to • 
 many grave dreams and reveries. It was 
 a chamber very fit for a young maid to 
 dream in, with a passion-flower running all 
 round the window, looking out upon a 
 water-fall descending wi h swift gleams of 
 light into a melancholy tarn, whose perpet- 
 ual plash and drip made a restless murmur 
 of music through the place night and day. 
 
 " If I were in his place I would scorn to 
 write them to her 1 " May opened her shut 
 hand, and flung a little ball of crumpled 
 paper fiercely to the other end of the room ; 
 and then followed a long silence in the 
 chamber, except for the music that was 
 coming in through the window. She was 
 kneeling at the open sash with her head 
 crushed up for coolness against the broad 
 clustered leaves of the passion-flower ; and 
 the silence was to her a long, fevered space 
 of confused reflection, into which we have 
 no more right to pry than into a private ■ 
 letter, of the contents of which even the 
 owner has not yet possessed himself. The 
 music from without was led by a haymaking 
 woman down in the meadows below the inn, 
 who, in a round supple voice, was singing a 
 winding Irish tune ripe with melody. She 
 had been singing it every day and all day 
 long for a week ; and each time she sang it, 
 it had seemed to become sweeter and softer, 
 growing familiar to. May's listening ears. 
 Now the words of Paul's song wandered 
 down into the meadows from the corner 
 where they had been so ignominously flung, 
 and set themselves to the tune as if by magic. 
 They matched with the measure, and they 
 wound themselves into the melody ; and 
 the water-fall made an accompaniment as 
 it drummed and crashed and tinkled into 
 the tarn. 
 
 At this time Aunt Martha had quite lost 
 patience with the sOn of her adoption. 
 Why should he look so gloomy ? What 
 cause had he for grief of any kind ? Was not 
 all the world shining on him ? An inheri- 
 tance in prospect — and — and — Miss 
 
THE END OF CHEISTOPHEE'S EOMANCE. 
 
 59 
 
 Martha could go no further. She was too 
 laj'al to her niece to declare even to her 
 own thoughts that a young man here 
 amongst them might have May for a wife. 
 It was different from building castles while 
 he was at the other side of the world ; but 
 it was not for this ending, she was forced 
 to confess, that Aunt Martha had left her 
 nest under the belfry of Monasterlea, and 
 taken to gypsy ways at her stay-at-home 
 ■ time of life. She had hoped, that in giving 
 up her own comfort, she was at least doing 
 something towards uniting two young 
 hearts ; now it seemed that she had been 
 doing no such thing. After pondering over 
 the matter very deeply, she shifted the 
 blame from Paul, and persuaded herself 
 that May must be in the wrong. Thinking 
 over this, her anxiety got the better of her 
 discretion. 
 
 " Aunt Martha," said May one evening in 
 the twilight, when Paul was absent, and 
 Miss Martha fidgety, but knitting in appar- 
 ent peace, " I am terribly tired of this 
 place. Let us go home ! " 
 
 " Sit down here, child, and let me speak 
 to you. You move about the room so, you 
 make me dizzy. If I speak to you in one 
 corner, you are in another before I have 
 done; and I can't tell where my answer is 
 coming from. I want to ask you a question." 
 
 " Here I am, aunty, as steady as a rock 1 " 
 
 " You have seen more of Paul than I 
 have done lately. Do you think he has 
 any intention of marrying, and settling 
 down in his own country V In his mother's 
 place, I should like to see him settled, 
 for many reasons." 
 
 May knew too well what was passing in 
 her aunt's mind. The humiliating folly 
 must be driven out wholly and without 
 delay, even if Paul's secret must be 
 dragged forth lor the purpose. 
 
 " I think nothing is more unlikely," she 
 said with emphasis. " Indeed ' — it is' not 
 fair — we must not speak of it, — but he 
 has met with a disappointment which it 
 seems he cannot get over. He will return 
 to Australia before long." 
 
 May announced this irom a vantage- 
 ground at the back of her aunt's chair ; 
 but she need not have been so cunning : 
 Miss ilartha's failing eyes were no way 
 keen in the shifting dusk. 
 
 A disappointment ! " The old lady sat 
 erect in her chair, and an afflicting idea 
 went whirling through her head. " 1 hope 
 — May ! — you have not refused him I " 
 
 " No, no, no ! " said May breathlessly.' 
 " O aunty 1 you make a very great 
 mistake ! " 
 
 " Do I," said Miss Martha meekly, in sad 
 
 bewilderment at this proof of the perversity 
 of the heart of man. " Have I really made 
 such a mistake as that ? And yet " — 
 
 But May was gone ; and it was of no use 
 to go on talking to the empty walls. 
 
 So the little party returned home under 
 a cloud of gloom. As Miss Martha sat 
 down thankfully under her own roof, she 
 called herself an old fool for castle-building 
 and match-making, for worrying herself at 
 her time of life when she ought to have 
 peace. May felt like -a stranger in return- 
 ing to her home. Something had gone out 
 of her life, and something had come into it, 
 since she had last crossed the threshold of 
 her familiar room ; but that was her own 
 affair, and the walls must not know it. 
 Paul looked pale and worn when he took 
 his place at the table with them_that even- 
 ing, as unlike as possible to the joyful 
 Paul who had sat down there on that' first 
 evening, now more than a month ago. 
 
 He had fallen back so completely under 
 the old shadow, that he was saying to himself 
 as he ate his bread, that he was a man ac- 
 cursed, who' could never expect to be loved. 
 Already here was the working of his evil 
 influence. I'hese friends who had gladly 
 welcomed him had grown cold and eon- 
 strained. A shadowhad come over May who 
 had been so blithe with him at first. He 
 would take leave of her to-night, and for 
 the future think no more of being happy. 
 
 The little brown parlor was full of 
 starlight, when Miss Martha went out to talk 
 to old Nanny about the pigs. And Paul 
 snatched the opportunity, and began to say 
 farewell to May. 
 
 He began so suddenly, she was so utter- 
 ly without the key to his meaning, that 
 half of his wild things had been said before 
 she began to guess what he was saying. 
 
 " I feared I should bring my shadow 
 with me," he was declaring when she 
 caught the drift of his words, " and I 
 tried to keep away, and I could not. -The 
 memory of your face haunted me, and 
 brought me back to your side. I love you 
 as no one will ever love you again. What 
 does it matter ? You pity me, I know. 
 Some day I may be glad to remember it ; 
 but now it cannot help me. For I have 
 been fool enough to hope that I could win 
 your entire love : that you could save me 
 from a curse ; that I might live and die as 
 blest a man as love ever made happy. 
 Your pity has -twice warned me, and yet 
 I speak to you like tliis ; but it is because 
 you will never see me any more. I chill 
 you with my presence, and I am going away. 
 I trust you may be happy. 1 hope that 
 Mr. Lee may love and cherish." — 
 
60 
 
 THE ■WICKED "WOODS OF TOBEEEEVIL. 
 
 Here Paul paused and panted, and 
 looked able to punish Mr. Lee if the devo- 
 tion of that unknown rival should be found 
 faulty in its measure. Before he could 
 finish his sentence, the parlor was thrown 
 open ; and Bi-idget thrust herself in, with a 
 sly, subdued grin upon her buxom face. 
 
 " There's a gintleman outbye wants to 
 see ye, miss. Despert anxious he is, miss, 
 if you plase." 
 
 " A gentleman I " said May. With new 
 life dancing at her heart, with an inclina- 
 tion to laugh and to cry, with fear and de- 
 light and a slight sense of the ridiculous 
 all struggling within her at once, she seized 
 upon some flower-pots, and began settling 
 them in their stand, that Bridget might 
 not see her face and the shaking of her 
 hands. A gentleman ! Bridget's announce- 
 ment was as strange as as if she had said, 
 " There is a troop of soldiers come to arrest 
 you ; " but May did not know at the mo- 
 ment whether it was a strange thing or not. 
 She only wished that Bridget would go 
 away, so that Paul might speak again. 
 
 " Yes, miss. A fine big gintleman wid a 
 spanking horse. Misther Lee is his name, 
 an' he says " — 
 
 Paul tad turned his back upon the un- 
 welcome Bridget, and was standing at the 
 open window looking out. When Bridget 
 said, "Misther JLee," he put his hand on 
 the sill, vaulted quickly out, and disap- 
 peared. 
 
 May sat down, and stared pitifully at her 
 hand-maiden. Had the lass been but away 
 she might have held out a finger to keep 
 Paul by her side ; but Bridget's presence 
 was a broad fact, in every sense of the word ; 
 and Paul was gone away. . Not forever, 
 oh, no. not forever ! That would be too 
 mad, when she had not even answered him 
 nor said good-by. 
 
 " He said, miss," went on Bridget in her 
 ignorance, " that he would,not come in, but 
 axes as a favor that yoursel' would spake a 
 word wid him outbye." 
 
 " Very well ; let him wait.' Bridget, go 
 for my handkerchief, if you please, on the 
 table, in my drawer, in my room." 
 
 Bridget gone, she flew to the window, 
 peeped across the sash, thrust herself across 
 the sash. She could see faintly the moors, 
 the meadows, the white path, the distant 
 stile ; but there was no Paul anywhere to 
 be seen. 
 
 " Paul ! " she whispered softly ; . " Paul ! " 
 she wailed more audibly ; but he was not 
 lurking anywhere within the reach of a 
 timid voice. She drew back and leaned, 
 sickening, against the wall ; and then 
 Bridget came back with the handkerchief. 
 
 and there was nothing to be done but to go 
 out and meet Christopher Lee. 
 
 She did not doubt as she stood yet a 
 minute longer, trying to steady her nerves, 
 that Christopher had come to tell her of 
 his full happiness, as she had bade him. 
 She remembered that the curious crisis of 
 his fate must J)e either past or close at hand. 
 Perhaps he wa,«i already married, or per- 
 haps he would be to-morrow. She was 
 glad for his sake ; but it was not so easy to 
 spend good wishes on his bride, whose 
 vanity had so wantonly wrought mischief. 
 Yet she could now afford to laugh at the 
 silly blunders that had been made. She 
 could laugh, or she could cry ; but there 
 was no time for doing either. She must go 
 out and show some courtesy to the visitor. 
 
 She stepped out into the starlight, look- 
 ing right and left and over her shoulder, 
 hoping to see Paul coming back. She 
 could not but think still that he was sulk- 
 ing among the tombstones, or stamping out 
 his passion behind some hedge. How she 
 would laugh at him by and by when he 
 would finish his tragedy I How she would 
 tease him about being so daunted by an 
 unreality ! 
 
 Yes : there was Christopher Lee, surely 
 enough, in this unwonted place, and at this 
 untimely hour. Till she really saw him, 
 there in the night, at Monasterlea, she did 
 not know how odd it was. It was very 
 odd, and of course Paul thought it so. A 
 little boy was holding a horse out on the 
 road, and the rider was walking up and 
 down by the ruined cloisters. In the clear- 
 ness of the half-dark May could see that 
 his clothes were white with dust, and his 
 face like one distracted. 
 
 " Oh ! " he said, hurrying to meet her, 
 and grasping her hands painfully, " it is 
 kind of you to come and speak to a ruined 
 man I " 
 
 " Ruined ! Oh, no, Mr. Lee, not that I " 
 cried May, with an overwhelming sense of 
 every thing in the world going wrong at 
 the same time. 
 
 "Quite ruined; utterly ruined ! " said 
 Christopher grimly, lingering on the fatal 
 word. 
 
 " But how ruined ? Surely it cannot be 
 that Katherine " — 
 
 " Uon't mention her ! " he cried. " Don't 
 name her name I I was warned, and I 
 would not listen ! How could I believe the 
 woman I loved, and who had vowed her- 
 self to me, to be a heartless actress, a mere 
 shameful coquette ? I am paying the pen- 
 alty of my folly now. Oh ! I am maddened 
 at the bare thought of it ; that for months 
 she has been laughing at me, while she 
 
THE END OF CHEISTOPHBE'S EOMANCE. 
 
 61 
 
 made me play the fool for her amusement. 
 She owned It tome to-day, when she laughed 
 in my face. She laughed again when I 
 threatened her with what the world would 
 think of her. It was all rapture to her, 
 every reproach, every groan that! uttered ; 
 for I did give her this glory, — I groaned." 
 
 The young man suited the action to the 
 word, and looked fiercely at May, and over 
 her head, as if she and the whole world 
 had been to blame in this matter. Then 
 he made a fresh dash at his wrongs. 
 
 " Yes, I complained," he went on, " and 
 that gave her delight. She had looked 
 forward to that hour, had willed it, and 
 planned it, so that a man might be drowned 
 in ruin to give her beauty an unholy tri- 
 umph. She will wear my wrecked life as 
 a feather in her cap. Let her wear it, 
 then ! and may it be very becoming to her, 
 especially when she shall long for a kind 
 heart near her own, and shall not find it ! 
 In the mean time let her world make a 
 goddess of her, and let it join in her laugh 
 against one who is lost, lost for her sake 1 " 
 
 " No, no, not lost ! " said May, in great 
 awe of this excited grief, not knowing what 
 to say. 
 
 " Not lost, do you say ? Do you know 
 that if I am a married man in three weeks 
 hence I shall be the owner of twenty thou- 
 sand a year for the remainder of ray life ? 
 Think of what it means, that twenty thou- 
 sand a year. It means to be a gentleman, 
 to be of some use in the world, to have lib- 
 erty to enjoy the sweet pleasant things of 
 life. And all this I might have had, with 
 somebody to be loved by, and to share it 
 with, only for her. And oh ! how I loved her 
 and trusted in her 1 " 
 
 He buried his face in his hands, and 
 sobbed like a child. 
 
 " And now I am a beggar ! " he said, 
 looking up again. " A beggar, and a fool 
 before the world. I have broken my moth- 
 er's heart ; I have destroyed my own future ; 
 I will not endure to Uve any longer." 
 
 "You are talking wildly," said May, 
 touching his arm. " You cannot mean 
 what you say. You are no coward ? " 
 
 " It does not matter what you call me,'' 
 he said ; " call me any thing that you please. 
 I am a coward, if that means a man who 
 will not outlive his ruin and disgrace. I 
 came here to-night to say good-by to you, 
 May Mourne. You were very kind to me, 
 and you are the last person I shall look on 
 in this world. I will not see my mother's 
 face again. You will, maybe, be good to 
 her when I am gone, for I have sworn not 
 to live another day I " 
 
 He was speaking in an unnaturally high- 
 
 pitched voice, like a suppressed shriek. It 
 was getting wilder every moment. May 
 was thoroughly terrified, but controlled 
 herself with an effort. 
 
 " Then you must break your oath," she 
 said, in a strong, distinct voice, which 
 shocked him from its contrast with her 
 former pleading tones. , 
 
 He gazed at her in silence. 
 "You must break your rash oath," she 
 repeated. " You see, I am not afraid of 
 you, though you are so desperate. I de- 
 clare that I will not let you go away 
 from this place to-night until you have 
 sworn to me that you will do yourself no 
 hurt ! " 
 
 " I might break that oath also," he said. 
 " No, you would not, and I will tell you 
 why. You would not throw away your 
 soul, because you have lost your love and 
 your fortune ; and if you do not give me 
 the promise at once," she added, passing 
 her arm through his, " I will hold you like 
 this until you will give it to me." 
 
 He looked at her wonderingly. His pas- 
 sion seemed to have cooled down. He put 
 her hand gently from his arm, and began 
 walking rapidly up and down under the 
 shadow of the cloisters. May 'stood by, si- 
 lent, — urging nothing, but watching. She 
 saw- that lie was deliberating, or seemed to 
 be so doing. He saw her standing there, 
 patient, watchful, resolved. Every time he 
 turned he could see the white figure wait- 
 ing unwearied, upon a mound of graves, 
 whither she had followed him, and where 
 he had left her ; with a broken cross at her 
 feet, and the stars about her head. 
 
 At last he approached her, humbly and 
 quietly. 
 
 " You see I am quite calm now. I will 
 rave no more." But he was not calm at all, 
 though his voice was subdued, and there 
 was a very strange wildness in his eyes. 
 " Shall I dare to speak to you every thing 
 that is in my heart at this moment V Shall 
 I tell you of a whisper that an angel has 
 whispered to me ? " 
 
 " Yes," said May, " for angels whisper 
 nothing that is horrible and wrong. You 
 know that I am your friend, and I will help 
 you all that such a weak friend may help." 
 
 He drew her hand through his arm, and 
 placed it where she hud before placed it 
 herself She did not hinder, because she 
 was bent on saving him. They had walked 
 on a few steps, and then Christopher said 
 abruptly, — 
 
 " May Mourne, will you marry me ? " 
 
 " Marry you ! " she cried. 
 
 " Yes," said he, " me. One who has 
 been raving to you about the loss of another 
 
62 
 
 THE WICKED "WOODS OP TOBEREEVIL 
 
 ■woman. A man who has been tricked and 
 blinded, but who has got his eyes opened 
 at last. A man who can see you faithful 
 and good, and can curse the days he ever 
 loved one less noble. I will worship you 
 all the years of my life. I will be a good 
 husband to you. I will strive to be a good 
 man, in order to do you honor. I will have 
 gold to share with you, — gold which you 
 will have bestowed on me as if you had 
 brought it for a dowry. May Mourne, I will 
 love you. Will you be my wife ? " 
 
 " Oh, no," said May, " oh, no I " 
 
 " Ah ! there it is," he cried. " I knew 
 that you would refuse ; but I can plead. 
 You think I love Katherine Archbold — 
 Nay, I hate her, I hate her I " 
 
 " Hush," said May. " Indeed, I am not 
 jealous of her." 
 
 " God bless you I What is it, then ? 
 Whisper, and tell me what it is that you are 
 afraid of. Not of Christopher Lee ? He 
 would not hurt any one, though he was near 
 drowning himself in the river an hour ago. 
 He is a poor wrecked creature, whom ' you 
 can save if you will. He has loved you 
 already longer than you think. How beau- 
 tiful you looked with all the stars about 
 your head ! She never had the stars about 
 her head. There is a hard, cruel, blazing 
 sun always shining and burning round "her 
 head, that scorches men's eyes, and withers 
 up their brains." 
 
 He was lashing himself into a fury again. 
 It was such a strange kind of fury, that May 
 felt more frightened for him than annoyed 
 for herself. She thought of him less as a 
 sane man than as one sick and delirious. 
 
 " Mr. Lee," she said, " will you come in 
 and rest a while ? You are sadly tired, 
 and you want refreshment." 
 
 " I want you," he said wildly, " I want 
 only you. You will be rest and re- 
 freshment, and all that I need. I will make 
 you a princess. I will pour gold into your 
 lap. You will rest my head on your 
 knee, and cool it with your hands. It is 
 burning hot, it is full of fire, — and nobody 
 will give me a drink of cold water, because 
 it is known that I am a beggar." 
 
 " Come in," said May soothingly, and 
 drawing him gently, " come in with 
 me, and I will give you water, — any thing 
 you like." She had felt the burning touch 
 of his hand upon her, and she dreaded the 
 strange glare which she saw in his eyes. 
 The man had got a fever, and his life might 
 be in her hands. 
 
 " I will not go," he said, " I will not 
 move, until you promise me that you will 
 marry me to-morrow. Katherine, Kath- 
 erine I " he cried, gnashing his teeth, and 
 
 grasping her hands until he almost crushed 
 the slight fingers ; " promise me that you 
 will marry me to-morrow. Promise, or I 
 will drown myself this night 1 " 
 
 "Nay, come in," said May coaxingly, 
 while she shivered with fear. " I am tired 
 and cold. Come in, and we will talk about 
 it." 
 
 " Curse you ! " he said, flinging back her 
 hands with such force that she nearly feU. 
 " Curse your smooth promises, and your 
 coaxing, and your putting off. I will have 
 no more of it." And with a cry like that 
 of some hurt animal, he bounded from her 
 side, and rushed, like a madman as he was, 
 across the graveyard, towards the river. 
 
 But May was as swift-footed as a deer. 
 She could run to save a Ufe. She had no 
 blinding flashes of the fire of madness be- 
 fore her eyes to make her stumble, and she 
 had, besides, the cunning of sanity, and a 
 natural presence of mind. She knew all 
 the short cuts about Monasterlea. By 
 means of her wit, and her speed, she met 
 Christopher Lee before he reached the riv- 
 er-side. She was a quarter of a mile from 
 home, and she was at the mercy of a strong 
 man bereft of reason; but she was not 
 afraid. 
 
 She laid hold of him, and clasped her 
 two hands across his arm. 
 
 " Come with me, dear," she said. " I am 
 your mother. You will not hurt me, Chris- 
 topher ? Not hurt your old mother ? " 
 For he was wrestling with her. 
 
 At the last words he stood still, as if 
 shocked. " Hurt my mother 1 " he said. 
 " Who asked such a question ? When did 
 I hurt you, mother ? " 
 
 " Never indeed, dear," said May, " And 
 you will not now. I want you to help me 
 with your strong arm, Christopher. Help 
 me up the hill, and into the house." 
 
 He obeyed her, but it was a terrible 
 walk. Every moment she expected that 
 he would break from her, and she kept a 
 firm clasp of her two hands on his arm. 
 At the door she met old Nanny and Miss 
 Martha, going out to look for her in some 
 dismay. She signed to them, and they 
 gradually understood her ; and, after some 
 fright and difiiculty the two old women got 
 Christopher put to bed, where a man sick 
 ought to be ; and then a doctor was sent 
 for to the nearest post-town : and the dis- 
 traught lover began a hard fight for his life. 
 
 Later he wrote to his mother in his con- 
 valescence, — 
 
 " I am sorry for having brought so much 
 aflliction upon you, for I know that vexa- 
 tion must have been the cause of your ill- 
 ness. I am wise now, though my wisdom 
 
THE END OF CHRISTOPHER'S EOMANOB. 
 
 63 
 
 is bought at a great cost. I could wish 
 that I had remained delirious for a few 
 more days, for the crisis of my life would 
 have been then quite over. After all, it 
 makes only a little bit of difference, though 
 it will be tedious counting the hours going 
 past ; and I dare say I shall lie awake to 
 hear the clock strike twelve on next Fri- 
 day night. Afterwards it will be some- 
 thing to tell you, the tenderness and care 
 I have met with here. At present I am 
 weak, as you will see by my scrawl. 1 
 have some recollection of asking Miss 
 Mourne to marry me (not the old lady) 
 just before I fell into my fever. Of course 
 I was not in my senses, and she pretends 
 to forget it. Would to God I had been 
 liicky enough to meet her first 1 But the 
 other woman would have out-dazzled her, I 
 suppose, and it would have been just the 
 same thing. I have been thinking that 
 there are attorney friends of yours in 
 Dublin who would take me into their 
 office. . . . 
 
 " She is getting some flowers for me in 
 her garden at this moment. I know they 
 are lor me, for she brings them fresh every 
 day. She seems to me like an angel, if 
 angels could be so sympathetic and practi- 
 cal in their ways. There is something in 
 her swift movements, and the flutter of her 
 white dress, that suggests the idea of wings. 
 It is the quaintest garden that you ever set 
 your eyes upon. A place that Abraham 
 Cowley would have delighted in, when the 
 sun shines across it, stopping with an in- 
 tense frown of shade at every obstacle in 
 his way. The manner in which cloisters 
 and arches and tombstones peep through 
 all the holes in the bloom has an oddness 
 and charm for any one who has time to 
 think. I have plenty of time now " — 
 
 Mrs. Lee uttered her customary long 
 lamentation over this letter, and declared 
 to her nurse and doctor that her boy must 
 ' be still raving, or he could not think of gar- 
 dens at such a time. While there was life 
 there was hope ; and, as he had returned to 
 his senses, there were still five long days of 
 life before his future need be buried out of 
 sight of the prosperous world. Get her her 
 shawls and her bonnet, for her pains were 
 much better now. The poor lady had been 
 suffering from an attack of rheumatism, 
 brought on by her eccentric flight to Dub- 
 lin from Camiough. Her patience had sud- 
 denly expired one night, and she had 
 bribed one of the coachmen to take her 
 away before dawn. 
 
 May did not feel at all likei an angel, 
 whatever she may Iiave looked, as she 
 moved among her flower-beds. Angels 
 
 ought at least to be quite happy, and at 
 peace with all men, — including women ; 
 and May was not at peace with all men, 
 nor all women. She was very angry with 
 Katherine, whose vanity had led her into 
 that unfortunate mistake which she had 
 made; and it was hard to forgive Chris- 
 topher, — though so easy to be good to liim, 
 — whose comin^had driven Paul out of 
 her sight ; for Paul had not been heard 
 of since that evening. Aunt Martha would 
 keep saying, " I wonder what can have 
 happened to that young man I " and " Upon 
 my word he has treated us very badly ! " 
 But still he never came back along the 
 path across the moor. His farmhouse still 
 smoked with its chimney thrust out of the 
 hollow ; but the people there knew nothing 
 of liim, except that he had paid them and 
 gone away. 
 
 May was sorry for Christopher ; yet, while 
 he was lying desperately ill, and she was 
 creeping about all day with ice for his head 
 and medicine from the doctor, she could 
 not have denied herself to be unutterably 
 happy all the time. She was glorying in 
 her good fortune, and looking out through 
 every loophole to see lier lover coming 
 back ; and she triumphed over Katherine 
 as an angel could not have done ; but yet 
 Paul did not appear. It grew to be not 
 wonderful to see her, who had been so 
 quick about her business, standing with 
 Christopher's glass of wine or basin of cus- 
 tard in her hands, gazing, with eyes that 
 were very strange, out of some window or 
 open door. Any ordinary observer would 
 have said that she rejoiced because Chris- 
 topher was ill, and was in trouble because 
 he got better : for Christopher was grow- 
 ing well again ; was able to write a letter, 
 and to follow her with admiring eyes while 
 she picked blossoms from her rose-trees. 
 Mr. Lee's state of health did not much af- 
 fect her spirits ; but she had rather he had 
 died than that Paul should not come back. 
 
 So went over the sad, profitless, golden 
 September days. Fruit was ripe, hay was 
 made, and the last of the sweet rose-tribe 
 blushe<l like rubies on their withering trees. 
 The summer greens were waning in the 
 Woods of Tobereevil, and richer glories 
 were stealing into their place. Here and 
 there the foliage of an over-wearied autumn 
 bough had already fluttered with little gold 
 wings to the ground. The birds' notes 
 were deeper and more rare than they had 
 been a month ago ; and, between the glitter- 
 ing links of radiant days, a heavy leaden 
 one now and then intruded itself. The 
 harvest moonlight was so bright at nights 
 that you might have gleaned the meadows 
 
64 
 
 THE WICKED "WOODS OF TOBEEEEVIL. 
 
 by it, or picked pebbles on a beach ; and 
 the creepers were all afire among the ivy 
 over the ruins, and had licked a portion of 
 the cottage into their flames. Miss Martha 
 was fattening cows for the fair ; and, between 
 this aiixious business and her cares for a 
 sick stranger, had little time to give more 
 than a regretful thought to Paul. Her 
 wonder had abated after three weeks of his 
 absence, and she had made up her mind to 
 be disappointed in him. She feared that 
 he was not untainted by the oddities of his 
 race. She dropped some tears in secret to 
 the memory of her friend Elizabeth, and 
 owned that her promise was very difficult 
 in the fulfilment. 
 
 But the younger heart that was beating 
 in the house could not so easily let liim go, 
 — could not so easily be consoled by cows, 
 and the best prices at the fair. It sickened 
 at every word that was not news of Paul ; 
 and the only things that talked of him were 
 the pigeons, which mourned over him in- 
 cessantly every hour in the day ; but they 
 never had any news, — nothing but unintel- 
 ligible moans and complainings. The sad 
 night breeze began to tell her from under 
 the eaves that she had lived up to the high- 
 est point of her life, and must now travel 
 backward and downward ; and the worst 
 of it was that there had been made such a 
 great mistake, it being somebody else's will 
 than that of the good and bountiful God 
 which had thus thrust her back on the fair 
 threshold of a beautiful future, and had left 
 her all forlorn in the very blush of her sur- 
 prise. She began to pity Aunt Martha, 
 with a pity which she had never thought 
 her worthy of before ; for she, too, had lost 
 her love, and the bright promise of her 
 youth; but then she had lived down her 
 grief, and could fatten cows for the fair ; 
 could speak of Simon of Tobereevil; and 
 laugh in the same breath ; while there could 
 be no pity great enough in the world to 
 avail the loneliness of May Mourne, spin- 
 ster, even when the twenty years of her age 
 should come, in time, to be thrice told. 
 The blooming oval face was growing white 
 and pointed, her step was slow and weary 
 about the house. She read aloud to Chris- 
 topher as he sat, six feet of patient conval- 
 escence in the great arm-chair at the parlor 
 window, watching ebb away tediously the 
 last remnar;t of time in which it was still 
 actually possible for him to avert his worldly 
 ruin. Her voice was monotonous, at times 
 almost harsh, and jarred on her own ears, 
 and made her task irksome. The best 
 thing about the eflfort was, that it was -ear 
 sier than talking, when it seemed that there 
 
 was nothing she wanted to say except, 
 " Why does not Paul come back ? " Nei- 
 ther she nor Christopher took in the mean- 
 ing of the one word that she read, as the 
 young voice went on telling fgrth the 
 scenes of a play in a plaintive recitative, 
 across which there swept, from time to 
 time, some brusk and discordant note. 
 
 And all this time Aunt Martha was at 
 rest about her, seeing", her so quiet, and so 
 willing to be useful. If her cheeks were 
 white, the bloom had gone so gradually 
 that the good lady did not miss it. She 
 had feared some weeks ago that her pretty 
 maid might too well like that Paul who 
 had since proved himself so fantastic, and 
 so unstable, and so cold ; but as the child 
 did not talk of him, nor complain, nor seem 
 to miss him, she concluded that this alarm 
 had been but a fancy of her own. She did 
 not stop to ask herself if she had talked or 
 complained when the joy had been taken 
 away out of her own bygone youth. It was 
 well, thought Miss Martha, that there had 
 been no promise to Elizabeth about giving 
 her girl, as a wife, to the miser's heir. To- 
 bereevil should never blight her as it had 
 blighted her old aunt. She would pray 
 that her niece might be blest with a better 
 lot than that of a heart-broken wife, or a 
 saddened old maid. 
 
 Miss Martha had never complained of 
 her lot as an old maid ; but she plainly 
 avowed to herself now, when she was on 
 the subject, that the life of a woman, such 
 as herself, was apt to be sadder than many 
 others. There is a trick of looking back 
 which she finds it difficult to unlearn ; and 
 her glances over her shoulder hurt her more 
 sharply than do other people's. A man in- 
 clined for retrospect will perhaps see efforts 
 before success, which he would not be will- 
 ing to cancel even to bring back his youth ; 
 a wife knows nothing better worth her ma- 
 ture contemplation than the early years of 
 love which she has toiled through with her . 
 husband ; a mother will see her children 
 grow so tall that between their smiling 
 ■faces the landscape of the past shines but 
 in very faint gleams, she being no longer 
 large enough to see visions over their heads ; 
 but for the single woman, said Miss Mar- 
 tha, who ought to have been a wife, there 
 is nothing tall enough, nor broad enough, 
 to shut out that one bleak point, just fringed 
 by the remnant of the roses of youth, 
 where the first step was taken upon her 
 lonely road. 
 
 So the good old lady was very thankful, 
 seeing that May's heait was quite untouch- 
 ed. 
 
MES. LEE STEUGGLES AGAINST FATE. 
 
 65 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 MES. LEE STRUGGLES AGAINST FATE. 
 
 Not only did May become pale, but 
 she betran to like lonely walks up and 
 down the damp cloisters ; to flit about like 
 a bat in the twilight ; and to climb to her 
 old haunt in the belfry, in order that she 
 might look out over the land like " Sister 
 Anne," and see if there was " anybody 
 coming." One evening she was leaning 
 over the garden-hedge, peering into the 
 vanishing landscape, and devouring every 
 sad suggestion that the fiiUing night pre- 
 sented to her mind. Suddenly there came 
 two red eyes glaring down the road ; not 
 the angry eyes of some terrible demon, as 
 at first they might have been supposed, but 
 only carriage-lamps. Yet they could not 
 have proved a sight more surprising if they 
 had been a couple of unlucky stars jostled 
 out of their place, in consequence of too 
 much crowding upon the milky-way. 
 
 They came glaring down the road, and 
 they stopped before the gate of Monaster- 
 lea. The darkling landscape swam before 
 May's eyes, as a delightful idea flashed 
 through her mind that this was Paul com- 
 ing back. She had flown half-way to the 
 gate before joy gave way to another feeling, 
 and she hid behind a rose-bush. Mean- 
 time the two red lamps had glared right up 
 the path, and into the open eyes of the cot- 
 tage, and answering lights had already ap- 
 peared at the door. The coachman had 
 left his box, and May could see the dis- 
 gorgement of the carriage. A slow, heavy 
 body rolled from the interior of the coach, 
 and a sound that was not unfamiliar made 
 its way to her ears. Her hopes fell flat and 
 expired as she stood up, and stepped for- 
 ward to receive Mrs. Lee. 
 
 " Ah-a-ah 1 my beloved daughter 1 " she 
 cried, as May appeared. It was an odd 
 form of address ; but, considering the afflic- 
 tion of the visitor, May would not have 
 wondered at, nor objected to, being ad- 
 dressed as " my dear grandmother I " 
 
 " I knew it from the first," Mrs. Lee went 
 on, in a choking voice, while she took des- 
 perate measures with one hand to save her- 
 self from strangulation by loosening the 
 strings of her weightiest cloak from about 
 her neck, and letting it fall to tlie ground. 
 " It was not for nothing that I felt like a 
 mother fbr you at Camlough. Carry up 
 that hamper of wine, my man 1 , A little 
 present, my love, for your aunt. And I 
 have been picking up fresh eggs as I drove 
 s 
 
 along — from the country people — all day ; 
 your cook may find them useful." 
 
 Miss Martha here arrived on the scene, 
 wiih Nanny and Bridget and torches, 
 and the little commotion of welcome hav- 
 ing subsided, the mother was conducted to 
 the embraces of her son ; and then, after 
 going through several ceremonies of joy 
 and benediction, she was again taken pos- 
 session of by May, and conducted to a 
 guest-chamber, to remove the traces of her 
 travel. Having settled her front and her 
 turban, she sank at last into a large arm- 
 chair, and prepared further to unburden 
 her soul of the purpose with which it was 
 charged. 
 
 " Ah ! my dear daughter 1 Such a daugh- 
 ter as never was welcomed before to a moth- 
 er's longing heart. Sit down at my feet, 
 my pretty one, and let us talk at our lei- 
 sure about our plans." 
 
 But May had no plans, and she preferred 
 standing erect. Yet she declared herself 
 willing to converse with Mrs. Lee. 
 
 " Nay, nay, my dear," said that lady : 
 " why so coy ? You must think me very 
 blind not to have seen what was going on 
 between you and Christopher." 
 
 "Nothing ever, went on, Mrs. Lee. 
 You, of all others, ought to know that 
 well." 
 
 " ]My dear girl," said Mrs. Lee, taking 
 her hands, and trying to draw her down 
 for a kiss, " do you mean to say that my 
 poor boy did not propose to you ? " 
 
 " I thought he had forgotten it," said 
 May, aghast. " How could you find it out ? 
 He was delirious when he did it, and he 
 thought I was Katherine." 
 
 " Thought you were Katherine ? Ha, 
 ha! Excuse me, my dear ; for I know you 
 have cause to be jealous, and to stand on 
 your dignity : but you need not with ^e, my 
 dear, his poor, anxious, old mother. It is 
 long since he gave up Miss Archbold, and 
 fi.xed his affections upon you. Excuse me ; 
 for I know your devotion to him since, 
 which has saved his precious life ; but it 
 was his love for you which threw him into 
 this fever." 
 
 " Did he tell you so ? " asked May, knit- 
 ting her brows. 
 
 " Well, no," said Mrs. Lee, with a spasm 
 of fear that she was going too far ; " but do 
 you think an anxious mother cannot read 
 the heart of her son V " 
 
 " Not at such a distance, I should think, 
 and without the help of a telescope," said 
 May, with a little grim mirth. 
 
 " Ah, you are laughing at me ! " said Mrs. 
 Lee, and her tears began to descend ; 
 " and I had so buoyed myself up with the 
 
66 
 
 THE "WICKED WOODS OP TOBBKEEVIL. 
 
 hope that you, at least, would be merciful 
 and kind to my dear son, — so different from 
 that other woman ; that his future would 
 be a sacred affair to you ; and now — 
 and now " — Mrs. Lee wept. 
 
 " Pray don't cry," said May, with a con- 
 scious-stricken feeling that she was behav- 
 ing very inhospitably in thus distressing 
 her tired guest. " I am sorry, indeed, 
 to disappoint you ; and I ,see you have 
 deceived yourself in some strange way. I 
 have great pity for your son ; but you know 
 I could not marry him for that reason, 
 especially as he does not even want me." 
 
 " There it is, — there it is I " cried Mrs. 
 Lee. "1 knew it was only proper feeling 
 that was working your little heart. And 
 can you really think that he does not wish 
 to marry you ? If you read his letter, his 
 last letter, that heart-broken letter " — 
 
 May's temper and sense of humor both 
 began to get lively. 
 
 " Mrs. Lee," she said, " I know it is very 
 important that your son should be married 
 before Friday." 
 
 " You do, you do 1 " cried Mrs. Lee, with 
 increasing emotion. " My own frank, de- 
 voted girl ! How bravely she comes to 
 the point I I almost feared to remind her 
 of it, but I need not have doubted her. 
 She will throw herself into the breach. 
 She will save us from ruin : be mistress of 
 a manly heart, and twenty thousand pounds 
 a year. 
 
 "But, Mrs. Lee" — 
 
 " I knew she would do it, and, as she 
 says, it must be done before next Friday. 
 I thought about all this when I brought a 
 parson with me in the coach. He did not 
 object to the trip on account of the shoot- 
 ing. I dropped him at a farmhouse, about 
 a mile away. A most respectable clergy- 
 man, but with his time not fully occupied." 
 
 M.iy could bear no more just at present. 
 Her cheeks burned with indignation, and 
 the corners of her mouth were twitching 
 with laughter ; yet she was so sorry all 
 the while for mother and son, that she 
 could not either laugh or fly in a passion 
 with any comfort. Fortunately, Miss Mar- 
 tha came in search of her guest, allowing 
 May to make her escape ; and she heard 
 nothing more about matrimony for that one 
 night at least. 
 
 On the next day, however, it was plain 
 that a campaign had been entered upon by 
 Mrs. Lee, which she meant to carry on 
 with vigor till the hands of the clock 
 should jioint to midnight on Friday. 
 Christopher in his meekness and weakness 
 liad been talked to by his mother, and 
 looked wistfully at May, and even ven- 
 
 tured to say to her, that, though he could 
 not have dared to originate the proposal, 
 seeing all that had passed, still, that fhe 
 should never have reason to repent it if 
 she could bring herself to be so generous 
 as to marry him. May found it cruel to be 
 thus punished a second time for a second 
 of Katherine's sins. It was easy to silence 
 poor Christopher, but Mrs. Lee would not 
 be put down ; and the hardest part was, 
 that she had in some sort talked over Miss 
 Martha to her side. 
 
 " Only think of what two young people 
 could do with twenty thousand a year I " she 
 said. " And two such young people as they 
 are, my dear ma'am, — so well matched in 
 youth, in appearance, in tastes ! It is dread- 
 ful to think of such a crisis coming near, 
 when all might turn out so happily in one 
 hour by the j oining of their two dear hands I " 
 
 Aunt Martha listened, and was fluttered. 
 There was a great deal of truth in what 
 Mrs. Lee was saying ; she was smarting 
 a little from Paul's indifference to her niece, 
 and he was gone away and had disappoint- 
 ed her, — she had no longer his interests to 
 provide for ; neither did that stray duke, 
 whose interference had once appeared so 
 inevitable, seem to be on visiting terms at 
 Camlough after all ; and it might be a long 
 time, indeed, before another fine young man 
 with twenty thousand a year should come 
 courting pretty May at Monasterlea. By 
 and by Aunt Martha faltered forth a con- 
 ditional consent to Mrs. Lee's proposed 
 plan. She would talk to her niece ; and, if 
 the child could be persuaded, the marriage 
 should take place. 
 
 May perceived this yielding of her aunt 
 with dismay and resentment, and the cere- 
 mony of the talking over produced no sat- 
 isfactory results. Miss Martha, on this 
 occasion, found her sitting in the farthest 
 corner of her room, under the sloping wall, 
 with her hands locked in her lap, and her 
 mouth tightened up into a straight line of 
 determination. 
 
 " I know what you are coming to say, 
 Aunt Martha," she said, drawing still far- 
 ther back into her corner, but speaking loud 
 and plain : " I never expected that you 
 would go over to the enemy." 
 
 " The enemy, my darling I Indeed, there 
 is no enemy. I am just going to ask 
 you to think seriously of the thing. The 
 young man is good and amiable, and will 
 make an excellent husband. My May 
 would be a lady, and could go and come 
 when and where she liked." 
 
 " I don't want to go, nor to come," said 
 May, " only to stay where I am ; " and 
 she locked her feet together, as if, in that 
 
MRS. LEE STETTGGLBS AGAIKST FATE. 
 
 67 
 
 identical corner, she had resolved to live 
 and die. 
 
 " I should no longer have any anxiety 
 ahout providing for your future." 
 
 " Never mind that, aunty : I can turn 
 milk-maid any day." 
 
 " You shall not need ; but what I mean 
 to say is, that a good husband is a ti-easure 
 not to be met with every week." 
 
 "But I don't want a good husband every 
 week, nor any week, nor a bad one either. 
 How nicely you have done without one 
 yourself, Aunt Martha I " 
 
 " Oh I of course, if you desire to be an 
 old maid " — said Miss Martha. 
 
 " I do not desire it : I desire nothing of 
 the kind ; but I had rather put up with it, 
 as you have done, aunty, than sell myself, 
 for even twenty thousand a year." 
 
 " My dear, you never spoke to me in. 
 that way before. Nobody ever said yet 
 that I ' put up with it.' I have always " — 
 
 " Now, now, aunty," said May, spring- 
 ing from her corner at last, and putting her 
 arms round tlie old lady's neck, " you know 
 very well that you put up with it because 
 you could not marry the person you liked ; 
 and I love you for doing it, and I mean to 
 do the same." 
 
 " Do the same I " echoed Miss Martha, 
 in astonishment ; and then she saw that 
 May's eyes were wet wilh tears. 
 
 " The very same," said May, laughing. 
 " And you must promise to say nothing more 
 about this matter ; but try to get Mrs. Lee 
 to take her poor son away. It is quite time 
 that we two old maids had this house to 
 ourselves again." 
 
 On Friday morning, as May walked down 
 the garden path, a gentleman met her com- 
 ing towards the house. He was dressed 
 like a clergyman, but carried a gun. He 
 took off his hat, and introduced himself as a 
 friend of Mrs. Lee, who had come by ap- 
 pointment to see that lady. May bade him 
 welcome, and accompanied him to the 
 house, knowing very well that here was 
 the parson come to many her. She con- 
 ducted him to the parlor where Christo- 
 pher was sitting, and did not think it 
 advisable to awake Mrs. Lee, who had slept 
 longer than usual, in consequence of much 
 trouble and excitement, and many wake- 
 ful nights. 
 
 What passed between Christopher and 
 the parson has never been recorded. After 
 they had been for some time shut up to- 
 gether. May saw, from an upper window, 
 the two men walking side by side down 
 the path to the gate. Christopher was 
 leaning on his stick, and walked slowly, 
 and looked downcast but dignified. The 
 
 parson was nodding his head, and talking 
 briskly ; and as he went away shook hands 
 a second time with Christopher over the 
 gate : then Mr. Lee returned slowly to 
 the house. 
 
 Soon afterwards Mrs. Lee came to light, 
 and held private converse with her son for 
 half an hour. There were sounds of weep- 
 ing from the parlor during this time ; and 
 at last Christopher led back his mother to 
 the door of her own room, where she 
 returned to bed,, and would take comfort 
 from no ene. Miss Martha sat with Chris- 
 topher the rest of the day, while May kept 
 aloof, feeling like a culprit. In spite of all 
 she knew to the contrary, it seemed as if 
 she must be to blame for Christopher's 
 mishap. 
 
 Towards evening she ventured to show 
 her face in the parlor. Aunt Martha had 
 left Mr. Lee to take a nap in his chair, but 
 the young man was wide awake when May 
 came stealing in. She brought him a vase 
 of the latest flowers, including the very last 
 rose of summer, as a needless peace-oifer- 
 iug, and a vain little temptation to make 
 him glad. Christopher was not at war with 
 her, but he could not be glad. He smiled 
 over the flowers, and thanked her for her 
 trouble ; and then he had a little more to 
 say. 
 
 " I am sorry and ashamed of all the trou- 
 ble you have had with us," he said. " It 
 was a monstrous thing to torment you as 
 my mother and I have done. I beg of you 
 to forgive and forget what has passed. We 
 shall leave you to-morrow, full of gratitude 
 for all the kindness you have shown to a 
 sick man ; and by and by I shall set to 
 work, and be a new creature. Will you 
 give me your hand in token that we are 
 friends V " 
 
 " Right willingly," said May, giving her 
 hand, and feeling sorely distressed. Chris- 
 topher's eyes filled with tears, and he 
 raised her fingers to his lips. While she 
 thus stood beside him, and he kissed her 
 hand, there was a witness of this scene of 
 forgiveness and farewell. The leaves flut- 
 tered at the window as a shadow came 
 among them, and then quickly disappeared. 
 Christopher saw nothing, for his face was 
 turned from the window ; but May had 
 glanced up quickly and seen — Paul. 
 
 She snatched her hand from Christopher 
 with a little cry. " What is it ?" he said, 
 fearing he had ofiended her ; but she said, 
 " Oh, nothing I " and muttered something 
 about the window, so that he thought she 
 had seen a strolling beggar ; but May was 
 gone from the room before he could make 
 up his mind. She nearly ran down Brid- 
 
68 
 
 THE "WICKED WOODS OF TOBEEEEVIIi. 
 
 get, y/ho was bringing in the teartray and 
 the candles, and then stopped in the hall, 
 and assured herself that she ought to go to 
 her own room. What, hide in her own 
 room when Paul was outside, hurrj'ing; away, 
 never to come back any more 1 He had 
 come at an unlucky moment, and had seen 
 what might make him think that he need 
 not come again. She wrung her hands in 
 an agony of indecision, and finally flew 
 down the passage to her own room. 
 
 But at the end of the passage, there was 
 an open door through which the moon was 
 shining, and just hard by there lay on a 
 bench a white apron belonging to Bridget, 
 and a large woollen shawl of vivid colors, 
 which the handmaiden was wont to wrap 
 round her head and shoulders. May see- 
 ing these, a merry idea sparkled up through 
 all the troubles in her mischievous head. 
 She tied on the apron, and threw the 
 shawl over her head, wrapping it well 
 about her face. She turned up her long 
 dress, and made the apron very conspicu- 
 ous. Then she went out of the door, and 
 setoff running across the fields. 
 
 Paul, meanwhile, walking along the 
 meadow-path, stopped at the stile to take a 
 last look at the moonlit ruins, and the cottage 
 with the red lights in the windows, and 
 thus caught sight of (apparently) Bridget 
 coming running to overtake him, with her 
 white apron flying, and her head and 
 shoulders swathed up in the identical 
 shawl which he, in his character as ped- 
 dler, had bestowed on her. May was at 
 that moment thinking also of the peddler, 
 and thinking delightedly that she was 
 going to trick Paul as cleverly as Paul had 
 once tricked her. 
 
 " Oh, musha, sir I " she said, as she 
 stopped, panting beside him, and mimick- 
 ing Bridget's voice, " but ye do step out 
 fast an' strong ! long life to yer honor ! 
 Sure the breath is gone from me wid the 
 runnin'. An' the misthress waitin' the tay 
 on yer honor ; an' begs wid her compli- 
 ments that ye will come back at wanst, 
 sir, an' not go 'way in sich a hurry. 
 
 Paul's heart beat fast, and she could see 
 him flush up in the moonlight. It seemed 
 to him that this was adding insult to 
 injury. 
 
 " I am much obliged to your mistress," 
 he said, " but I could not think of intrud- 
 ing myself on the family at such a 
 time." 
 
 '■ Tliin, sich a wTiat time, yer honor? " 
 
 " Why, at a time when you are prepar- 
 ing for a wedding," said Paul, " You will 
 please take back my good wishes and 
 iareweR." 
 
 " Oh, but plase yer honor, the misthress'U 
 not be satisfied wid that for an answer. 
 An' the weddin's not to be till — to-mor- 
 row," said May, with a mischievous delight 
 in tormenting him a little longer. " An' 
 we're not so busy as ye think. She wants 
 to see yersel." She's despert anxious to 
 see you ; " emphasizing Bridget's favor- 
 ite word. 
 
 " So the wedding is to be to-morrow, is 
 it? Well, tell your mistress I congratu- 
 late the bride ; and I certainly shall write 
 to Miss Mourne — the elder lady, I mean 
 — before I sail from the country." 
 
 "An' ye won't come back, sir?" said 
 May, feeling blankly that she had gone too 
 far in humoring his fancy about the wed- 
 ding. 
 
 " No, my good girl ; and I am sorry for 
 giving you so much trouble. You will 
 take this little present from me to buy you 
 a new dress." 
 
 May was dazed with her utter failure. She 
 had just enough presence of mind to know 
 that she ought to keep up the character 
 she had assumed ; she must accept the 
 money, and Bridget should be the richer 
 for it. But May quite forgot that though 
 she had borrowed Bridget's shawl, Bridget's 
 hands were at home ; and she held out a 
 hand which was unmistakably her own, 
 and which Paul knew as well as he knew 
 her face. How could brown, buxom Brid- 
 get give forth such a bit of snow into the 
 moonlight ? 
 
 " What is this ? May ! " cried Paul, 
 looking down at the little hand, as if it 
 had been a thing not of flesh and blood. 
 
 " There, I am caught ! " said May, 
 throwing back the shawl from her face. 
 " And I could cry for vexation, only it is 
 so ridiculous." 
 
 " What does it mean ? " asked Paul. 
 
 " It means that Bridget wanted to thank 
 the peddler for her shawl," said May, 
 dropping a courtesy. " That is all it means. 
 An' now, plaze, sir, shall Bridget take 
 back your message to her misthress ? " 
 
 " I feel that I ought to be highly flat- 
 tered by this mark of attention from Mr. 
 Lee's bride," said Paul, with some scorn 
 in his face, as he drew back a little, as if 
 in disgust, from the very lovely figure 
 which the moonlight shone upon. 
 
 " Don't call hard names if you please,"- 
 said May, '• I am not accustomed to it. 
 I never was called a bride before in my life." 
 
 '' This is strange conduct," said Paul 
 sternly, " for a lady who is going to be 
 married to-moiTow." 
 
 " It would be a little odd in that case," 
 said May. 
 
MRS. LEE STEITGGLES AGAINST FATE. 
 
 69 
 
 " Would be ? Wliy, do you forget that 
 you have j ust told me that the wedding is 
 to be to-morrow ? " 
 
 " So it is," said May, plucking the this- 
 tle-down that grew by the stile. " Bar- 
 ney Fajan and Judy Lynch are to be 
 married in the morning. Tenants of Aunt 
 Martha's. Bridget is to be the bride's- 
 maid." 
 
 " Pshaw ! " said Paul impatiently, with 
 a stamp of his foot. " Have I not spoken 
 with the parson who was brought here es- 
 pecially from Dublin to perform a mar- 
 riage at Mouasterlea ? " 
 
 " Have you ? " said May. " How sim- 
 ple you are, both you and he. It is only 
 in romances that one hears of a wedding 
 without the consent of the bride." 
 
 " Then you are only trifling with this 
 poor man and his wonderful fortune, — just 
 as you are trying to make a fool of me ! " 
 
 The moonlight gleamed vividly a mo- 
 ment on a little white wrist and hand, as 
 May tossed up her handful of thistle-down 
 into the air ; and then she turned suddenly 
 round upon Paul. For one moment she 
 looked the image of womanly indignation, 
 and opened her lips to speak her mind in 
 ■good earnest ; but suddenly her mood 
 changed. Without saying a word she 
 threw Bridget's shawl once more over her 
 head, dropped a prim courtesy to her un- 
 manageable lover, and set off walking as 
 fast as she could towards the house. Upon 
 this Paul regained his senses immediately, 
 and found that he was not at all prepared 
 to turn about and continue his way towards 
 Australia, without further explanation of 
 the state of affairs at Monasterlea. His 
 pain had made him rude, and at least he 
 could not go without offering an apology. 
 He started off to follow May, and, with a 
 few swift strides, came to her side. 
 
 " May 1 " he cried fervently at her ear ; 
 but May tripped on, and did not appear to 
 have heard any one speaking just at her 
 back. 
 
 " May I " he cried again. " Speak to 
 me I You must not leave me in this way. 
 You must give me some explanation of the 
 things I have seen and the stories I have 
 heard." 
 
 " She was spakin' to yer honor long 
 enough," said May, talking over her shoul- 
 der as she still sped along. " As for me, 
 I'm only Bridget, an' I'm going home wid 
 my message." 
 
 " For Heaven's sake stop a moment, — 
 Bridget ! " cried Paul. 
 
 " What have ye got to say to Bridget ? " 
 she said, slackening Irer pace a little. 
 
 " 1 want you to tell me something about 
 
 your young mistress. Will you swear that 
 she is not engaged to marry Mr. Christo- 
 pher Lee ? " 
 
 » By my feth I will ! " 
 
 " That she never was engaged to him ? " 
 
 "By my troth I willl" 
 
 " That she does not care about him, 
 except as a friend ? " 
 
 " I never swore so much in all my life 
 before ; but I'll swear that too. Is there 
 any more ? " 
 
 " That he did not ask her to marry 
 him Y " 
 
 " I couldn't swear that." 
 
 " Well, then, will you swear that she 
 refused him V " 
 
 " Ay, will 1 1 " 
 
 " And why was the parson brought 
 from Dublin to marry them ? " 
 
 " Och ! sure that was but the crazy 
 fancy of a poor mother in throuble." 
 
 " One word more, Bridget. Why did 
 your mistress refuse to marry this rich 
 man ? " 
 
 " Thin, that's a sayeret of her own. If 
 ye want to know that ye must ax hersel'." 
 
 " Mav ! " 
 
 « Paul 1 " 
 
 " For Heaven's sake, stop, and speak to 
 me in earnest for a moment. Is this all 
 true that Bridget has been swearing ? " 
 
 " I would not keep a servant that would 
 swear against the truth, Mr. Finiston." 
 
 " Will you answer me one more ques- 
 tion, as May, not as Bridget ? Why have 
 you refused to marry Mr. Lee ? " 
 
 " For a, great many reasons. A great 
 many more than I have time to tell you 
 now. The tea will be waiting, and I must 
 give an account of myself." 
 
 " The tea waiting ! I declare it shall 
 wait until I hear my sentence from your 
 lips. May ! Do you remember all I said 
 that last evening four weeks ago ? " 
 
 " Yes, I remember it. You were very 
 uncivil." 
 
 " I was mad. I am an unhappy person 
 to have any thing to do with. I am of a 
 dangerous nature, uncertain and moody." 
 
 " Do you think I am so stupid as not to 
 have found out all that long a^o ? " 
 
 " And in spite of all that, May, will you 
 marry me ? " 
 
 " I will, Paul. That is, if you would 
 like it very much.'' 
 
 " Like it ! O ray darling I " 
 
 " But the tea, Paul I The tea will be 
 cold. And the whole house will be turn- 
 ing out with lanterns to look for me." 
 
 Nevertheless, the tea went on cooling 
 for at least ten minutes longer ; and, when 
 May slipped in at last, to take her seat 
 
70 
 
 THE ■WICKED WOODS OF TOBEKEEVIL. 
 
 behind the teapot, she was rebuked as she 
 deserved by her Aunt Martha. 
 
 " I met a friend, aunty," she said ; 
 " and he is coming in to see you." 
 
 " A friend ! " said Miss Martha ; and 
 then Paul appeared. 
 
 CHAPTER XXn. 
 
 SIMON IN TORMENT AGAIN. 
 
 S]^MON FiNiSTON was getting very old 
 and frail, and the fall of the year was 
 particularly hard upon him. It was severe 
 work going out to pick sticks and straws, 
 in order that he might have a fire to sit by 
 in the evenings ; and he was bloodless 
 and chilly, and felt the want of a bit of 
 fire more than he used to do. Tibbie, too, 
 was cross, and would no longer patch his 
 old gown ; and his heart failed him when 
 he thought of taking forth an extra gar- 
 ment from those presses on the high gal- 
 lery, whose contents that strange peddler 
 had forborne to buy. 
 
 The coming of winter was always the 
 beginning of a long affliction to the old 
 man ; and the affliction now threatened to 
 grow more tragic every year, as the suffer- 
 er grew more feeble, and his tormentors 
 became more bold. The roof of the west 
 wing was broken in so far that the rain 
 found its ^vay down to Simon's den. He 
 had to flit to the east wing, which was 
 terribly at the mercy of the winds, the 
 walls being unnecessarily riddled with 
 windows, and the windows riddled by 
 time. The shutters banged and crashed, 
 now scattering the plaster to the floor as 
 they lashed the wall, now shivering the 
 remnants of glass in the panes as they fell 
 forward and shook .even the stout oaken 
 framework of the windows. When bound 
 up into order, and forced to keep the peace 
 by use of their rusty bars, they threw the 
 interior of the rooms into utter darkness ; 
 but as sensitiveness to cold was, and deaf- 
 ness was not, one of Simon's infirmities, 
 the noise and the light were put in bond- 
 age together, and the wind was kept at 
 bay. 
 
 Simon's miseries were not all of wind and 
 weather; blasts might be keen, and rain 
 pitiless, but both were angels of mercy com- 
 pared to Tibbie, who saw a time approach- 
 ino-, when the old man's wavering spark of 
 life having suddenly sunk and gone out, it 
 might be found that he had not made a will 
 in favor of Con the fool. She knew no rea- 
 son now, why his last days should not be 
 
 made wretched, in order that he might be 
 forced to frame that wiU. Simon was not 
 ill in his bed, so that he was not so com- 
 pletely at her mercy as he had been once 
 before ; but there was much power in her 
 hands, and she used it. She would come 
 and sit on a bench opposite to him, and rail 
 at him till the shrieking of the wind seemed 
 the mere echo of her voice, and the moan- 
 ing and thundering outside among the trees 
 only a weird demonstration of applause 
 from that invisible spirit world with which 
 she threatened him. He was horribly 
 superstitious, and was far more afraid of 
 the ghosts among the trees, whom Tibbie 
 talked about, than of the thieves who, she 
 assured him, were ever prowling about seek- 
 ing for his hoards. As a security against 
 the latter he slept in all his clothes, and 
 with a blackthorn stafi" in his feeble hands ; 
 but he knew of no precaution that he could 
 take against the spirits. These, Tibbie as- 
 sured him, were only waiting for his death, 
 in order to carry him away with them to' 
 where they could wreak their vengeance 
 on him during the leisure of eternity. The 
 only thing which could stave off such hor- 
 ror, and balk the malice of the spirits, would 
 be that simple act of justice which Tibbie 
 prayed her master yet to do ; but Simon 
 still refused thus to protect himself. It was 
 like tearing his soul from his body, the 
 thought of signing away with his own hand 
 his long-worshipped money-bags and wast- 
 ed acres. 
 
 As for Tibbie, why she so wished to see 
 that will made, might have been a puzzle 
 to any one. Con was as happy as a fool 
 could be, roaming about the country, fos- 
 tered by everybody, and always pleased 
 with the variety and freedom of his life; 
 always coming back from each fresh expe- 
 dition to sit at the feet of blooming Nan 
 Kearney, watching her blissfully as she 
 wove her baskets, and crowing for joy if she 
 stopped to pat him on the head ; but this 
 was not the way of life that Tibbie had 
 marked out for him. She was willing enough 
 that he should be fed about the country, 
 and that strangers should give him clothing 
 out of pity ; but she desired that he should 
 keep close by the miser of Tobereevil, that 
 he should sing for him, dance for him ; so 
 that, while she carried on her persecution, 
 the fool might be as a refuge to the wretch- 
 ed old man, who should turn to him for 
 relief, and, perhaps, do out of gratitude that 
 which he refused to do from fear. Con 
 hated Tobere:evil,.and had no use for money. 
 Were he owner of all the miser's wealth it 
 would be hard to make him comprehend 
 that such was the case ; still harder to make 
 
SIMON IN TORMENT AGAIN. 
 
 71 
 
 him assume the rights of mastership, and 
 Tibbie would certainly have all the power 
 in her own hands. What use would she 
 make of her power, and how enjoy her good' 
 iortune ? A miserable creature clothed in 
 rags, with her arms folded grimly, and a 
 dreary, dreamy look in her half-shut eyes, 
 she prowled about the old mouldering man- 
 sion, listening to the groaning of the trees, 
 and thinking about that huge iron safe 
 which was built up in the wall somewhere, 
 and of which she was determined one day 
 to have the key. When Tibbie came to 
 Tobereevil long ago, she was a respectable 
 poor woman, seeking for help for her little 
 nephew, and had travelled a long way to 
 bring him under the notice of his kinsman. 
 When she presented herself at Tobereevil 
 her utmost ambition had been a cottage 
 rent free, and a small pension or dole of 
 clothing for little Con. These denied, she 
 accepted the permission to shelter herself 
 in the kitchen of the mansion, and to pick 
 up scanty food as remuneration tor her ser- 
 vices in the house ; but it seemed that 
 greed was in the air of Tobereevil. Tibbie 
 would now have failed to remember when 
 aspiration after the miser's money-bags had 
 first struck root within her ; but it was 
 rank and strong, and could not now be torn 
 away, and it had crushed every other pas- 
 sion of her nature. 
 
 Whilst Tibbie was in the midst of her 
 active operations, she was shocked by hear- 
 ing a rumor that Paul Finiston was in the 
 country, and that very evening fell to 
 stitcliing together the stuff which .she had 
 bought so cheap from the peddler. Never be- 
 fore had she had the heart to bring it out ; 
 and now, as she hurried to her treasury and 
 drew forth the stuflf which was sufficient at 
 least to cover her respectably, she cursed 
 her ill-fortune which furnished her with 
 only a web of cloth, at the moment when 
 she needed clothing ready made. How- 
 ever, she hacked it with blunt scissors, and 
 sewed it with a rusty needle ; and, though 
 she lost a whole day over it, she was in the 
 end well bedight, and felt magnificent 
 enough in her appearance to awe the whole 
 mountain world. She washed her face, and 
 further arraying herself in a moth-eaten 
 cloak, little worn but of ancient date, de- 
 parted on her search for news of Paul ; hav- 
 ing first looked in at the door of Simon's 
 den, and advised him to look sharp after his 
 keys, for she was just stepping out at the 
 risk of her life to watch some ill-looking 
 characters whom she had seen prowling 
 about the place. Plaving thus provided for 
 her master's comfort during her absence, 
 she took her way to the mountains. ITie 
 
 Kearneys would give her news, if any news 
 were to be had. Their young gossoons 
 were forever upon the foot; and, as Con 
 would very likely be found hovering about 
 their place, so Con should be Tibbie's ex- 
 cuse for coming panting up the hills. 
 
 Much amazed were the young Kearneys 
 to see Tibbie on the mountain ; even moie 
 so than they had been to see Con arriving 
 amongst them upon the shoulders of a gen- 
 tleman. Very few in the country knew a 
 great deal about Tibbie. The mother of 
 the Kearneys had never seen her before, so 
 that the gossoons had to whisper to her, — 
 
 " Mother, mother ! it is the miser's Black 
 Cat ! " 
 
 " I don't see no eat wid the good woman," 
 said Mrs. Kearney. " Only our own poor 
 pussy goin' to meet her on the brae." 
 
 The gossoons laughed in chorus, and 
 plucked at their mother's skirts. They 
 cried that the world was coming to an end, 
 for the Black Cat had got a gown. 
 
 " Whisht, will yo I " said Nan. " It's 
 Tibbie from Tobereevil." 
 
 Then the house-mother crossed herself 
 and went out to meet the guest, expecting 
 some new m.essage of cruelty from the land- 
 lord : but Tibbie had been busy manufac- 
 turing a smile, as she climbed up the moun- 
 tain all the way from her own door ; and 
 she now hung out her smile, which, though 
 a little pinched and darkling, was the best 
 she could produce. 
 
 " Och, och ! I'm tired wid yer mountains," 
 said Tibbie ; " an' I ax parding Mrs. Kear- 
 ney, for lookin' the favior of a sate to dhraw 
 my breath. I'm sarchin' wid anxiety for 
 that poor foolish boy o' mine ; an' I thought 
 I knowed where to look for him when I 
 took the road to yer house." 
 
 '■ Oh, ay ! " said the house-mother, ready 
 to laugh with relief, finding that only Con 
 was demanded of her instead of an extra 
 pound of rent. " 'Deed it's little out o' this 
 he's been since the night he hurt his foot, 
 an' young Misther Finiston hissel' carried 
 him here to us on his shouldhers." 
 
 " Anan ! " said Tibbie. " An' who is 
 young Misther Finiston ? " 
 
 " Yer masther's nephew, Misther Paul, 
 an' no other," said Mrs. Kearney, who was 
 not very sorry to see the old woman's cha- 
 grin. " An' a gran' an' a kind, an' a beau- 
 tiful young gintleman he is ; and the fine 
 man to be over us some day, plase the 
 Lord I but come in an' take a rest to yer- 
 sel' an' an air of the fire ; an' if ye'U ate a 
 couple o' pratees, I'll have them roasted in 
 a crack." 
 
 Tibbie smothered her wrath, and went 
 into the Kearneys' cabin, and did not go 
 
72 
 
 THE WICKED "WOODS OF TOBEEEEVIL. 
 
 down the mountain again till she was as- 
 sured that her enemy was indeed in the 
 country as she had heard, and that he had 
 been recognized among the people as the 
 miser's heir. 
 
 CHAPTER XXm. 
 
 THE BLACK CAT MAKES A SPKING. 
 
 Now the great desire of Tibbie's soul 
 was, that the agent should at once make 
 his appearence at TobereeTil. A bold move 
 must be made ; and ignorant Tibbie had 
 already done every tiling in her cause that 
 her unaided powers could do. She could 
 devise new plans even now in her brain, 
 but she needed the lawyer's help to carry 
 them out. Tibbie, who could neither read 
 nor write, stood at the mercy of fate. She 
 might chafe in her wretched kitchen till 
 her fury amounted to madness ; but beyond 
 the reach of her own voice this creature 
 could make .no sign. All her hope was 
 this ; that the wind might blow a great 
 storm, and tear up many trees by the roots, 
 so that Simon should have to write to his 
 agent to come and look to the timber. If 
 the Wicked Woods refused to help her, 
 then was she surely lost indeed ; but just at 
 this time the winds were lighter than usual, 
 and the trees stood safe. 
 
 Tibbie desisted a little from railing at 
 her master, and, unable to stay within doors 
 from impatience, went out into the woods 
 and mumbled her threats and desires to the 
 grim oaks. She puffed her puny breath 
 into the face of the gray heavens, and wav- 
 ed her arms, and called on the winds to 
 get up and bestir themselves. Con, who 
 had unwillingly, and through fear, accom- 
 panied her from the mountains, sat. in the 
 branches above her, and grinned at her 
 wrath, and pelted her with acorns. At last 
 the storm answered her challenge, and 
 came down with fury. 
 
 Simon had heard many a storm, but he 
 shuddered at this one. The old house 
 shook and groaned, pieces of its roof fell 
 in, and some of its walls were broken. 
 Down came scores of the trees, crashing 
 and creaking, and making a thunder of 
 their own amidst the noise that was abroad, 
 Tibbie croaked for joy when she saw the 
 fallen giants lying prone in the thickets, 
 and she purred over Con as he set off for 
 the nearest posting-village with Simon's 
 letter to the agent. The agent grumbled 
 to himself as he obeyed the summons, for 
 
 Tobereevil was not a pleasant place on a 
 winter's day. 
 
 Arriving there, however, he got such a 
 welcome as he had never got before. Tib- 
 bie, to propitiate him, had prepared a room 
 for him in the underground story, in a part 
 of the house which was quite out of the way 
 of old Simon's tottering steps. Here she 
 had built a roaring fire to keep out the 
 cold, and served up a fine roasted pullet, 
 which she had procured with some difficul- 
 ty from a neighboring farm. Here, too, she 
 laid her plan before the lawyer, which was 
 to draw up a will as he and she should 
 please, and procure Simon's signature to it, 
 on pretence that it was a writ of ejectment 
 for one of his tenants, for whose holding 
 the lawyer had found a better tenant. 
 Simon must be got to sign the paper with- 
 out reading its contents. The plan was a 
 daring one, but was pronounced worth the 
 trial. 
 
 So the agent made out the will. At one 
 time Tibbie wrangled with him over the 
 share which was to be the price of the law- 
 yer's service, but was soon silenced and 
 forced to listen to reason. "Next morning 
 the agent strolled out to look at the fallen 
 trees, and to find some simple peasants 
 who should act as witnesses to the will. 
 
 It chanced that Mrs. Kearney's " soft gos- 
 soons " were hanging about the woods in 
 hope of a job at the agent's hands. They 
 had not gone up to the door and asked to 
 be hired to help with the timber ; for they 
 knew, had they made so bold, that their suit 
 must have been denied. So they lingered 
 about the wood, and when the agent 
 chanced to meet them he found them useful. 
 They were set to work all day at getting 
 the timber can-ied to carts upon the road ; 
 their wages to be the fagots which they 
 could pick up when all was done. And 
 even those wicked fagots were precious in 
 the winter time ; though people would say 
 that they brought no good to a hearth ; 
 though evil sparks did fly out of them while 
 they burned, and strange visions loomed 
 forth out of the white clouds of their smoke, 
 as it curled in sinister wreaths up the chim- 
 ney. Towards evening pretty Nan came 
 down the mountain, with her yellow locks 
 blowing on the wind, carrying a little can of 
 buttermilk and two tin mugs, and attended 
 by Con, who danced on before her, bearing 
 a large wooden dish of cooked potatoes ; and, 
 while the gossoons made a merry supper 
 on the stump of a tree, the lawyer mused 
 at some distance, and made perfect his 
 little plans. 
 
 This lawyer was a man who, at the outset 
 of life, had declared to himself that he 
 
THE BLACK CAT MAKES A SPRING. 
 
 73 
 
 would make money without scruple. In 
 his profession he had cheerfully accepted 
 all disreputable business, and taken care to 
 make his spoils of any prey that fell to his 
 share ; and yet somehow he had been un- 
 lucky until now. Dishonesty had not 
 rewarded him as he had had a right to ex- 
 
 Eect. At times he had even had stings of 
 arrowing doubt as to whether integrity 
 miglit not, after all, have paid him better in 
 the end. He lived in a country town where 
 people's deeds are easily made known ; 
 and he knew an attorney of thorough hon- 
 esty, who had made a good thing of his 
 fair name. Our agent was now past suc- 
 cess in his own peculiar line of life, and 
 found it too late to start afresh on any 
 other ; and thus it was with him when 
 Tibbie's Jittle plot found favor in his eyes. 
 With a slice of the Tobereevil property, 
 together with a goodly sum of money as a 
 reward for his faithful service of many 
 years, this hitherto luckless rogue thought 
 he might live to call himself thrifty after 
 all. 
 
 Who should arrive into tlie midst of the 
 supper-party but Bid, the " thraveller," 
 she having stepped down the mountain to 
 help the gossoons to carry the fagots home ; 
 so the agent, looking about him, saw a 
 group of persons Irom whom to choose 
 the witnesses to Simon's signature of the 
 will. He choose Bid and Nan, and accost- 
 ed them civilly, explaining that Mr. Finis- 
 ton was making new arrangements for some 
 of liis tenantry ; a piece of news which 
 made them turn pale ; and that he wanted 
 two honest persons to witness the signing 
 of some deeds. 
 
 " I won' go ! " whispered Nan, plucking 
 Bid by the corner of the cloak. " How do 
 1 know bud it's to put my mother out of 
 her hole undher the hill ? " 
 
 " Aisy, asthore ! " said Bid. " It's not 
 for the likes o' you that they'll be signin' 
 papers at Tobereevil. When they want 
 yer mother out of her liole they'll put her 
 out by the shouldher, without the splash o' 
 a pen an' ink ; but they're brewin' some 
 quare dhrink for the owld man to swally 
 down, — that's Tibbie an' the lawyer, — or 
 my name's not Bid. I seen them cosherin' 
 wid their heads together this mornin' as I 
 skirted through the threes here, an' tliey 
 too busy wid their talkin' to see my shadow 
 on the gravel." 
 
 " Well, my good woman, can you make 
 up your mind to spare us ten minutes of 
 your valuable time ? " asked the lawyer. 
 
 " Ay, ay 1 " said Bid carelessly, " we 
 won't disoblige a gentleman." But when 
 his eyes were turned away she glanced at 
 
 him swiftly and keenly from under the 
 white silk fringing of her knitted brows ; 
 and she followed him to the house, holding 
 by Nan's unwilling hand. 
 
 It was getting dusk, and quite dark in the 
 miser's chamber, where the light was so 
 scantily admitted. Tibbie brought in an 
 armful of fagots, and made a brilliant blaze 
 on the hearth, so that the whole of the 
 gloomy room was filled wilh a dancing, 
 uncertain light. Simon remonstrated, wring- 
 ing his hands at the waste. 
 
 " Stop, woman ! you will drive me mad 
 with your extravagance ! " he said, snatch- 
 ing at the half-burnt sticks. 
 
 " Anan,'^ said Tibbie, " is it wax candles 
 ye want 'i' Gi'e me money, an' I'll see 
 about the buyin' o' them." 
 
 " Candles ! " cried the miser, with a 
 shudder, as if there had been talk of shed- 
 ding his blood. 
 
 " Ay," returned Tibbie, "ye'U be wantin' 
 some kind o' light to see to write yer name." 
 
 " Write my name ! " echoed the miser. 
 
 " How am I to know, barrin' what I'm 
 tould Y " snarled Tibbie. " Yer agent tould 
 me to have a light in the place," bekase the 
 masther had to put his name to some 
 papers without delay. He said it was to 
 squeeze money out o' some robber o' a 
 tenant ; but may be he was tellin' lies, — 
 only it's not me that ought to be blamed." 
 
 Simon pricked up his ears. True, there 
 was something to be done in the way of 
 an ejectment ; a higher price to be put 
 upon some cabin, or piece of bog ; a pros- 
 pect of another bit of gold to be added to 
 the lieap. Well, well, he would put another 
 stick upon the fire. Extravagance was, 
 after all, pleasant wlien there was a reason 
 for it, and when it did not go too far. 
 What was keeping that man when the thing 
 could be done at once V 
 
 " You see, sir," said the lawyer, bustling 
 in, " I have had such a busy day of it after 
 that timber. I think I explained to you 
 long ago all about the necessity for this 
 document. Sorry to give you so much 
 trouble, but things must be properly done." 
 
 " Ay, ay I " said the old man, trying to 
 recollect. His memory was beginning to 
 fail him, though his sight was very keen. 
 Well had the forgers contrived that the 
 light should come from the hearth, so that 
 the table on which the paper lay should be 
 in shade. 
 
 " You read it all over the other day, you 
 remember," said the lawyer boldly, and 
 only opening one fold of the paper as he 
 laid it flat on the table for the signatures. 
 
 " I did not read it," said the miser, — " not 
 that I recollect." 
 
74 
 
 THE WICKED WOODS OF TOBEEEEVIL. 
 
 " Oh ! I assure you you did, sir. Your 
 mind is so full of business, that little things 
 may escape. You'll remember by and by." 
 
 The old man reflected pitifully for a mo- 
 ment, and then, by such feeble light as he 
 had, scrawled his name. 
 
 " What are those figures at the door ? ' ' 
 he cried suddenly, as he peered through the 
 shifting lights at two shadows in the dis- 
 tance. 
 
 " The witnesses," said the lawyer. " You 
 remember, I told you it was necessary to 
 have two witnesses." 
 
 " Oh ! " said Simon, relieved, and laying 
 down his pen. " I thought, I thought " — 
 But he stopped with this whisper; and the 
 terror that had crossed his mind remained 
 unconfessed. 
 
 " Now, my good -woman, step forward 
 with your young friend," said the lawyer. 
 "Your name, if you please, and then you 
 will make your mark." 
 
 Bid looked steadily at the lawyer for a 
 moment, with her keen old eyes ; then 
 turned to the miser. 
 
 " Misther Finiston, yer honor," she said, 
 " afore I put my name to that paper, would 
 ye just read it out loud to me, that I may 
 know whether my own little farm isn't in 
 it V " 
 
 " Bid ! " cried Nan, aghast. For Bid did 
 not own a square inch of land in the world, 
 nor a roof to cover her. 
 
 "Nonsense, woman," cried the lawyer. 
 "Mr. Finiston will do no such thing. 
 Your farm ! Why, where is your farm ? 
 and I can tell you without the papers." 
 
 " My own purty little farm down the 
 valley," said cunning Bid. 
 
 " It's not in it. There's nothing about 
 it," urged the lawyer, and put his hand on 
 the paper, as if to prevent Simon from lift- 
 ing it up. If he had not done this he 
 might have carried his point ; but the 
 miser's temper would not bear even the 
 appearance of control. 
 
 " I will read it I" cried Simon. "You 
 must leave this point to me, sir. I will read 
 it if I please, and as often as I like too." 
 lie had got possession of the paper, and 
 held it to the light. 
 
 The lawj'er saw that he had been too 
 hasty. '■ I beg your pardon, sir," he said, 
 " but let me entreat you not to attempt it 
 till you have better light. We shall get a 
 candle by and by, or, better still, wait till 
 to-morrow. Daylight costs nothing, ha, ha ! 
 In the mean time, let us go on with the sig- 
 natures. Your name, my dear ? " to 
 Nan. 
 
 But Simon held the paper. He looked 
 at the lawyer's uneasy face, and a cloud of 
 
 suspicion came into hia wary eyes. Bid 
 had done her work, and was too wise to say 
 more ; but she edged herself in between the 
 miser and lawyer, foreseeing that the paper 
 might be snatched from Simon's hand. 
 The attempt was made as the old man 
 stooped to bring the glare of the firelight 
 on the sheet. The agent snatched ; but 
 Simon kept the parchment, and slipped out 
 of reach of the lawyer's arm on his knees 
 before the hearth. A shriek told that the 
 keen eyes and wits had mastered its contents 
 in less than a minute. The lawyer sudden- 
 ly disappeared from the room, and was 
 soon driving along the high road, cursing 
 his own folly, which, in grasping too much, 
 had deprived him of the little advantages 
 which he enjoyed at Tobereuvil. He, at 
 least, could never show his face to the 
 miser again. 
 
 As for Tibbie, she simply put her arms 
 akimbo, and faced her angry master. 
 
 " Hag ! " he shrieked, " I'll have you 
 hanged for this ! " 
 
 " No, you won't," said Tibbie. " It would 
 cost too much money. An', besides, nobody 
 would hurt me for sthrivin' to get the rights 
 for my poor boy. If ye weren't so ill-hearl.- 
 ed 1 wouldn't have bad to take the law 
 into my own hands. Judges an' lawyers 
 could see that quick enough." 
 
 " Begone out of the house ! " cried the 
 raiser, foaming with rage. " Never let me 
 see your face again ! " 
 
 " I'll go when I'm ready," said Tibbie. 
 " An' that's my thanks for ray long sarvice. 
 An' there's Paul Finiston come home pryin' 
 about the counthry, an' watching to come 
 down on ye. It's little pace ye'U have 
 when he gits next or near you, an' nobody 
 here to purtect ye." 
 
 This was Tibbie's last hope, that dread 
 of Paul would cow the old man's anger, 
 and make him loth to be left alone. She 
 had made a great mistake, however, and 
 she quickly found it out. 
 
 " Paul Finiston," said the miser, sudden- 
 ly calm. " Is Paul Finiston in the coun- 
 try? " 
 
 " That he is, your honor," said Bid, step- 
 ping forward, and dropping a courtesy. 
 " An' as purty-lookin' a gentleman as ye'd 
 meet in a day's walkin'." 
 
 Simon's wrath had subsided strangely, 
 and he looked timorous and eager. 
 
 " You know where he is to be found 'I " 
 he asked quickly. 
 
 " I tliink I could find liim out, yer honor," 
 said Bid. 
 
 " Then go to him,'' said Simon, " and 
 give him a message ti-om me. 1 will have 
 him here, and he shall work for me. He 
 
THE WICKED FAGOTS. 
 
 75 
 
 never tried to trick me, nor to worry me, 
 nor to rob me 1 " 
 
 He seized the pen beside him, and 
 scribbled some words on a scrap of paper. 
 The paper he gave to Bid. 
 
 " Send the first person you meet for the 
 police," he said, with a scowl at Tibbie. 
 The gossoons who were listening in the 
 hall set up a cheer at these words, and set 
 off as volunteers on this mission ; then, 
 and only then, did Tibbie lift up her voice, 
 and howl as one baffled and undone. She 
 hurried away to hide herself, and the mes- 
 senger departed ; and Simon double- 
 locked his door, and barricaded his win- 
 dows, and sat all night long on the watch 
 with his pistols by his side. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 THE WICKED FAGOTS. 
 
 Mat and Paul were sitting together in 
 the firelight in the little brown parlor. 
 They had now been engaged a week ; and 
 though winter was coming on, and the 
 white riaie upon the window-pane, still the 
 atmosphere of their mountain world was all 
 rose-colored. They had long ago arranged 
 all about their future ; and, after a week's 
 perfect happiness, the details of their hopes 
 and their trusts in each other seemed already 
 to be quite an old story. They were now 
 to be intensely happy for the remainder of 
 their lives. Paul had undertaken the mau- 
 - agement of Miss Martha's farm ; and, after a 
 year of prudent waiting, the wedding was to 
 take place. The name of Simon of Tobe- 
 reevil had not been mentioned during the 
 arrangement of their plans ; but Paul was 
 not now afraid of him, nor of the curse, nor 
 of the heirship. 
 
 As they sat, radiant with happiness, in 
 the smiles of the firelight, there came a 
 sudden knocking at the house-door of Mon- 
 asterlea. 
 
 After some stepping backward and for- 
 ward of Bridget between the parlor and 
 hall, a panting, ruddy group made a shy ap- 
 pearance in the frame-work of the doorway. 
 
 " It's Misther Paul Finiston I want," said 
 Bid, " an' 1 have a message from Simon " — 
 
 " A message from whom ? " cried Paul, 
 thinking his ears must have deceived him. 
 
 " From Simon Finiston, yer honor, the 
 masther of Toboreevil ; an' I've got it here 
 fast." And Nan flourished her scrap of 
 paper, and delivered it up to Paul's eager 
 hand. The feeble writing said, — 
 
 " Will Paul Finiston come and visit the 
 
 old man who is cruelly beset by thieves and 
 sharpers ? " 
 
 Paul turned red and pale, and May turned 
 redder and paler as she looked over his 
 shoulder. Bid poured forth a triumphant 
 history of the attempt that had been made 
 to deceive the old miser ; and how the agent 
 had been outwitted, and haw Simon had 
 taken the news of his nephew's presence 
 in the country. Aunt Martha appeared in 
 the midst of the excitement. The good old 
 lady was beside herself with joy. This was 
 the direct work of Providence. Simon's 
 poor heart had been touched at last, in the 
 eleventh hour. Miss Martha would have 
 liked to go away to her own room to shed a 
 few glad tears : but those good people, the 
 messengers, had an urgent claim on her 
 attention ; and she swept them all away with 
 her, to give them supper, and ask them 
 questions, in the kitchen. 
 
 But in the mean time Con, who had been 
 making violent demonstrations of delight at 
 seeing Paul again, hit upon a plan for show- 
 ing his gratitude. His arms were full of 
 the fagots which were the wages of the gos- 
 soons ; and, as Nan pulled him out of the 
 room, he presented a fagot to Paul, and 
 another to May. Bid turned on her step, 
 and rushed forward with alarm. 
 
 " Don't take them I Don't touch them ! 
 They're a bad, unlucky present for wan 
 crature to give till another." 
 
 " What do you moan ? " asked Paul. 
 
 " Sure they growed in the bad woods," 
 said Bid, " an' the hearth's betther that's 
 widout them. Poor folks is glad to burn 
 any thin' in the covvld ; bud let him take 
 them all away wid him. Don't you have 
 nothin' to do wid them ! " 
 
 Paul laughed. " Nonsense, my good wo- 
 man. We must not vex the simple i'ellow." 
 
 May gathered .up the bundles in her 
 apron. 
 
 " Poor bad little sticks," she said, " I will 
 put them out of the way." 
 
 So Bid had to let her keep them, and 
 went away muttering. May at once put the 
 fagots out of sight, and, returning to Paul, 
 found him walking about the room in a state 
 of hiirh excitement. 
 
 " Oh, my love ! " he said, going to meet 
 her. " Ill-luck is all over with me. The 
 spell of the curse is broken. This is what 
 }'ou have done for me. No sooner is your 
 hand clasped in mine than the world is 
 turned upside-down for the purpose of 
 bringing me good fortune." 
 
 " You silly old Paul," said May, shaking 
 her head. '• Only that you are a poet, we 
 should not tolerate such nonsense." 
 
 " My darling shall be lady of the land," 
 
76 
 
 THE WICKED -WOODS OF TOBEEBEVIL, 
 
 ■went on Paul. " We will pull down the old 
 house, every stone of it ; and we will build 
 up a new one — new stones, new mortar, 
 new timber ; not one atom of the old walls 
 shall get mixed up with the new ones. We 
 •will furnish it w,ith every luxury " — 
 
 " But the people, Paul dear V what will 
 you do for the people 'I " 
 
 " Oh, the people of course ! They shall 
 pull down the old house, and build up the 
 new one. They shall also have cottages 
 and low rents. I warrant you I will rub the 
 rust off old Simon's guineas. There shall 
 be schools and almshouses. We will culti- 
 vate the land, and have a mill on the river. 
 I will show that a man can be generous 
 though sprung from a race of misers." 
 
 " Yes, it will be a triumph. O Paul, 
 what a life we have before us ! but we must 
 not run too fast. We are not yet the lord 
 and the lady of Tobereevil." 
 
 " We are virtually so." 
 
 " He is known to be very whimsical," 
 suggested May. 
 
 " Oh, do not damp me ! " cried Paul, 
 with sudden impatience. " I have done with 
 fear. Do not you thrust it back upon me." 
 
 " No," said May, " not for the world. You 
 will know better when you have seen the 
 old man." 
 
 Pie did not hear the pain that was in her 
 voice. He did not notice that he had spo- 
 ken roughly to her, as he liad never done 
 before. May hated herself because the tears 
 came into lier eyes ; and Paul's thoughts 
 were busy with the future master of Tobe- 
 reevil. 
 
 " Yes, " he said. " Is it too late to go to- 
 night ? " 
 
 He let fall her hand, and went out to the 
 hall-door. The snow w'as beginning to fall, 
 and had blotted out the footprints of the 
 messengers. It would befblly to make new 
 tracks across the piece of the white world 
 into the gloom of the Tobereevil Woods that 
 night. Even to Paul's impatience it 
 seemed that it must be so. May stood 
 downcast on the hearth. There was some- 
 thing new and strange about Paul which 
 made her hate the sight of Simon Finiston's 
 feeble scrawl which lay before her on the 
 mantel-piece. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 A MORNING VISIT. 
 
 Early the next morning May and Paul 
 set off together over the snow to' Tobe- 
 reevil. Paul would not go alone. He had 
 
 a fancy that the miser would be propitiated 
 by the sight of May's charming figure, in a 
 little red cloak and white knitted hood. 
 May, who was not so sanguine, went much 
 against her wish. She had a dread of the 
 old man, who had been the ogre of her 
 childhood, and she did not believe in his new 
 freak. She found it hard that this change 
 should have come just as Paul was mak- 
 ing himself happy over the prospect of a 
 simple and unambitious life. Yet she 
 weut to please him, trying to temper his 
 wild expectations, and ready to cheer him 
 if his uncertain temper should give way to 
 another mood. It was impossible but that 
 both hearts should become a little chilled 
 as they came nearer to their destination, 
 and emerged from the trees into the 
 shadow of the dilapidated mansion. Paul 
 became pale, but he laughed and appeared 
 in the best spirits. May was silent, and 
 offered a secret prayer for the result of 
 this venture, which seemed so awful. The 
 doors were all barred up, and knocker 
 there was none. The bell was now broken 
 which had once roused Tibbie's ire under 
 Miss Martha's hand. To-day there was no 
 Tibbie to come and fight with the bold 
 ones : it was the miser himself who came 
 shuffling across the hall. He came and 
 took away the bars, slowly and with diffi- 
 culty, and stood peering at them through 
 the half-open door, very pitiful, very ugly, 
 and suspicious-looking. 
 
 " Who are you ? " he asked. 
 
 « I am Paul Finiston." 
 
 " What brings you here ? " 
 
 " A message from my uncle, which I re- 
 ceived last night. I did not intend to 
 trouble him, but as he sent for me I am 
 come." 
 
 " Humph I that is spoken like an honest 
 man. You are welcome to Tobereevil. 
 And who is the lady ? " 
 
 " This lady is my affianced wife,'' said 
 Paul, drawing May's hand proudly through 
 his arm. 
 
 " Indeed," sneered the miser ; " but 
 I only wanted you : I did not send for your 
 wife." 
 
 " Oh ! " said May eagerly, " do not he 
 displeased with him on ray account : I will 
 go back at once. I will not be in the 
 way." 
 
 The time had been when he would have 
 shut the door in their faces ; but he was 
 now in extremity, and, besides, he was 
 greatly weakened, in his body and in his 
 passions, since that day when Miss Martha 
 had been forced to fly from his presence. 
 It might be that May's glowing face and 
 appealing eyes touched some spot in the 
 
A MORNING VISIT. 
 
 77 
 
 Withered heart which was not altogether 
 dead. At all events, he answered her wilh 
 strange mildoess. 
 
 " You may walk about the house," he 
 said, "till our business is finished." 
 
 May thanked him as gratefully as if she 
 had been a tenant with a large family to 
 whom he had granted a lease. The miser 
 then led Paul across the hall, leaving May 
 to find her way whither she pleased ; a"nd 
 she noticed with another pang, such as she 
 had felt the night before, that Paul did not 
 once turn his head to look back at her as 
 he went. Might it be that the monstrous 
 desire of wealth of which Paul had been 
 so afraid, would yet so grow up within him 
 that it would thrust her out of liis heart ? 
 She paused on a step of the gloomy stair- 
 case stricken by the thought of such an 
 ending for her love. It had been so with 
 Miss Martha : might it not be so with her V 
 Might there not, after all, be some dire 
 reality in the inevitable infl,uence of that 
 curse which had so eaten up all virtue 
 born into the family of Finiston? She 
 remembered, that, in the Bible, there are 
 histories of races which were cursed for 
 generations because of the sins of some 
 dead man ; but so many had passed away 
 since the first Finiston bad sinned ! 
 
 " So many generations, oh, my God I " 
 criad May. 
 
 She prayed out of the strength of her 
 soul for the safety of her love. Rather let 
 him be sent away from her to the far end 
 of the earth, than be drawn into the 
 wretched circle round which his forefathers 
 had travelled with weakened brains and 
 withered hearts. Take her life, take her 
 health, take even Paul's love out of her 
 future, but save him from the evil that 
 overwhelmed his kin. Having thus emp- 
 tied her ' heart of every selfish thought, 
 courage returned, and, with it, the hope 
 that was familiar to her. After all, it was 
 but natural that Paul should be absorbed 
 by the sudden change in his fortunes ; 
 and it was also natural that the old man 
 should have grown tired of his dreary in- 
 iquity. It was coming then at last, the 
 good time long expected at Tobereevil ; 
 and she must not be so ungrateful as to 
 mourn for it. Having conquered her short 
 agony, she took her way bravely through 
 the mildewing house. 
 
 There was nothing to keep her from 
 going into any room she pleased, and 
 Simon had told her to " walk about the 
 house." The aged locks had long ago 
 rusted from their fastenings on the doors. 
 She wandered into noble rooms, where 
 fragments of rich hangings fluttered dole- 
 
 fully in the breeze which came in through 
 the broken windows. Ceilings that had 
 been painted in mellow pictures still 
 showed some faded tints between the 
 blotches of the damp and the scars where 
 tlie plaster had dropped iij dust to the 
 floor. There were a few articles of weath- 
 er-beaten furniture to be seen, but the 
 rooms were mostly empty. Snow lay in 
 heaps on the inner ledges of the windows ; 
 and, the shriek of the wind went fiom pas- 
 sage to passage, and lamented along the 
 corridors and up and down the staircases. 
 There was but a little wind outside, but 
 the crannies of the mansion of Tobereevil 
 knew how to m-ke much of a little wind. 
 It seemed to May as if some bird of ill- 
 omen had made his nest under the rafters 
 of the roof, and that he flew from chamber 
 to chamber, from garret to cellar, forever 
 on the wing, piercing the walls with his 
 shrill cry of wrath at the hatefulness of 
 the misers of Tobereevil. Desolation and 
 blight, and the print of wickedness, were 
 everywhere. It would be better, as Paul 
 said, to take down the old building, every 
 stone of it. 
 
 She sat in an old, grim, carven chair, 
 standing solitary in its corner ; and she 
 began to think for the first time of what it' 
 would be to find herself mistress of all the 
 wealth of Tobereevil. Should she really 
 be the lady of a great mansion, with jewels 
 and satins, and rich furniture, and fine pic- 
 tures all around her; with a library and a 
 nmsie-room, and drawing-rooms, and many 
 servants ? And should she be ais happy in 
 her grandeur, as in the little crooked par- 
 lor at Monasterlea ? How could she know ? 
 If Paul should prove to be happy, then 
 would she prove to be happy too V 
 
 In the mean time, uncle and nephew had 
 retreated to the miser's den. A half-shut- 
 ter had been opened, so that they might see 
 each other, and have light to make their 
 bargains. The old man eyed the young 
 one by the entering ray, as keenly as the 
 watchman who sciins a doubtful wayfarer 
 by the gleam of his dark lantern, tie was 
 looking for the signs of the spendthrift in 
 his nephew's appearance; but Paul's dress 
 was plain, rough frieze. The miser looked 
 grudgingly at his comfortable clothing, but 
 there was nothing that he could exactly 
 complain of. Had Paul come unbidden a 
 little time ago, he would have railed at his 
 apparel, merely because it was not thread- 
 bare; now he only resented silently its 
 decency and comfort. He would have 
 threatened him for his impudence in enga- 
 ging to marry a wife, but he spoke no more 
 of May. He gathered about him such dig- 
 
78 
 
 THE WICKED 'WOODS OF TOBEEEEVIL. 
 
 nity as he could muster, as he sat down and 
 leaned back in his chair, and motioned to 
 Paul to take his seat on a little broken 
 bench, which stood at the other side of the 
 miserable hearth. This Paul did, and was 
 conscious all Jhrough the scene which fol- 
 lowed, of a ridiculous and not very success- 
 ful attempt to balance himself on a seat to 
 which a fourth leg was wanting. 
 
 " You have been abroad for some years, 
 I understand," said Simon. " Do you in- 
 tend to remain here, or to return to where 
 you came from ? " 
 
 " I mean to stay at home,'" said Paul. 
 
 " That is, you made up your mind to it 
 after you got my note last night." 
 
 " No, indeed," said Paul, " your note had 
 nothing to do with it. 1 had made up my 
 mind to it long ago." 
 
 " And pray what had you marked out 
 for yourself to do ? Lie in wait among the 
 hills for the old man's death, expecting to 
 be master of all he has ? " 
 
 " To tell you the truth, sir," said Paul, 
 throwing back his head, " there is nothing 
 I have dreaded and disliked all my life so 
 much as the thought of beina; your heir. 
 I went abroad to forget it, and I came home 
 in reality only to seek a wife. For various 
 reasons I think it better now to stay where 
 I am. I have found some employment, 
 and I am content to be poor. If you had 
 not sent for me you should never, as I told 
 you, have seen my face." 
 
 " Humph ! " said Simon. " Upon my 
 ■word, young man, you are very bold ! So 
 you dread and dislike me, and don't want 
 to be my heir. And what if I should 
 show you the door in return for such a 
 compliment ? " 
 
 " I have no objection, sir : I am not anx- 
 ious to Stay." 
 
 And yet Paul felt himself even at the 
 moment devoured by a new desire for the 
 favors which this dreadful dotard held in 
 his lean hand to give. Such ambition, how- 
 ever, being still new to him, an honest 
 shame held it in check, and he still carried 
 himself with his habitual independent 
 bearing ; but, had he been bent on pleas- 
 ing the miser, he could not have spoken 
 better. 
 
 " Very well, sir, but I have not done 
 ■with you yet. It seems that there will be 
 no courtesy lost between us : what is this 
 employment which you have got in the 
 country ? " 
 
 " I have undertaken to manage the farm 
 of a tenant of yours," said Paul ; " and I 
 have brought a little money home with me 
 from abroad. Only a little, but I'll do well 
 enough." 
 
 " Until the old man dies," sneered the 
 miser. 
 
 " Sir 1 " said Paul, " I have already told 
 you my mind. I came here to oblige you, 
 and I will now go my way." 
 
 And he rose to his feet, burning inwardly 
 with strange disappointment and despair. 
 He felt that he had-Jjeen made a fool of, 
 and thatjie ■was no longer indifferent as 
 to* the old man's intentions with regard to 
 himself. Most truly the change in him had 
 wrought very rapidly. The shadow of his 
 race seemed to wrap him from the light. 
 It had' descended from this old roof-tree, 
 which he had been rash enough to place 
 between himself and the tranquil arch of 
 heaven ; it would depart with him over this 
 threshold, which he had been wicked 
 enough to cross. The demon of covetous- 
 ness had at last got possession of him ; and 
 peace and hope arid joy were for him no 
 more. 
 
 " Stay," said Simon. " Not so fast, young 
 man I I do not want to fight, but to do 
 honest business with you. I have been 
 cheated and played upon by knaves. I 
 want an agent to do my work among my 
 tenants. I am at present all aione, with- 
 out agent or servant ; and I cannot get on 
 alone, for people would over-reach me. 
 So I ask you to be my agent, to manage 
 my business for me. I ■will pay you some- 
 thing of course ; but money is very 
 scarce." 
 
 Paul's passion subsided ; and he bent his 
 brows, and considered the miser's offer. 
 He seemed the sport of some mischievous 
 spirit that ruled him for the hour with rap- 
 idly changing moods, whose fitful shiftings 
 were imperceptible to himself. His pang 
 of disappointment had vanished, and also 
 his vision of lost contentment ; and he only 
 thought now of the value of the proposal 
 that had been made to him. It was less 
 than he had dreamed of while walking 
 that morning through the Woods of Tobe- 
 reevil ; but, in his present hunger for power, 
 any morsel was a boon. 
 
 " I will be glad to do my best," he an- 
 swed presently. 
 
 " That is well," said the miser ; " but 
 you must work heart and soul for me : 
 and, if you can make a little money for mo, 
 it will be better for yourself. If you serve 
 me faithfully, and learn thrifty habits, you 
 shall have any little penny I possess, when 
 I die." 
 
 " Indeed, sir I " said Paul ; and the idea 
 of this heirship seemed to grow into some 
 brilliant thing that dazzled him. His head 
 got quite giddy, and he tingled with de- 
 light. He felt himself already the master 
 
THE FAGOTS BURN. 
 
 79 
 
 of Tobereevil. Only yesterday morning 
 he had held such a title to be the least desir- 
 able in the world ; but now a different hu- 
 mor swayed him, and he craved it as if it 
 were life. No curse should ever hurt him. 
 He was a strong, brave man, and he would 
 use his power well. He had sliuddered at 
 a myth, and wasted his strength against a 
 phantom. He had come face to face with 
 the temptation he had so dreaded all his 
 life, and found himself as triumphant and 
 happy as a king. 
 
 " What now about that dread !ind dis- 
 like ? " jeered Simon, as he watched joy 
 start suddenly into the young man's face. 
 
 " I have changed my mind,"' said Paul, 
 " but only since you have treated me like 
 an honest man." 
 
 When the interview was over, this heir 
 of the miser was in such a state of elation 
 that he quite forgot May, and walked out 
 several yards into the snow without think- 
 ing of her. And May, from an upper win- 
 dow, saw him thus leave the place. She 
 was cold and tired, but she had been wait- 
 ing for him patiently. Wounded and dis- 
 traught, and half blind with vexed tears, 
 she made her way through the rooms and 
 down tlie staircase, pale as a ghost, and 
 shaken with niisgivings ; but Paul had 
 come back for her, and her delight at see- 
 ing this swept away the sharp bitterness of 
 a few minutes. Paul was in wonderful 
 excitement during all the walk home. 
 Even May's bright spirit had to get on tip- 
 toe to be even with him. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 THE FAGOTS BURN. 
 
 For some days every thing went on pleas- 
 antly at JNIonasterlea. May had doubts 
 and fears about the bargain that had been 
 concluded between uncle and nephew ; but 
 seeing that doubts and fears were not rel- 
 ished by Paul, she put them all away from 
 her, and saw every thing in the light by 
 which be wished her to look at it. Paul 
 paid frequent visits to Tobereevil, and took 
 long walks and rides over the property, 
 making himself acquainted with the scene 
 of his future duties ; which were first to be 
 those of servant, and afterwards those of 
 master. The affairs of Miss Martha's farm 
 were rather neglected for the first week or 
 so ; but the old lady was right glad to give a 
 holiday to her new manager for any good 
 reason he could show, and resumed her 
 
 farming habits till such time as his various 
 duties could be made to run side by side. 
 There was no wearying, meanwhile, be- 
 tween the two lovers, of the joyous inter- 
 course which they now tasted ; of the blithe 
 chatter which they carried ,00 while roam- 
 ing over hill and dale. There was no end 
 to the leases which they granted in imagi- 
 nation, the comfortable cottages they built 
 as they went along, the half-yearly debts 
 of rent which they remitted to the long 
 over-taxed families in which the father had 
 broken a leg, or the mother was in a con- 
 sumption. Such a thing as an eviction 
 was to be heard of never more. And if 
 May, in the midst of Paul's enjoyment of 
 his make-believe power, felt a question ris- 
 ing like a trouble within her, " \Vhat will 
 Simon, the miser, say to all these changes ? " 
 the words were never spoken, and the 
 question was crushed down again in her 
 heart, where it lay, — a little pain that 
 would at times throb into a great one. 
 
 In the mean time the snow fell often, and 
 the nights were frosty, and the evenings 
 had become very delightful in the little 
 brown parlor. Ghosts had come into sea- 
 son, and Nanny's stories were in fashion 
 in the kitchen, especially of an evening, 
 when Bridget's gossips and sweethearts 
 had come in to lend a hand with ihe churn- 
 ing. It was just at the close of one of the 
 shoi't, dark days before Christmas, in the 
 midst of a high storm, that a, new and 
 rough current came troubling the happy 
 tide oriiuman life at Monasterlea. 
 
 May had not gone out with Paul that 
 morning, because it was to bo a busy day 
 with her ; and a busy day it had been. 
 There had been butter-making in the morn- 
 ing, and baking in the afternoon, and the 
 surperintendence of these matters belonged 
 to May. It was all over now, and she was 
 expecting Paul; for Paul, as a rule, spent 
 his evenings at Monasterlea. She was 
 dressed in a long woollen robe of a soft 
 plum color, with dazzling white ruffles ather 
 throat and wrists. She was standing by 
 the fire, with a piece of needlework in her 
 hand; but it was too dark to work. The, 
 shifting light of flames is a pleasant light 
 to think by, and May was in a reverie, 
 looking at pictures in her mind, whose 
 colors were as fair as those of a rainbow. 
 She looked a picture herself, as the fire 
 illumined her dark braids of hair, and all 
 the tints and curves and dimples of her 
 face. Even in repose, and by such light, 
 the face looked full enough of humor and 
 sweetness and thought, and may be pas- 
 sion, to make a painter's fame. She looked 
 a woman who could make the happiness 
 
80 
 
 THE "WICKED "WOODS OF TOBEEEEVIL. 
 
 of every creature who might come near I 
 her, but who could possibly break her 
 heart ; and even at this moment there 
 was trouble for her in the air. The trees 
 of Tobereevil were shrieking two miles 
 away in the wind ; and ill-luck came and 
 knocked, at the hall-door at Monasterlea. 
 
 May went quickly to the door, thinking 
 it was Paul, and saw ill-luck standing 
 waiting for admittance. It had a tall, 
 buxom shape, with a riding-habit flutter- 
 ing about the graceful limbs. There was 
 some light hair streaming from a gleaming 
 face, whose beauty shone even through the 
 shadows which almo^ hid it. There was 
 a hat somewhat maltreated by the wind 
 and sleet, with shrunken feathers stream- 
 ing after the hair. Ill-luck had come in 
 the shape of Katheriue Archbold. 
 
 If you had spoken to May an hour ago 
 about Katheriue, it would have appeared, 
 by her answer, that she had not seen, nor 
 heard, nor thought of that young lady for 
 a period that seemed as long as seven 
 years. She would have remembered that 
 she was a person who had ruined poor 
 Christopher ; but as Christopher had writ- 
 ten several cheerful letters of late, and 
 seemed to be doing well, May and Paul 
 had lately made up their minds, in their 
 passion for poverty, that Christopher would, 
 in the long run, be much better without 
 his money. May would also have remem- 
 bered that Katheriue was a person who 
 had laid some claim to Paul's affections, 
 and she pitied her in this, seeing that Paul 
 I had no liking for her. It is no untruth to 
 assert, that, for the past few weeks, she 
 had utterly forgotten the girl's existence, 
 so completely had May been shut up in her 
 own rosy world; and yet here was the 
 splendid Katheriue, standing dishevelled, 
 like a storm-sprite, at the door of her little 
 home. 
 
 " Let me in, and don't look so amazed 
 to see me," cried Katheriue, in the light, 
 amused tone which she had always used 
 with May. " For goodness' sake shut the 
 door, and give me a welcome. I think I 
 deserve one after riding so far to see you." 
 
 " I beg your pardon," said May : " do 
 come in to the fire. Oh, dear, how wet 
 you are, and how splashed with snow and 
 mud I You must change your clothes im- 
 mediately. And who has come with you ? 
 There is somebody still outside in the 
 cold." 
 
 " There is nobody," said Katheriue : '' I 
 came alone." 
 
 " Alone 1 " echoed May. " And do your 
 father and mother know it ? " 
 
 " Perhaps, by this time," said Katheriue 
 
 carelessly. "But you know I never ask 
 leave for what I do. I left a written mes- 
 sage, which they will find, no doubt ; but 
 first they shall have a fright." 
 
 " How could you be so cruel ? " burst 
 forth May. 
 
 " There, little goody, hold your tongue I 
 and don't scold," said Katheriue, tossing off 
 her hat. " I choose to punish every one 
 who tyrannizes over me. They are very safe, 
 since they find I have not drowned myself, 
 nor eloped with some bog-trotter, as they 
 will hav^ been wise enough to suppose. In 
 the mean time, are you going to be my 
 enemy, or my friend ? " 
 
 " Your friend," said May ; " and I have 
 no right to scold you, nor to pry into your 
 affairs. Of course, I think you wrong ; but 
 I also think you wet and tired : and your 
 horse ? Did any one take your horse ? " 
 
 Katheriue laughed. " I let him go 3,t 
 the gate," said she ; " and he will trot back 
 to Camlough." 
 
 " And terrify your parents ? " * 
 
 " Probably," replied Katheriue. " For 
 Heaven's sake, don't stare so ! but get me 
 some dry clothes, as you said you would. 
 They will send me some things presently, 
 but I have brought nothing with me." 
 
 May said no more, but led her unexpect- 
 ed visitor away to her own chamber. It 
 was the very same room in which she had 
 dressed her once before, when they were 
 children. It was the most whimsical room 
 in the house, all nooks and angles, and from 
 its sloping ceiling and the many twists ia 
 its walls, wa? peculiarly well suited to show 
 off the gambols of the goblins which fire- 
 light will set capering. It had been made 
 out of a bit of an old sacristy ; and there was 
 a rather grim and sorrowful ghost of a 
 sculptured crucifix in bas-relief on the wall, 
 all chipped, and almost worn away by time ; 
 besides some cherubs' heads with curly locks 
 and round cheeks, broken noses and pout- 
 ing lips, clustered under the slantings in the 
 corners of the ceiling. In the midst of 
 these relics, flourished all the little nicetitjs 
 which a gu'l loves to gather round her in 
 her own particular sanctum. The guest 
 having been arrrayed in' the prettiest gown 
 the hostess possessed, and placed in a com- 
 tbrtable chair at the hearth, May went 
 down on her knees to make the fire burn 
 more brightly. Bridget brought fresh fuel, 
 and took a message to Miss Martha. 
 
 " Allow me," said Katheriue ; and she 
 took the little bundles of slicks irom Brid- 
 get's hand, and ted the flames with them, 
 from time to time, as she talked. May sat 
 on the hearth-rug, and listened to her talk- 
 ing. 
 
THE FAGOTS BURN. 
 
 81 
 
 " You wonder, I suppose, what brought 
 me away from home in such a hurry, and 
 what made me come here to give my com- 
 pany to you ? You are dying with curiosi- 
 ty, and yet you are too polite to ask." 
 
 Here Katherine cast a stick upon the 
 blazing fire. 
 
 "You see, my father and mother have 
 pleased tliemselves to be angry with me. 
 They are q:ute out of humor because I 
 wisli to amuse myself. It is beyond all 
 reason, their wanting to dictate to me. 
 They sulked at me for a week about that 
 Christopher. By the way, he came here, 
 and made a fuss, did he not ? " 
 
 " He came here and nearly died," said 
 May. 
 
 Katherine shrugged her shoulders, and 
 looked complacent ; and another stick was 
 tossed into the flanles. 
 
 " Well, I can't help it. If people will be 
 so silly, I am not to be held accountable. 
 It was a pity to lose the money, but I did 
 not think of that. People begin to think 
 of money when they grow a little older. 
 When one has had all that one could fancy, 
 it is not easy to learn prudence ; and Sir 
 John and Lady Archbold need not try to 
 teach me now. I could not bring them to 
 their senses without giving them a fright. 
 They shall be frightened for twelve hours ; 
 till my maid shall find a letter, as if by the 
 merest chance : and then they will send 
 my trunks. They shall be very anxious to 
 see me before they get me back again." 
 
 May was silent. With all her wish to be 
 hospitable, she could not find in her heart 
 that she was glad of the chance that had 
 brought Miss Archbold to Monasterlea. 
 Katherine, meantime, fed the flames with 
 a lavish hand ; and the fire leaped and 
 burned with a good roar in the chimney : 
 and May looked up, and suddenly saw that 
 the sticks which the visitor held in her lap 
 were those very wicked fagots which she 
 herself had hidden out of sight, and forgot- 
 ten. It was not at all wonderful that 
 Bridget should have found them, and turned 
 them to account ; but May did not like to 
 see them in Katherine's hands. A strange 
 ■fit of superstitious bewilderment came upon 
 her ; she saw impish spirits dancing through 
 the flames, and clambering up the smoke- 
 ladders, and mocking at her as if they had 
 overreached her. Turning her eyes from 
 the fire, she saw Katherine's defiant face 
 shining through the glamor made by the 
 upspringing of the flames, and the down- 
 pressing of the shadows around her glitter- 
 ing, golden head. At the same moment 
 she heard the muflied sound of Paul's voice 
 and steps in the outer hall. The sound 
 
 seemed dim and far away, and did not 
 break cheerfully upon the strange mood 
 that had befallen her. Instead of that, it 
 mixed itself up with a sense of approaching 
 danger which she was powerless to avert. 
 The danger had come with Katherine, and 
 was wrapped up in her ; belonged to Kathe- 
 rine, and would work through her. She 
 was the instrument of all the evil that was, 
 in truth, haunting Paul. She had come as 
 ill-luck to Monasterlea. 
 
 Sympathy with Paul's troubles was mak- 
 ing May superstitious. She was attacked 
 by this terror as by a fit of sudden sick- 
 ness, and, making an effort to shake it off, 
 sprang up kneeling on the hearth. 
 
 " Hark 1 " said Katherine, dropping the 
 fagots, and holding up her jewelled finger. 
 " There is the lover. Is he not the lover ? 
 How angry you were that day when I 
 showed you to yourself! How you denied 
 my penetration! Well, was I not right? 
 Has not all that I predicted come to pass V " 
 
 " No," said May, " you were altogether 
 wrong." 
 
 " Pley-day ! What is that ? Are you 
 not engaged to the handsome Paul '.' " 
 
 " Yes ; but I would rather not talk about 
 it." 
 
 " Get away with you ! " said Katherine. 
 " You are as prim as an old maid. When 
 are you to be married ? " 
 
 " Oh, 1 do not know I there is much to 
 be done first." 
 
 " Is there, indeed ? And you are both 
 good and patient ? " 
 
 " We are both very happy," said May, 
 simply. 
 
 " How nice to be looking on at such a 
 pretty pair of lovers ! " said Katherine. 
 " So patient and so happy, in spite of a 
 long, long fengagement with a vague, vague 
 ending I That is what I shall be doing 
 while I am here. It will interest me ex- 
 tremely. You must' introduce me to your 
 Paul. I shall be civil to him for your sake, 
 and he will like me I dare say. Perhaps, 
 he will remember having seen me before." 
 
 " He remembers you," said May mechan- 
 ically, with her eyes on a half-burnt fagot 
 between the bars. 
 
 " Oh ! he told you so when you repeat- 
 ed to him all that folly which I talked 
 about him at Camlough." 
 
 An involuntary look of disgust crept for 
 a moment into May's eyes. It did not es- 
 cape Katherine, nor was she likely to for- 
 get it when it presently disappeared. 
 
 " You are mistaken in me," said May. 
 " I could not so betray any one." 
 
 " Ah 1 that is good of you. Primness, I 
 see, sometimes does one a service. I re- 
 
S2 
 
 THE WICKED -WOODS OF TOBEEEEVIL. 
 
 member now that I made you promise to 
 forget tliat conversation." 
 
 " I bave a better memory than you." 
 
 " You have a better every thing, my dear, 
 except physique and self-will. I jield to no 
 one in beauty ; and I have a talent for hav- 
 ing my own way, which amounts to genius. 
 You shall see it in full working before I 
 have been here long." 
 
 May looked up brightly, and laughed at 
 her audacity, which, she yet knew very well, 
 was not a merry jest. After all, this was 
 no unearthly creature of unhallowed powers 
 not to be baffled ; but only wild Katherine 
 Archbold. It was her nature to do mis- 
 chief where she could : but May had a sub- 
 tle power of bar own,' of which she was not 
 all unconscious ; and she would not fear any 
 other woman on' earth, were that other wo- 
 man incarnate beauty itself. Something 
 of this Katherine found in the speaking, 
 dark eyes. So she became more offensive. 
 
 " Are you desperately in love with your 
 fine Paul ? " she asked. 
 
 " I don't dislike him,'' said May. 
 
 " Bah ! " said Katherine, provoked. . " As 
 if I did not know that you are a soft little 
 fool, ready to love anybody ! " 
 
 May colored. " Not anybody," she 
 said ; " not, you, for instance." 
 
 " Oh, she has lost her temper at last ! 
 Not me ? Well, look hero. I will make a 
 bargain with you. You be^in to love me 
 with all your might, and T will give you 
 this pretty ring. It is worth a hundred 
 guineas." 
 
 The diamonds flashed in the light of the 
 blazing fagots as Katherine held the ring 
 poised on the end of her little finger. 
 
 May put her hands behind her back. 
 " Keep it," she said. " I am too poor to 
 give you even the wretched price you ask 
 for it." 
 
 Katherine frowned and smiled. " I al- 
 ways knew you were obstinate," she said ; 
 " but you are sharper than I thought you." 
 
 There was a sudden silence between the 
 two girls. It was as if both had understood 
 that there had been more under their words 
 than either had to utter. Again the fire- 
 light played its pranks about the guest's 
 golden head, and threw strange meanings 
 into her eyes, and laid ominous touches 
 upon her mouth ; and again the supersti- 
 tious, unaccountable terror of approaching 
 harm gathered round May's heart, till a wel- 
 come household sound in the passage broke 
 the spell, and she felt ashamed of herself. 
 
 " Come ! " she said, " we are a silly pair 
 to stay here sparring at one another. 
 Don't you think we had better go, and be 
 sociable in the parlor ? My aunt is wait- 
 
 ing for us, and I want to present you to Mr. 
 Finiston." 
 
 " AVait ! " said Katherine. She had 
 lighted the only remaining stick of the 
 wicked fagots. She held the blazing wood 
 in her hand, and watched it burn away 
 slowly towards her fingers, while a lurkin" 
 smile played about the corners of her 
 mouth. '• I am reading your future. I am 
 looking to see whether you will be married 
 to your Paul. If the burnt part breaks and 
 drops away before the flame reaches my fin- 
 ger it is the breaking of your engagement. 
 Watch, watch ! It is gone I " 
 
 The piece of red charcoal had dropped 
 on the hearth. Katherine tossed the burn- 
 ing morsel that remained into the fire. 
 The flames dropped in the grate, and the 
 room was in darkness. 
 
 " Don't be a goose I " said May, and 
 opened the door into the lighted passage. 
 
 But Katherine was not accustomed to be 
 called a goose. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 MISS archbold's trunks arkive. 
 
 There is a secret now to be told which 
 must be whispered low, for the winds may 
 not hear that Sir John Archbold, , tlie 
 wealthy, was fast becoming impoverished ; 
 that his princely magnificence and hospi- 
 tality had brought the once overflowing 
 contents of his purse to a low ebb ; and that 
 his own extravagance, helped by that of 
 his wife, and especially that of his daugh- 
 ter, now threatened to sweep him to ruin 
 unless some speedy change were effected 
 in the management of his affairs. His pride 
 could not brook confession to the world, — 
 the world that had visited at his palace of 
 delight, built up amongst mountains which 
 his will alone had made accessible to man. 
 He had seated luxury on a throne on the 
 very summit of the wilderness ; and now 
 the thought of falling from his eyr}-, and 
 building himself a lower nest, was like the 
 bitterness of death. Sickening with such 
 bitterness, he had tolerated the wooing of 
 his child by Christopher Lee ; for money 
 was great and desirable in his eyes. Kath- 
 erine, however, had chosen to dismiss 
 Christopher ; and she must now be warned 
 of the shallowness of that purse which she 
 had hitherto believed to be deep as the At- 
 lantic. The secret of the decadence of the 
 Camlough wealth was whispered to her , 
 fearfully by the now unhappy mother, who 
 had reared her to be selfish and greedy, and 
 
MISS akchbold's teunks arrive. 
 
 83 
 
 ■without heart. To this mother's whisper, 
 there had succeeded a storm : such a tem- 
 pest had shaken the house of Archbold as 
 bad never yet been let loose upon it out of 
 the clouds and caves of the upper moun- 
 tains ; and, whilst the storm was raging, 
 Sir John took occasion to announce his in- 
 tention of staying at Camlough all the year, 
 without going to London, as usual, for the 
 season. He would liide himstlf in his fast- 
 nesses on pretence of making improvements, 
 and ponder the means of saving the splen- 
 dor of his fame. Meanwhile he would only 
 have such visitors as it might please him to 
 invite. Katherine must content herself 
 with simplicity and seclusion ; for the gloom 
 of fear had made the father stern towards 
 this daughter, who had almost worn out his 
 ail'ection by the constant <lisplay of her self- 
 ishness and folly. 
 
 Now, Katherine's newest whim had been 
 to pay a visit, uninvited, to Monasterlea. 
 Miss Martha was amazed at the young 
 lady's condescension and friendliness, and 
 remarked to Paul that it was cjuite wonder- 
 ful to see how some people would turn out 
 well, no matter how the world tried to spoil 
 them. As for that story, about Christopher, 
 she had long since thought that the poor 
 girl had been blamed very unfairly. AVhy 
 should she have been bound to marry 
 Christoy>her ? May had found it very hard 
 to be asked to do so in order to save the 
 young man's fortune, and she had no doubt, 
 that Katherine had found it every bit as 
 hard. One could not form a just opinion 
 upon any matter of the kind until one had 
 thought about it a little, and heard both 
 sides of the story. And Aunt Martha, 
 when she saw Katherine's beautiful face in 
 her parlor, asking a welcome with beseech- 
 ing smiles, thought that she had at last 
 ample evidence that Miss Archbold had 
 been hardly used. 
 
 " It proves to me, my dear, that we ought 
 not to be too hasty," she -said to May. 
 " Vie ought .not to blame any one." 
 
 " I do not say a word against her," said 
 May. And she doubled up her little fist 
 under her apron with the mighty effort to 
 control her tongue. 
 
 These remarks were interchanged in the 
 liall, as Miss Martha, who liad stepped out 
 for the express purpose of thus relieving 
 her feelings, met May bearing towards the 
 parlor that antique silver teapot which was 
 the pride of her aunt's heart, followed by 
 Bridget swaying under a tray of good things 
 which might have nourished a small family 
 for a week. May, entering with her tea- 
 pot, found Paul and Katherine sitting on 
 either side of the hearth, as friendly as pos- 
 
 sible, and engaged in lively conversation. 
 Katherine was laughing gayly ; and Paul 
 was looking very well pleased, seeing that 
 he had succeeded so thoroughly in amusing 
 a pretty and witty woman. The visitor was 
 looking dazzling after her madcap ride, 
 glowing and glittering with all that bewil- 
 dering light and color which made her 
 beauty so fascinating. All traces of the 
 half-satirical vein of humor which she could 
 show to May had vanished. Pier manner 
 to Paul and Miss Martha, was gentle, ad- 
 miring, winning, and defereutial, whilst her 
 brilliant chatter brimmed with wit, and her 
 readiness to be amused was surprising and 
 delightful. May was scarcely suffered to 
 add a mite to the conversation ; for Kathe- 
 rine had a trick of stealing the words from 
 her mouth before they were spoken, and" of 
 gracefully throwing ridicule over every 
 remark which she permitted her to make. 
 Yet this was done so cleverly, that nobody 
 but May felt its meaning or its persisten- 
 
 May bore it patiently and wi th good hu- 
 mor. Here, in Paul's presence, the super- 
 stitious sense of uneasiness could not touch 
 her. She was thoroughly satisfied with 
 Paul's love for herself,, and did not fear for 
 a moment that; any man or woman could 
 destroy or even weaken their mutual ten- 
 derness and trust ; so she laughed with 
 Katherine at every jest that was turned 
 against herself, and submitted to play the 
 simpleton with a, very lovely grace. The 
 little parlor rang with merriment that even- 
 ing. Katherine mimicked everybody, vis- 
 itors, servants, peasants, and aristocrats, 
 giving vivid pictures of various phases of 
 life. It was only when the play was played 
 out, and her voice hushed for the night, 
 that one might remember, in the quietness 
 which succeeded, the vein of unmerciful 
 harshness and contempt which had run 
 through her representations of human ma- 
 ture. 
 
 The next morning Paul came to break- 
 fast ; and May, as was usual on such occa- 
 sions, went tripping over the snow to meet 
 him. Paul's high spirits still endured. He 
 had not had a fit of gloom since he had be- 
 come agent to the miser. Naturally the 
 conversation turned upon Katherine. 
 
 " She is a beautiful creature ! " said Paul. 
 
 " See is very beautiful," said Mav. 
 
 " And friendly," said Paul. "'She re- 
 members quite freshly every circumstance 
 of my former acquaintance with her. 
 There was so little of it one would think 
 she might have forgotten. With all her 
 flatterers and admirers, of whom we have 
 heard so much, one would hardly expect 
 
84 
 
 THE WICKED WOODS OF TOBEREEVIL, 
 
 that she could have a lively recollection of 
 an insignificant fellow like me." 
 
 " Paul," said May, with a sudden and 
 passionate impulse, " don't let her push me 
 out of your heart. Little and poor as I am. 
 I can be more to you than she could be." 
 
 " INIy darling," said Paul, surprised, " you 
 might as well ask me with that wistful face 
 not to give myself over to the Evil One. 
 You will not let me stray away from you ? 
 This little hand, though small, will hold 
 me." 
 
 " I do not know that," said May. " If I 
 saw you willing to go I don't think I could 
 brini myself to hold you." 
 
 " You could," said Paul, " and it would 
 be as much your duty as if you were al- 
 ready my wedded wife. No marriage vow 
 can bind us to each other more solemnly 
 than we are bound : but of one thing be 
 certain, — my heart has no room to spare for 
 any woman besides yourself. Miss Arch- 
 bold is beautiful and charming in a won- 
 derful degree, but sbe is the last woman in 
 the world whom I could associate with a 
 thought of tenderness. You had much bet- 
 ter be jealous of your good Aunt Martha." 
 
 " I used to tliink that I could not be 
 jealous," said May ; " but now I fear that I 
 could, if it were not that I so utterly hate 
 and despise the feeling." 
 
 " ILite and despise it more," said Paul, 
 " though that is scarcely worth your while ; 
 for I swear to you that provocation shall 
 never come in your way. We want one 
 another, my love, and divided we could not 
 thrive. I, at least, want you. Any tiling 
 that parted us would be the sure and com- 
 plete ruin of Paul Finiston. Then, indeed, 
 would the curse have its will of nie. I 
 should go down to destruction just as cer- 
 tainly as any Finiston of them all." 
 
 "You must not- think that," said May; 
 but instinctively she tightened her hold 
 upon bis arm. 
 
 May was used to this kind of talk, and 
 she had ceased to be frightened at it. She 
 believed very earnestly in the mystiTy of 
 the Finistoas, and the idea was a rapture 
 to her that sbe was thus strong in her weak- 
 ness to be a safeguard to Paul. Yet on tliis 
 special morning there was sometliing that 
 pressed on her with a vague fear of danger'; 
 and somehow, despise it as she would, the 
 uneasiness was associated with Katherine. 
 The thought of jealousy was indeed a folly 
 to her, and it was not jealousy that she 
 now felt. The fear was not of sorrow nor 
 of disappointment for herself, but of harm 
 for Paul, through whom alone she could be 
 made to sull'er. She had no separate inter- 
 ests, no selfish feelings to be hurt, no pride 
 
 to be wounded, no vanity to be stung. She 
 felt herself indeed a part of Paul. There 
 was something in the idea of the possibility 
 of their being separated, as put forth by 
 him at this moment, whilst her own mind 
 was troubled, that struck her with unusual 
 sharpness; as if, indeed, there had been 
 some invisible and unholy power, the 
 strength of which was pitted against them, 
 striving to tear them asunder. In the 
 deathly quiet of the winter morning they 
 stood still upon the road and looked in each 
 other's face. The Woods of Tobereevil lay 
 in gaunt masses before their eyes, frowning 
 out of a ragged shroud of snow. In the 
 snow-time the old legend always seemed 
 more real than at any other moment, and 
 there was always a ghastliness upon the 
 country while the white sheeting covered 
 the wicked trees and their roots. The 
 " awful babe of death," and his frozen 
 mother, seemed to lie stark and stiff under 
 every snow-wreath ; and it was easy to im- 
 agine that the feeble shred of smoke from 
 one chimney of the mansion ascended at 
 that moment from the blighted hearth-place 
 of the first Paul Finiston. May locked her 
 hands together upon Paul's supporting arm, 
 and her eyes flashed defiance at the ranks 
 of the wicked woods. 
 
 " I tell yoU," she said, as the flame soft- 
 ened in her eyes, when they mot Paul's 
 gaze, " be they men, women, or demons, 
 they shall tear me in little pieces before I 
 loose my hold of you ! " 
 
 After that the mood of both changed, and 
 they returned to Monasterlea as merry as 
 two children. Katherine had not all the 
 wit to herself at the breakfast-table ; for 
 May's tongue was so loosened by joy that 
 it did clever work just as prettily as any 
 innocent tongue that ever yet sent music 
 out of a woman's smiling mouth. 
 
 After breakfast Bridget announced that 
 a travelling-carriage was on its way down 
 the road to Monasterlea. Adnt Martha 
 vanished to put on her afternoon cap, 
 Katherine was in her room, and May re- 
 ceived Lady Archbold in the cottage parlor. 
 
 " My daughter is here 1 " she said ea- 
 gerly, looking in May's face. 
 
 " Yes," said May, " since yesterday in 
 the evening." 
 
 Laily Archbold was relieved. Her child 
 at least was safe ; but now that her fears 
 were allayed, the uneasiness that she had 
 sutfered showed itself in irritation and 
 anger. 
 
 " You sliould not have taken her in ; 
 you ought not to have kept her," she said. 
 " Why did not your aunt send her home to 
 mo at once ? " 
 
MISS AECHBOLD'S TRUNKS AEEIVB. 
 
 85 
 
 " We never thought of such a thing. 
 We could not have done it. The night 
 was wild, and think of the distance ! " 
 
 Lady Archbold moaned a little, and 
 wrung her hands slowly as she held down 
 the storm of her indignation. She looked 
 up with her feverish glance, and saw a sym- 
 pathy ia May's eyes which invited her to 
 speak. 
 
 " Katherine is not good to me," she said ; 
 " Katherine is not good to me. Now, pro- 
 mise me that you will never repeat this to 
 any one in the world." 
 
 "I promise," said May; "but. Lady 
 Archbold, don't be hard upon her. You 
 have spoiled her a little, I dare say." And 
 May took part with Katherine in pity to 
 the poor mother who was blaming her. 
 
 " Ah, that is it, but she might at least 
 remember that it was our love for her that 
 did it. I would give the heart out of my 
 bosom, if she only would love me, and be 
 a little tender with her mother. Look at 
 me, young girl ! I was as proud as the 
 very eagles in the mountains ; and yet love 
 for her has brought me to this, that I am 
 whimpering here to you like the beggar 
 that comes to your gate. I reared her, and 
 I'ashioned her to be a fit wife for a prince ; 
 but I would give her cheerfully to the 
 poorest gentleman that ever yet loved her, 
 and portion her with every penny and 
 jewel I possess, if she would only show 
 me one warm spot in her breast where I 
 might live and find comfort for the remain- 
 der of my days. But, oh me ! how she 
 wounds this poor aching heart ! " 
 
 " She does not mean it," said May, still 
 pleading for the mother's heart rather 
 than for the daughter. " She will be 
 sorry when you talk to her. She is wilful 
 and impulsive, but she will be wiser by 
 and by." 
 
 "Ah, you do not know her. By and 
 by I shall grow as cold and indiiferent 
 as she is. I shall be harsh with her, for 
 she will have turned all my love into bit- 
 terness ; but she will soon be freed from 
 me, for I shall die. In the mean time, I 
 came here to bring her back with me to 
 Camlough." 
 
 " I am afraid she will not go,'' said May, 
 knowing that Katherine had a great mind 
 to stay at Monasterlea. 
 
 " Ah, will not go I " panted Lady Arch- 
 bold. " Perhaps, Miss Mourne, you sym- 
 pathize with her in this. Perhaps you 
 wish to keep her against my will. You 
 will repent it if you do. Mind, I say to 
 you, you shall repent it I " 
 
 " I do not sympathize with her," said 
 May, "nor wish to keep her; but if she 
 
 insists on staying, we cannot drive her 
 away." 
 
 " But you ought to drive her away," 
 flashed forth Lady Archbold, whose pas- 
 sion rose against opposition. " You have 
 a lover, I am told ; and you had better 
 look to it. You will not stand beside my 
 Katherine. If you persist 'in keeping her 
 by you, your lover will not be your lover 
 many days. She will delight in taking 
 him from you, in breaking both his heart 
 and yours." 
 
 May grew a little pale at the coarse 
 way in which so sacred a subject was 
 handled. 
 
 " I don't think that will be in her power," 
 she said. 
 
 "You think so, do you? Well, I have 
 warned you to keep watch ovfir your prop- 
 erty." 
 
 " Lady Archbold," said May, " you do 
 not understand me. I shall neither watch 
 nor fear." 
 
 " You are a fool," said Lady Archbold ; 
 " a great fool, but an honest one. Oh -me, 
 oh me I Will not my child come to speak 
 to me ? " 
 
 " She does not know you are here," said 
 May. " I will go at once and send her to 
 you." And she hurried away, leaving the 
 mother rocking herself sorrowfully in her 
 chair,, and making again that slow wring- 
 ing movement with her hands, as if she 
 would force back the tide of bitterness 
 that was always seething in her breast. 
 
 May went and knocked at Katherine's 
 door. 
 
 " Lady Archbold is here, and wants to 
 see you." 
 
 " Lady Archbold already ! Nonsense. 
 Well, we must allow that the old lady has 
 been pretty active. I shall go to her 
 presently, when I have finished dressing 
 my hair. I wonder what she has come for." 
 
 " She hopes you will return with her," 
 said May. 
 
 " Then her hopes are vain, my dear, for 
 you are not going to get rid of me so 
 quickly. Your good Aunt Martha has in- 
 vited me to stay here as long as it suits 
 my humor ; ai)d it very much suits my 
 humor to take advantage of her kindness : 
 so you may tell Lady Archbold, without 
 waiting till I am ready, that she can trot 
 the fat horses back to Camlough when 
 she likes ; " and Katherine swept a glitter- 
 ing braid upward as she spoke, and added 
 its weight to the golden coronet which she 
 was building on her head. 
 
 " I cannot take that message,'' said May. 
 " I should go to her at once if I were 
 you." 
 
86 
 
 THE WICKED "WOODS OF TOBEKEEVIL. 
 
 "But you are not me," said Katherine 
 •with complacency ; and she surveyed May 
 all over with a slight sweeping glance, and 
 with a faint smile upon her lip, as if to say, 
 " Hovr audacious to suggest such a compar- 
 ison ! " " However, I will go to her now ; 
 and r will beg of you to have my trunks 
 . carried here in 'the mean time." 
 
 '• I believe there are no trunks," said 
 May : " I have not seen any." 
 
 " No trunks ! " cried Katherine ; and her 
 brows lowered, and an expression of rude 
 anger gloomed out, and extinguished the 
 beauty in her face. "I think Lady Arch- 
 bold would not come here without the 
 trunks." 
 
 But evidently she admitted the idea 
 that the trunks had not been brought, for 
 her face did not brighten as she took her 
 way to the parlor. 
 
 The door was closed upon mother and 
 daughter. By and by sounds were beard, 
 from the room ; echoes of voices speaking 
 in high-pitched tones, vibrating with pas- 
 sion. Afterwards there was silence, and 
 then low murmurs and sobbing. Aunt 
 Martha came creeping softly into her 
 niece's room. 
 
 " May, this is dreadful ! That harsh, 
 haughty I woman will break that bright 
 young creature's heart. Only to hear the 
 poor child sobbing through the wall '! " 
 
 " Are you sure it is she who is sobbing ? " 
 asked May. 
 
 " My dear, come into the store-room, 
 and believe your own ears. I have been 
 there making some custard, aTid it is all 
 curdled with the excitement." 
 
 " Well, aunty, the poor lady was in 
 great trouble when I left her; and she 
 wants her daughter to go home." 
 
 " Home, indeed I Don't tell me I Does 
 a girl run away from home when she is 
 treated there with gentleness ? Did you 
 ever run away from here ? Just answer 
 me that ! A proud, hard woman, not fit 
 to bring up a daughter." 
 
 " If the mother wants to take her, I don't 
 see how you can keep her." 
 
 " But I will keep her; that is, if she is 
 anxious to stay witli me. Let the mother 
 go home, and cool her temper a little. The 
 girl has asked me for shelter, and I prom- 
 ise you she shall get it." 
 
 As Miss Martha spoke, the parlor door 
 opened violently, and Lady Archbold 
 made her way rapidly down the garden 
 path to her carriage. Miss Martha thanked 
 Heaven, and went back to her store-room ; 
 and May met Katherine returning to her 
 chamber. There were two red spots on 
 the young lady's cheeks, but her eyes 
 
 were dry and bright. It was not she who 
 had wept so piteously as to spoil Miss 
 Martha's custard. The eyes that had shed 
 the tears were still weeping themselves 
 blind as they were hurried along through 
 the snow back to Camlough. 
 
 The next day Katherine's trunks did 
 actually arrive, laden with the costly and 
 beautiful raiment in which Miss Archbold 
 loved to deck herself. Miss Martha mar- 
 velled not a little when she saw their num- 
 ber and proportions ; and Bridget's head 
 was completely turned for a whole week by 
 the visions of grandeur which dazzled her 
 eyes whilst she was engaged in making up 
 Miss Archbold's room. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVin. 
 
 PAUX'S TROUBLES BEGIN. 
 
 Days passed, and Katherine had domes- 
 ticated herself thoroughly at Monasterlea. 
 She had taken possession of all the best 
 things in the house with the most charming 
 good-will. The prettiest and most comfort- 
 able furniture had been carried into her 
 room, and she had the warmest seat at the 
 fire and at the table. The little red couch 
 under the black archway in the parlor, 
 wliich was covered with Miss Martha's 
 knitting, and cushioned with pillows 
 stuffed with down off Miss Martha's own 
 geese, she had at once made quite her own. 
 She had taken possession of Bridget, so 
 that the hand-maiden did little besides 
 attend upon Miss Archbold. The visitor 
 had also her hostess in thorough subjec- 
 tion ; and she wrought her will pretty freely 
 upon Blay, in spite of that young lady's 
 rebellion against the tyranny of her rule. 
 
 But Katherine's attentions were chiefly 
 devoted to Paul, and to no one else did she 
 care to be agreeable. All through the 
 dark winter days, in the quiet little cottage, 
 she was restless and troublesome, and 
 sorely tried the patience of her entertainers ; 
 but, when the evening brought Paul, her 
 mood was sure to change. She took as 
 much pains to amuse May's lover as though 
 her life had depended on his being merry ; 
 and Paul was glad to be amused, though 
 he did not like Katherine. 
 
 He did not like Katherine, and yet it 
 was certain that she exercised an extraor- 
 dinary influence over his actions. She 
 absorbed his attention, in spite of his dis- 
 satisfaction and unwillingness to gratify 
 her. She exacted from him a hundred 
 
PAUL'S TROUBLES BEGIK. 
 
 87 
 
 little marts of homage, sucli as May had 
 never looked for, nor thought of. He 
 became so busy with her, and so tormented 
 by her, that he soon found he had very 
 little-time to, attend to liis business. He 
 became Curiously changed in a sliort space 
 of time, his temper alternating between 
 bursts of anger at himself and her, indulged 
 in generally during the hours of his absence 
 from lier side, and unreasoning fits of mirth, 
 which almost invariably took possession of 
 him whilst in her presence, and left bitter- 
 ness of heart and exhaustion of body when 
 they passed away. 
 
 Meanwhile May stood aside patiently, 
 not wondering that the brilliant beauty 
 should be found more amusing and attrac- 
 tive than herself She stifled her heart- 
 ache, for was she not sure of Paul's love ? 
 And why need she be jealous and ungen- 
 erous and unkind ? Tender trust such as 
 Paul felt in her was a thousand times more 
 precious than the admiration of a moment. 
 Thei'efore she would be tolerant, and await, 
 howevei- longingly, the happy hour when 
 Katherine should take her way back to 
 Camlough ; but as weeks went by, and Paul's 
 strange unhappiness increased, all thought 
 of her own pain passed away, and keen fear 
 for his welfare caused her a misery far 
 more sharp than she had yet suffered. It 
 was but a short time since he had begged 
 her to save him from any thing that should 
 look to her like the beginning of that evil 
 which he believed to lie in wait for him; 
 and it seemed to her now that it was time 
 to be up and doing for his sake. 
 
 One night the three young people were 
 sitting late over the fire. The keeping of 
 late hours made one of the changes which 
 Katherine liad introduced into the house. 
 She loved to amuse herself a long way into 
 the night, though the servants grumbled, 
 and even Miss Martha was dissatisfied. 
 The mild old lady had been obliged to 
 yield the point. She might go to bed her- 
 self when her eyes" could not keep open, but 
 midnight often found the three young heads 
 bent together over the fire. May on such 
 occasions would be as merry as her guest. 
 She would have laugh for laugh, and jest 
 for jest, with Katherine ; and she would not 
 be disheartened even when she found that 
 Paul would listen to the stranger, and would 
 give little heed to her. 
 
 " Tell me about Tobereevil," said Kath- 
 erine to Paul. "I have heard scraps of 
 the history, but I want to know it all. 
 •There could not he a better time for an 
 Uncomfortable story." 
 
 Paul's face darkened, as he gloomily pre- 
 pared to comply with her request. He 
 
 went steadily through the whole of the 
 wild tale, passing from one strange hero to 
 another amongst his ancestors, till he fin- 
 ished with Simon, the present terror of the 
 country. 
 
 " Oh, dear I " said Katherine, when he 
 liad done, " and you are the next of kin. 
 Why, the end of it is that you will be the 
 richest man in Ireland." 
 
 " That is it," said Paul ; " and there will 
 not be many wealthier elsewhere. I have 
 lately been calculating the old man's 
 wealth. Think of the accumulation during 
 many hundreds of years I " 
 
 He said this with his brow bent, and his 
 eyes on the fire, and a look in his face 
 which May had never seen there before. 
 
 " What is this old man like '! " asked 
 Katherine, who had lost all her levity, and 
 become for once grave and earnest. " Is 
 he very old ? Is he in good health ? Is 
 he likely to die soon." 
 
 " That is as may be,'' said Paul grimly. 
 " He may live long enough unless some 
 one interfere to help him out of the world 
 before his time. You know, it is on the 
 cards that I, being his kinsman, may do 
 him that good office." 
 
 " But you could never be so silly I " 
 cried Katherine eagerly. '■ You would 
 be probably found out ; and, if you did es- 
 cape punishment, there would still be a 
 great deal of trouble and unpleasantness. 
 Besides, if you are of a superstitious turn 
 of mind, as I strongly suspect you to be, it 
 might interfere with the enjoyment of 
 your happiness." 
 
 " That is true,' said Paul dryly. " It 
 is a view of the matter which I did not 
 take before ; but then — suppose I turn 
 into a miser, and some bolder kinsman 
 comes forward, and murders me ? It might 
 be wiser to take the thing into my own 
 hands." 
 
 "Nonsense!" said Katherine. "I for- 
 bid you to ruin j'ourself by any thing so 
 silly. Have a little patience, and don't 
 believe in bogies. The old man will die, 
 and you will get possession of all the 
 wealth. You will leave this mouldy place, 
 and become a great man in England, where 
 taste and money are appreciated. You are 
 cultivated and accomplished. You can 
 have your will of all the good things of the 
 world. You may marry the handsomest 
 woman of your time — but oh, I forgot ! I 
 beg your pardon 1 " and Katherine glanced 
 at May, and laughed in make-believe con- 
 fusion. 
 
 But May was bravely at her post, and 
 outlaughed her. 
 " Go on, please,'' she Said blithely. " Go 
 
88 
 
 THE WICKED WOODS OF TOBEEEEVIL. 
 
 on, and finish the story. We must let noth- 
 ing interfere with the hero's grandeur. 
 You must wed him to a princess — unless, 
 indued, you can find an unmarried queen. 
 You are bound not to stop until you have 
 placed, him on a throne." 
 
 " I am bound to no such thing 1 " said 
 Katherine pettishly. " And he shall not 
 go on a throne, for kings are wretched 
 creatures." 
 
 " Well," said May, " that does not prove 
 that your hero may not be a king. You 
 have not done any thing for him yet to pre- 
 vent his being a very wretched creature ; 
 but all I say is this, that I hope he will be 
 allowed to look after his poor subjects in 
 these parts. There is a long account due 
 to them from the forefathers of his majesty. 
 We will include the settling of this amongst 
 the pleasures you have mentioned." 
 
 Katherine laughed a cynical laugh. " No, 
 indeed ! " she said, " no such thing I My 
 hero shall send Tobereevil to the hammer. 
 Ho shall fly from this land of beggars and 
 of bogs. , Ho shall revel in his inheritance, 
 not squander it for nothing." 
 
 " We talk about ' my hero,' and ' my 
 hero,' " said May smilingly ; " but the heir 
 of Tobereevil must declare for himself. 
 Let him speak, and say if he will turn his 
 back upon his people." 
 
 Both bright pairs of eyes were turned on 
 Paul, May's with more eagerness and anx- 
 iety lurking in them than their owner cared 
 that they should betray. Paul grew trou- 
 bled and embarrassed under their gaze. 
 
 '■ I don't know," he said : " I am not pre- 
 pared to declare ; but I am not sure that 
 the wisest plan for the future master of 
 Tobereevil would not be to get rid of tlie 
 whole thing, and leave the curse and the 
 woods to rot or flourish as they please." 
 
 May grew pale ; but she answered readi- 
 ly, before Katherine had time to speak. 
 
 " Well, there will be time enough to de- 
 cide when the right moment comes. In 
 the mean while, is it not time that this 
 meeting should break up ? " 
 
 And the meeting did break up. Kath- 
 erine had achieved triumph enough to last 
 , her for one night, and went singing down 
 the cloisters to her chamber. She sang 
 her light song while she unbound her gold- 
 en hair, and put off her jewels and her 
 laces and her gown of glittering silk ; and 
 she fell asleep smiling, and dreamt that 
 May was weeping at her door, but she 
 would not let her in. Yet May was not 
 weeping, only lying awake in pain with 
 wide-open eyes and fiercely throbbing 
 ^eart ; for tears could not save Paul, how- 
 ever strength and courage might. 
 
 All the courage w^s needed, and needed 
 yet more urgently as days and weeks went 
 on. The chantce in Paul became more 
 marked, and Katherine's subtle power 
 gathered closer round him, while her cun- 
 ning boldness kept him farther out of the 
 reach of May's wholesome influence. Her 
 conversation ran upon money and power, 
 upon the folly of a man's not enjoying what- 
 ever he could touch, upon the uselessness 
 of so-called benevolent endeavors to do 
 good to one's fellow-creatures ; and every 
 hour Paul showed a more restless impa- 
 tience to possess the inheritance which the 
 miser had promised should be his. His 
 temper was altered ; every flickering shad- 
 ow had become a sombre cloud, every 
 gleam of his old good humor appeared only 
 under the guise of a feverish hilarity. 
 Katherine amused him with stories of the 
 gay world where people did what they 
 pleased without trouble about dut\-, and in 
 perfect freedom from the thraldom of what 
 stupid people call conscience. She showed 
 him that life in such a dreary corner of 
 the world as this was no better than that 
 of the mole in the earth ; that gayety and 
 excitement and luxury were the only things 
 that made existence worth having. And 
 when Katherine talked, she banished the 
 devil of gloom that tormented his soul, but 
 only that when she had ceased seven others 
 might enter in and take possession of it ; 
 while May became like some pale spirit hov- 
 ering on the threshold of this dwelling 
 which had been her own, and kept aloof by 
 the demons that had driven her out. 
 
 It had taken three strange months to 
 bring things to this point, and one bleak 
 day in March Katherine took a fancy to 
 walk out by herself, away from Monaster- 
 lea, and towards the Woods of Tobereevil. 
 It was a gray morning, with a cold and 
 scathing wind ; but Katherine was healthy 
 and strong, and clad so as to defy the bit- 
 ter weather. She was all wrapped up in 
 furs, and carried a gay hat and feathers 
 upon her head. As she walked along the 
 road, people courtesied to her, and looked 
 after her ; for her beauty shone dazzlingly 
 in the chill of the colorless day. 
 
 It seemed to amuse her to be out thus 
 alone, and on an errand of her own ; for 
 she laughed pleasantly to herself as she 
 went along. She sometimes looked behind 
 her, but she did not stop at all till she had 
 come to the entrance of the Tobereevil 
 Woods; then she stood still and gazed 
 at them. Katherine Archbold had not the 
 least share of superstition or of poetry in 
 her nature ; yet her mind, as she gazed at 
 the trees, was filled with the recollection of 
 
TWO CONGESriAL SOULS. 
 
 89 
 
 tte story of their origin : but she had no 
 shudder for the cruelty of the wholesale 
 murder that had driven their roots into the 
 soil. She was not troubled about freezing 
 mothers and babes, and famished men. 
 She thought only of the success of these 
 strong woods, which had so forced their 
 roots into the sad, reluctant land, covering 
 many a mile with their mighty limbs. She 
 had a vast admiration for any thing that 
 had. triumphed, and she gloried in the 
 triumph of the trees. 
 
 Having gazed at them, she dived in 
 amongst them, walking over the meek 
 primroses, and never seeing the young vio- 
 lets. She plunged into the thickets, and 
 amused herself by forcing her way through 
 the underwood, fighting with stubborn 
 branches that barred her way, delighted 
 when she could break them, and trample 
 them underfoot. The trees thrust her back ; 
 but she had her way, in spite of them, con- 
 veying herself into certain of their fastness- 
 es, where human footstep seldom made its 
 way. She found a, pillared chamber of 
 gloom, where the sun could never shine, 
 and by the gradual spread of whose impen- 
 etrable roof the faithful light of the stars 
 had been one by one put out. Perpetual 
 darkness reigned in this spot, and there 
 was also a ceaseless sound of disturbance ; 
 for the roar of swaying miles of wood sur- 
 ged above and below in continual thunder. 
 Even the mildest airs of heaven seemed to 
 have secret stings, which goaded the To- 
 bereevil woods unceasingly into motion and 
 sound. The darkness and confusion were 
 very awful in this solitary dungeon, which 
 the trees had made for themselves. It 
 seemed like a meeting-place for evil spirits. 
 Katherine approved of it, and, in order to 
 enjoy herself, took her seat on a fallen 
 trunk, over which she had stumbled. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 TWO CONGENIAL SOULS. 
 
 iKatiikrine had not been long in this 
 uncomfortable spot when she heard a sound 
 which, fearless as she was, caused her a 
 momentary shock. To hear a footstep in 
 such a place was startling. Yet there was 
 a crackling of the underwood to be detected 
 through, or rather on the surface ofj the 
 roar of the woods. Her eyes, being now 
 used to the darkness, distinguished the 
 outline of a woman's form which was grop- 
 
 ing its way amongst the bushes. Presently 
 a scream from the new-comer announced 
 fear at the glimmer of Miss Archbold's. 
 white furs. The figure fell and cowered 
 on the ground ; and Katherine amused her- 
 self for some minutes with the teri'ors of 
 this unknown and silly wretch. Then she 
 touched the prostrate body with the toe of 
 her little boot. 
 
 " Get up quickly,'' she said, " whoever 
 you may be I " 
 
 The creature, an old woman, revived at 
 the human voice, and gathered herself 
 grotesquely into a sitting posture. They 
 could see each other now, however dimly. 
 Katherine looked like some beautiful fairy, 
 who had chosen for no good end to pay a 
 visit to this spot : the other like some witch 
 in her familiar haunt ; for the old woman 
 was ugly, and she was weird. In short, she 
 was Tibbie. 
 
 " I know ye now 1 " she cried : " I know 
 ye now ! Ye're Sir John Archbold's daugh- 
 ter from beyant the mountain. Many a 
 time I have heard o' the beauty o' yer face, 
 an' the hardness o' yer heart. I know ye 
 by yer hair ; for though my eyes is not good, 
 I can see the glint o't. I took ye for an 
 angel, an' I'm not good company for the 
 angels — not till my son Con's someway 
 settled to his property. When Simon gives 
 him his rights, then I'll settle to goodness ; 
 but people can't get their wills wid the 
 grace o' God about them. An' I'm bound 
 to get my will whosomedever lends me a 
 hand." 
 
 " Come," said Katherine, " this is inter- 
 esting. My dear wise woman, I thank you 
 for your compliments, and 1 am delighted 
 to make )'our acquaintance. You thought 
 you had something good, and you find you 
 have something naughty ; so you become 
 quite friendly, and tell me your secrets. 
 Nothing could please me more. It gives 
 me intense pleasure to meet with people 
 who intend to have their will. And who 
 is your boy Con ? — and what is he to 
 Simon ? " 
 
 She knew the story well, but chose to 
 hear it from Tibbie. 
 
 " He's my sister's own son, an' Simon's 
 nephew," she said. " An' I've swore an 
 oatli on my knees that he shall be master 
 o' Tobereevil. There was a will that was 
 nearly signed whin Paul Finiston he cut in 
 an' turned us out o' doors. I've been years 
 Starvin' yonder wid the black-beetles an' 
 the rats ; an' I'm bound to have rny reward. 
 I'll get back to his kitchen, an' I'll put my 
 boy into Paul's shoes. I've been begging 
 on the hills ; but it's little I'll think o' that 
 when I'vegot the money-bags in my clutches^ 
 
90 
 
 THE WICKED WOODS OF TOBEREEVIL. 
 
 an' I'm come this way tlirough the woods 
 in liopes o' meetin' somethin' wiclced that'd 
 help me. Tliere do bo devils an' bad spirits 
 always livin' in the threes — I'm not afraid 
 ,o' tliem if they'd give me a han'; but I'm 
 mortal feared o' the angels, for they might 
 keep me from my will." 
 
 Katherine looked at the creature with 
 adiuiration. Where in all the land could 
 she meet with any thing so congenial as 
 this hag, who had thus avowed a purpose 
 which had made tliem enemies at once? 
 " For I," thought Katherine, " have deter- 
 mined that Paul Finiston shall be master 
 of Tobereevil, and I am resolved to have 
 my will. And this creature is also bent 
 upon forcing fate, so that her Con shall 
 take his place. Yet we shall be friends, in 
 spite of this little difference." 
 
 " JMy dear soul," said she, " sit down on 
 this stump and tell me all about it. I am 
 anxious to hear your plans. AVhat do you 
 mean to do in order to ruin Paul Fin- 
 iston ? " 
 
 " I would not tell you," said Tibbie, 
 " only that I know you are hard-hearted. 
 If I thought you soft an' good, I wouldn't 
 open my lips to ye, not if ye prayed me on 
 ycr knees. For Paul Finiston's the sort 
 that women like?." 
 
 " But he is a foci," said Katherine, " an 
 impostor, and a beggar, who must be turned 
 by the shoulders out of the country." 
 
 Tibbie crowed, and clapped her hands 
 with delight. '• Oh, musha ! " she cried, 
 " }0U have the purty tongue- in your 
 head." 
 
 " How do you mean to do it ? " asked 
 Katherine. ''Don't be afraid to tell me, 
 for there is no one within miles of us. 
 Shall you give him a taste of nightshade, 
 or a little hemlock-tea ? " 
 
 "• No," said Tibbie doubtfully, as if the 
 idea had not startled her, but was familiar 
 to her mind. " I have thought o' that, an' 
 thought o't, an' I'll thry another way. I'll 
 do it by a charm. An' that's what brought 
 me here to-day. There's roots that does be 
 growin' in divil's places like this; an' if ye 
 can catch them, an' keep them, ye may do 
 any thing ye like." 
 
 '• Roots ! " said Katherine. " And what 
 do you do with them ? " 
 
 '■ Some needs wan doin', an' some an- 
 other," said Tibbie. " The best of all is a 
 mandhrake, for that's a divil in itsel'. It 
 looks like a little man, and ye hang it up 
 in a corner, where it can see ye walkin' 
 about. So long as ye' threat it well, it'll 
 bring ye the luck o' the world. I go sai-ch- 
 in' through every bad place in the woods, 
 and on the mountains, turnin' up the stones, 
 
 and glowerin' under the bushes, hopin' to 
 find a mandhrake that'll do my w.ill. If I 
 can find him, oh, honey 1 won't I make my 
 own o' the miser ? I'll make the keys dance 
 out o' his pockets, and the money-bags 
 dance oiJt o' the holes he has hid them in, 
 an' the goold jump out o' the bags into 
 Tibbie's pockets. I'll make him burn the 
 will that has Paul in it, an' write out an- 
 other that' 11 put Con in his place. I'll 
 have all my own way ; an' the ould villain 
 may break his heart and die widout me 
 needin' to lift a hand against him." 
 
 " Capital ! " cried Katherine ; " but where 
 will you find the mandrake ? Are you 
 sure that it grows in this country at all ? 
 And suppose it does, don't you know, that 
 to suit your purpose it must spring froni a 
 murderer's grave ? Then, even when it is 
 found, there is danger in getting possession 
 of it. It screams when its root is torn 
 from the earth, and the shriek kills the 
 person who plucks it." 
 
 Tibbie's face fell as she listened. " You're 
 larnder nor me," she said. " An' are ye 
 tellin' me the thruth ? " 
 
 " Certainly, the truth," said Katherine. 
 Tibbie lifted uj) her voice, and howled 
 with disappointment. " Every thin's agin 
 me," she said, rocking herself dismally ; 
 " but I'm not goin' to be baffled. I'll 
 cross the says if ye'U tell me the counthry 
 where it'll be found. I'll get somebody to 
 pluck it for me tliat'll not know the harm ; 
 lor I tell ye that I am bound to get my 
 will." 
 
 Katherine stood looking on, while the 
 creature thus bemoaned herself. 
 
 " There, now," she said presently, " don't 
 cry any more. I have a mandrake myself, 
 and I will give it to you. It will be no 
 loss to me, for I have every thing I want. 
 I like meeting with difficulties, for I have 
 power within myself to break them down. 
 If you ■ like to liave the mandrake, I will 
 give it to you." 
 
 '■ Like it ! " cried Tibbie. " Is it would 
 I lilce it, she says V Oil, wirra, wirra ! isn't 
 her ladyship gone mad ? Like to have the 
 mandhrake I Like to get my will! An' 
 they said ye were hard-hearted. Then it's 
 soft-hearted ye are, an' I was a fool to be 
 talkin' to ye. Give away yer luck to 
 wan like me ! If I had it I'd see ye die 
 afore I'd give it to ye. " 
 
 " Oh, very well I " said Katherine, turn- 
 ing away. " Of course, if you don't want 
 it, I can give it to some one else." 
 
 Tibbie uttered a cry. She fell on the 
 
 ground, and laid hold of Katherine's gown. 
 
 " Ladyship, ladyship ! " she said, " I 
 
 meant no harm. It's on'y amazed I was, 
 
THE FALSE LOVE. 
 
 91 
 
 an' I ax yer honor's pardon. Give me up 
 the mandhrake, an' ye may put yer foot on 
 me, an' walk on me. I'll do any thin' in 
 the world for ye when I have a divil to do 
 my will. Ladyship, ladyship, give me the 
 mandhrake ! " 
 
 " There, then," said Katherine, "I prom- 
 ise that you shall have it ; and if ever I 
 should want any thing of you I, expect you 
 to be friendly. Stay, there is one thing I 
 should like, — to see the house of Tobe- 
 roevil. Bring me there now, and you shall 
 have the mandrake to-morrow-. I don't 
 want to see the miser, only his den." 
 
 " Well," said Tibbie, who had now got 
 on her feet, and recovered her self-posijes- 
 sion. '• If you can creep, an' hould yer 
 tongue, an' if yer shoes don't squeak, I'll 
 take yer through the place. There's little 
 worth seein' for a lady like yersel', but come 
 wid me if you like it. On'y don't blame 
 Tibbie if Simon finds ye out." 
 
 " Leave that to me," said Katherine : 
 " I'm not afraid of Simon." 
 
 ' Tibbie clasped her hands, and rocked 
 herself with delight. " That's the man- 
 dhrake," she muttered. " There's nobody 
 can gainsay her wid the mandhrake un- 
 dlier her thumb ; an' to-morrow it'll be 
 Tibbie's." 
 
 So these new friends set to work to ex- 
 tricate themselves from the prison of trees 
 in which they had taken pains to immure 
 themselves. Thoy groped, and' pushed, 
 and fought, until they made their way out 
 into the more open woods, where air and 
 moisture were found plentiful enough, and 
 where the young vegetation was varied and 
 magnificent, the delicate and wholesome 
 growing mingled with the rank and poison- 
 ous. Ivy trailed from high branches of 
 frees, making beautiful traps for unwary 
 feet. Grass was long and coarse, being 
 nourished with the giant ferns by creeping 
 sources of the evil well of the legend. 
 Streaks of fiery scarlet shining out 
 here and there ii-om the gloom of green- 
 ery, and blackish atmosphere of rotten 
 thickets, announced the brazen beauty 
 - of the nightshade. Upon this Kath- 
 erine pounced, making herself a deathly 
 and brilliant nosegay as she went along; 
 a poisonous sheaf of burning berries for a 
 centre, some stalks of hemlock, some little 
 brown half-rotted nut-leaves with blots of 
 yellow and crimson, some black slender 
 twigs, the whole surrounded by a lace- 
 work of skeleton oak-leaves. She would 
 have nothing fresh, nothing of the spring ; 
 her whim being to make a nosegay out of 
 deadliness and deoav. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 THE FALSE LOVE. 
 
 Simon was getting through the cold 
 weather badly. He missed Tibbie, and he 
 missed the fool. He had now to light his 
 scrap of fire with his own trembling fingers, 
 and to cook his morsels of food himself. 
 He had no one to scold, no one on whom to 
 vent in passion the anxiety of his mind, 
 which feared that he must yet be robbed, 
 and live to die a pauper. His soul, too, 
 was racked by tortures of doubt as to his 
 nephew's fitness for the trust which had 
 been reposed in him. In the business of 
 wringing money, from the tenants he did 
 not show that eagerness and ingenuity 
 which Sinlon had hoped to find in him. 
 He had proposed to grant a small piece of 
 mountain land to a certain beggar woman, 
 so that she might build herself a house, 
 and live in it free of rent. There was an 
 audacity in this proposal which had terri- 
 fied the miser. How was he safe in the 
 hands of a person who could conceive and 
 give utterance to such an idea ? He could 
 only keep watch over the doings of this 
 nephew and agent, exerting himself mean- 
 while to make amends, by personal econ- 
 omy, for any extravagance which the young 
 man might perpetrate. He had now re- 
 duced the cost of his living very low, 
 powder and shot being the chief items of 
 his expenditure ; and larks and thrushes, 
 crows and sparrows, were the dainties 
 which supplied the absence of more ordi- 
 nary food. Since Tibbie's disappearance 
 he had not enjoyed the luxury of bread. 
 The birds of the air and the roots of the 
 earth were more than enough to satisfy 
 his appetite. He ate- but once a day, and 
 the fire was allowed to go out as soon as 
 ,his dinner had been cooked. This was a 
 new plan of saving, for formerly he had 
 been used to have a fire, however small, 
 at which to warm his frail body in the 
 winter weather. So now he suffered sorely 
 from the cold, though that was little to 
 Simon while he felt that lie did his duty. He 
 missed the fool even more than Tibbie ; for 
 Con would not now be coaxed within his 
 doors, but would nevertheless come hover- 
 ing about the place, peering in at the key- 
 holes, and flattening liis white face against 
 the window-panes. Simon was often un- 
 consciously an object of close observation 
 to the fool, who, with the strong fascination 
 of hatred, would watch him unseen through 
 some secret loophole ; but if Simon chanced 
 to espy him, this irregular visitor would at 
 once vanish off into the woods. 
 
92 
 
 THE WICKED WOODS OF TOBEBEEVIL. 
 
 Whilst Tibbie and Katherine were mak- 
 ing their way into the house, Simon was 
 sitting in state in his freezing Jen, expect- 
 ing the arrival of the' new agent upon? 
 business. His pistols were beside him on 
 the table ; for he never forgot that he was 
 subject to, a danger from the presence of 
 his nephew. The fear of the fulfilment of 
 the prophecy by Paul haunted him unceas- 
 ingly, and made him wary in his dealings 
 with this young man, whom he had ad- 
 mitted into iiis confidence. He never 
 turned his back upon him for a moment, 
 and never, during their interviews, moved 
 from the table wher.e the pistols lay near 
 his hand. To-day he was sitting thus, pro- 
 vided against danger, when Paul made his 
 appearance, — a good deal changed from 
 the Paul of a few months ago, looking pale 
 and thin, with restless eyes and a nervous 
 and uneasy expression about the mouth. 
 He looked as if the sun had not shone on 
 him for a year. His dress, too, was more 
 careless than it used to be ; and he ap- 
 peared altogether as if things were far from 
 well with him. The change did not escape 
 Simon's eye, and he was pleased with it. 
 " The young man is taking a lesson from 
 me," thought the miser ; " he is growing 
 more saving of his pocket, and more spar- 
 ing of his enjoyments. I see that I liave 
 but to be patient with him, and he will yet 
 turn out well." 
 
 Paul drew his chair to the opposite side 
 of tlie table, and uncle and nephew set to 
 work to do tlieir business together. They 
 made a striking contrast, though there was 
 some likeness between them. Paul had his 
 mother's fair skin and fair hair, and was so 
 far unlike the race of the misers, who were 
 of a swarthy complexion. He had a broad- 
 er forehead than bad been the share of any 
 of his fathers; but he had the-arched nose 
 of the Finistons, and the dark flashing eye, 
 deep-set under graceful brows. There w as 
 enough likeness between the old and the 
 young man to make a looker-on tremble for 
 what Paul might yet become. 
 
 Paul delivered over the money which he 
 had collected for rent, but the sum fell short 
 of the miser's expectations. 
 
 " So ! " cried he in a passion, " I see that 
 already you have allowed yourself to be 
 imposed upon. They tell you they cannot 
 pay. I ask them to look at me. Is there 
 a man on the property who lives with ra- 
 tional temperance except myself? Let them 
 find you the money, or you and I must quar- 
 rel. If you will not deal fairly with them, 
 somebody else shall do it. Every man who 
 will not pay must quit the place." 
 
 " You had better let them slay where 
 
 they are," said Paul. " Grood times may 
 come, and they may be enabled to meet 
 your demand. Turn them out of the coun- 
 try, and where Are the wealthier tenants to 
 fill their place ? You will find empty cab- 
 ins, and no money at all." 
 
 " That is your ignorance," said the . 
 miser ; " but I am willing to teach you. 
 There are shepherds, Scotchmen, who 
 would take the whole mountain from me at 
 a handsome rent. Now am I — a man 
 practising self-denial in my own person — 
 to make enormous sacrifice for the sake of 
 pampered beggars who, I doubt not, will 
 have their two meals in the day ? My plan 
 is to get rid gradually of the poorest 
 amonggt my tenants. People have no right 
 to live in a country which is not able to 
 support them. For the future I shall ex- 
 pect you to understand me in this matter. 
 If the people will not pay you, you must 
 send the people away." 
 
 " I have no liking for the work, sir. I 
 don't see how I can obey you." 
 
 " Then, sir, I don't see how you can ex- 
 pect to be my heir. I am not bound to 
 leave my little property to you. I have 
 connections in England, wise, rich men, 
 who look well to the increase of their store, 
 and deserve a helping hand on that account. 
 To them shall go every penny I am pos- 
 sessed of, if you set up your ideas in oppo- 
 sition to mine." 
 
 Paul flushed, and turned pale. The time 
 had gone past when such a threat as this 
 had no terrors for him. It was dreadful to 
 him now, for tlie thirst for power had taken . 
 possession of his soul. It enraged him to 
 think of those wise, rich men from England 
 coming over here to plant, and to sow, and 
 to build upon his land. He was convinced 
 that he could rule the country better than 
 they could do, and it might be well .to save 
 ^the many by the sacrifice of a few. Evil 
 must be done in order that good might 
 come of it. Paul swiftly argued thus in 
 his own mind, — that clouded mind which 
 was no longer what it had been. 
 
 He was conscious of a falling off in his 
 own mental powers, in his capacity for 
 thought and feeling. The consciousness 
 tortured him ; but he could not see where 
 he had gone wrong, nor discern any means 
 by which he could become better or wiser 
 in the future. He could not even think 
 the matter out ; for his mind would not fas- 
 ten on it, and all his moral perceptions 
 were becoming hazy and dull. His memo- 
 ry was whimsical ; certain ideas passed 
 away from it, like the mist of breath from off 
 a glass, whilst others enlarged themselves, 
 became distorted, and were not to be 
 
THE FALSE LOVE. 
 
 93 
 
 effaced. He forgot at this moment his 
 former desire to be independent of the 
 miser, liis aspirations after honest industry, 
 however meagre the reward. Ho thought 
 no more of the plans which May had lieljied 
 him to map out. He remembered only 
 that he wanted Tobereevil, and also that 
 if he quarrelled with the miser, certain rich 
 men from England would step into the in- 
 heritance which he coveted. Upon this 
 one point his mind fastened its strength, 
 and the fierce desire for possession took 
 firm hold of his brain. He promised 
 Simon that he would see about the matter. 
 
 " See about it in time, then," said the 
 miser, " for you have natural disqualifica- 
 tions for your office, and you will need to 
 work hard in order to overcome them ; but 
 I will give you time, for we are a slow race 
 in developing. As young men wo are 
 . spendthrifts, and seem in danger of being 
 ruined ; but time improves us, and we grow 
 wise as we grow old. So you may go away 
 now, and think over this matter of the 
 Scotch shepherds. Have a calculation 
 made by the next time you come here, and 
 let me know how soon we shall be ready 
 for them." 
 
 Paul went away with slow steps and 
 aching heart, knowing that he had bound 
 himself to do work which his soul abhorred, 
 and yet feeling himself utterly unable to 
 struggle with the unholy force which had 
 thus dragged him into bondage. Having 
 thus, as he believed, sold himself to evil, 
 he shrank from the eye of the heavens, and 
 from the sad face of the land which lay so 
 sadly waiting for its deliverance. He was 
 seized with a passionate desire to gloat 
 over the old walls, which contained some- 
 where that treasure which was to make 
 him master of every thing that a man could 
 covet in the world. As he went up the 
 grand staircase the thought of May crossed 
 his mind, a vision of her imploring face 
 arose before his eyes ; and, for a moment, 
 the madness of supreme anguish' made him 
 dizzy. What would slie say when she 
 found that he had fallen so low ? But the 
 throe passed ; and again he thought with 
 delight of the miser's gold, then reflected 
 with sudden wonder upon the condition of 
 his own feelings, since this new joy of 
 avarice had more power to keep its hold of 
 him than had sorrow for the pain of his 
 love. (Was it possible that May had be- 
 come less dear to him than she used to be ? 
 He groaned at this thought, and almost 
 doclaved to himself in his .passion that it 
 must be so. If this were indeed the case, 
 then must he rush on headlong to an evil 
 end. Was this, indeed, a fate that was 
 
 pursuing him ? Must the love cf May be 
 •thrust out of his heart by the power of that 
 curse whiph was already beginning to work 
 upon him ? He leaned against the wall, 
 and hid his face between nis hands. He 
 was not false, nor had he tired of iier ten- 
 derness. She was still rare and holy and 
 beautiful in his eyes-; but he only seemed 
 to understand this, "not to feel it with his 
 heart, into which had come the greed of 
 gold. He seemed to see her at a distance, 
 whither she had retired slowly and cruell}', 
 and against his will. Longing would not 
 bring her to him, despair could not break 
 down the barrier which had erected itself 
 between them. As he stood there, wrest- 
 ling with an agony such as he had never 
 suffered before, her saddened eyes seemed 
 to shine out of a cloud which was beyond 
 and above him. His woe became intolera- 
 ble ; and he tried to dash it from him, hur- 
 rying upward through the chambers of the 
 mouldering mansion, and striving to revive 
 within him all his old loathing of the race 
 which had dwelt in it, and of their treas- 
 ure which had made them what they were. 
 These fierce efforts wasted him ; and he 
 looked thin and worn as he wandered, 
 more tranquilly now, from room to room. 
 A happier thought of his love came upper- 
 most in his mind, and an unutteraJjle long- 
 ing for her presence took possession ol' him. 
 If she were only here to receive the con- 
 fession of his weakness I AVith this better 
 thought in his mind, he looked up and saw 
 Katherine. 
 
 The place of this meeting was on that 
 high remote passage lined with goblin 
 presses, where, not "quite a year ago, the 
 miser had essayed to make a bargain with 
 the peddler. Paul had not seen it since 
 that evening when he had suddenly sick- 
 ened with fear, and had fled from the spot 
 hoping to return never more. Mow his 
 wanderings had unexpectedly brought him 
 here again. Katherine had been looking 
 out of the little window from which he him- 
 self had gazed whilst the miser sorted his 
 wares. The pUice was dim and ghostly ; and 
 she made a striking picture with her white- 
 clad shoulders and gleaming head lit up by 
 the only ray that found its way into the 
 twilight. 
 
 She turned to him smiling with genuine 
 delight. 
 
 '' So you have come at last," she said ; 
 " but how did you know I was here V " 
 
 " I did not know that you were here,'' 
 said Paul. 
 
 " Ah, well, you see, I drew you to the 
 I)lace. I knew that you were coining to 
 Tobereevil to-day ; and I thought I should 
 
94 
 
 THE WICKED WOODS OP TOBEEEEVIL. 
 
 aslc you to take me home through these 
 dreadful woods." 
 
 " Certainly," said Paul : but he said it 
 unwillingly ; for he had some expectation 
 that May would come to meet hiin, and at 
 this mom-ent he felt feverishly anxious to be 
 near her. If he could but see her just now, 
 the barrier of reserve might be broken 
 down between tliem. Now he could con- 
 fess, could ask for help : later his mood 
 might change, so thatithe words he wished 
 to speak would beno longer on his tongue. 
 
 " We had better go at onci," said Paul. 
 " May is coming to meet me." 
 
 Katherine laughed. 
 
 " You need not be uneasy about her ; for 
 she is making cakes, and she could not 
 leave them. She would not risk the 
 proper shade of brown upon the crust, — 
 not tor the sweetest conversation that heart 
 ever held with heart." 
 
 "-You wrong her," said Paul. " She can 
 do much for tliose she loves." 
 
 " Who are ihey ? " said Katherine. " May 
 love any one 1 The fancy makes me 
 smile." 
 
 " You forget that she loves me." 
 
 Katherine shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 " Does that idea really still bewitch your 
 imagination ? You think May loves you 7 
 It is so odd." 
 
 " I remember that you are a lady," said 
 Paul ; " but you try my patience too 
 much." 
 
 "Do I?" said Katherine. "I admit 
 that I am rather outspoken. I am not like 
 her, — calm, cold, and proper. My pa- 
 tience is tried. I cannot quietly look on, 
 and see one like you bound heart and soul 
 for life to such an iceberg." 
 
 She was still leaning against the little 
 window, with her head and shoulders 
 i'ramed by»it. A stray gleam of sun had 
 pierced the opening ; illumined her golden 
 head and scintillating eyes ; put a carmine 
 touch on her speaking lips, and a rosy 
 curve ot light round the rim. of her peachy 
 face. The white-furred shoulders stirred 
 slightly, and the jewel at her throat quiv- 
 ered as if with feeling. Never was an un- 
 lovely 'soul more enchantingly disguised. 
 Paul stood opposit.e, wrapped in the twilight, 
 leaning against one of the goblin presses. 
 His face was stern ; but he started as a flash- 
 ing look of homage was flung upon him, 
 flattering him from head to foot. Kathe- 
 rine went on without waiting for him to re- 
 cover from his surprise. 
 
 " Ah, you think she is not an iceberg. 
 Men are so easily deceived ! A few sweet 
 words will keep you happy for a year, — 
 that is, while you are suitors ; but how will 
 
 it be through life ? A selfish mate, a cold 
 heart, — freezing all the warm efforts of 
 your own. One who can make cruel plans 
 to fool you while you are her lover, — what 
 will she be for sympathy after years Iiave 
 gone past V " 
 
 " What do you mean ? " asked Paul ; and 
 his. heart shook with terror of an evil far 
 greater than any thing he had imagined. 
 
 " Oh, I have said too much ! Surely I 
 have forgotten myself. Whispered words 
 between friends ought to be kept sacred, 
 ought they not ? I am sure you know that 
 girls are apt to make confidences to each 
 other ; but I forgot that you have known 
 so.Iittle about women." Katherine sighed. 
 " I have already said too much. I will not 
 be guilty of making mischief between 
 you." 
 
 " You are rather late with that resolu- 
 tion," said Paul. " I am at a loss to know, 
 why you have spoken so at all." 
 
 Katherine turned away a little towards 
 the embrasure of the window, and her head 
 drooped on her hands. 
 
 " 1 have done wrong," 'feho said ; " and I 
 cannot say any more. A woman must not 
 betray herself. I did not mean to speak ; 
 only when one has a passionate interest at 
 heart, prudence sometimes gets swept away 
 upon the wave of too much feeling." 
 
 It came slowly into Paul's mind that her 
 meaning was to drive May out of his heart, 
 and thrust herself therein. He burned with 
 surprise and shame, that a woman, and 
 such a woman, should love him unsought. 
 He pitied her, was grateful to her, admired 
 and despised her, all in one moment. Then 
 indignation took possession of him as he 
 thought of May ; and a superstitious dread 
 of Katherine mingled itself with his anger. 
 The spirit of maddening despondency which 
 pursued him whispered to him now that 
 this woman was a part of his evil destinj', 
 that she would separate him from May, and 
 thushelp'his ruin. When Katherine looked 
 up to see the effect of her words, she saw a 
 face, not full of tenderness, but of hatred 
 and anger. Her blue eyes met his, and 
 opened themselves scared. The sun shone 
 more brightly through the little square of 
 window, and made Katherine more beau- 
 tiful every moment, intensifying its lustre in 
 her frightened eyes, and shedding a more 
 golden bloom on her cheek which had 
 turned pale with real woe. For the second 
 time in his life Paul found himself strug- 
 gling with the frantic desire to harm a fel- 
 low-creature, and on the very same spot 
 whence he had fled from the temptation so 
 many months ago; but the fear in the 
 woman's eye touched all that was manly in 
 
THE TEUE LOVE. 
 
 95 
 
 his nature, and this passion left him sudden- 
 ly, and he was shocked at liimself. 
 
 "It is getting late," he said. "That 
 bright {jleam comesjust before sunset. You 
 must allow me to see you home at once." 
 
 Katherine bent her head with an expres- 
 sion of meek obedience, which was not all 
 assumed. This wild Paul had got a power 
 over her which no one had ever before pos- 
 sessed, — a power wielded unconsciously, 
 and which she had never yet fully recog- 
 nized until now. They went silently togeth- 
 er downward through the mazes of the old 
 mansion, he going first, opening doors, and 
 turning to assist her over broken places in 
 the staircase ; she following silently and 
 humbly in her pallid beauty, as if terrified 
 and stricken at what had befallen her. 
 She was stunned, having suddenly come 
 face to face with her own defeat. She 
 had thought to be mistress, and found that 
 she was slave. A pain new to her, so sound 
 in body, so unfeeling in spirit, had cloven 
 her heart at sight of Paul's look of hatred. 
 She was confounded with a new and strange 
 knowledge of herself ; so that her agony was 
 genuine, oven if rage made a part of it. 
 Every time Paul turned to her, of neces- 
 sity he pitied her ; and his heart reproached 
 him a little more. and a little more. By the 
 time tijey had got out into the open air his 
 voice had got gentle when he addressed her. 
 By and by she pleaded to be allowed to 
 cling to his arm, lor the fear that she had 
 of these unnatural woods ; and, this being 
 conceded, the two passed on their way, and 
 were lost in the, thickness of the trees. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 THE TRUB LOVE. 
 
 Now that they had so exacting an in- 
 mate as Miss Archbold at Monasterlea, it 
 required all May's industry to keep things 
 as they ever liad been ; to stop little gaps 
 in the household arrangements made by 
 the irregular demands of the visitor upon 
 everybody's time. Ka,therine was pleased 
 to leave lier gowns about her room, upon 
 the floor in heaps ; her petticoats flung on 
 the bed, her slippers in different corners, 
 and the delicate silk hose tossed among her 
 cambric pocket-handkerchiefs. Her cos- 
 metics and hair-brushes, her pin-boxes and 
 cream-pots, her essence-bottles and jewel- 
 cases, and powder-pufFs, together with the 
 novel she had been reading, were found 
 every morning in wild confusion upon her 
 toilet-table. 
 
 Bridget was expected to reduce the place 
 to order, and this was a work of time ; for 
 what with her awe, which made her hesi- 
 tate, her curiosity, which led her to pry, 
 and her admiration, which forced her to 
 pause over every new object that she 
 touched, the morning was pretty well filled 
 with the discharge of her new duty. Nan- 
 ny grumbled, and Miss Martha sighed — 
 tlie time had gone past when the old lady 
 could sing Miss Archbold's praises ; but the 
 burden fell'on May. 
 
 To-day she got her work done early, for 
 she had it in her mind that she would meet 
 Paul coming home from ToberecvU. The 
 day had brightened since Katlievine's going 
 forth, and there was a promise of spring in 
 the air, if not its actual presence. A 
 breath from April would wake all nature 
 into life. The hedgerows were thick with 
 buds, and alive with birds, who already 
 scented the coming summer in the air. A 
 lark soared in an ecstasy into clouds 
 through which tlie sun was breaking its 
 way. Tinges of soft' green had crept out 
 among the long purple and brown undula- 
 tions of the moorland ; and touches of pale 
 yellow that would soon be green gilded 
 the 'edges of reddish furrows in the recent- 
 ly ploughed fields. As May went along 
 she could not see Paul ; and when she 
 came to the woods she shrank from plun- 
 ging into them. They only, of all the land- 
 scape, kept a. frown upon their faces ; but 
 it took a great deal of sun to make them 
 bright. Near their outskirts lay pretty 
 little sylvan groves, which seemed perpet- 
 ually announcing with their smiles to the 
 world that they had crept out from under 
 the shadow of the curse, and that they had 
 only a distant kinship with the trees of the 
 dreadful woods. In one of these, which 
 commanded a, view of Simon's avenue, 
 May took her seat upon a fallen tree. A 
 stream flowed past her feet which but 
 yesterday had been frozen, and which was 
 rejoicing noisily in its freedom. Clumps 
 of primroses had nestled themselves under 
 the shelter of mossy stones at its edge, so 
 that they could taste its delicate spray, 
 and enjoy its genial company. Violets had 
 decked out the splay roots of an old thorn, 
 which had dragged itself from the earth by 
 sheer weight of its mighty age. This 
 stream, with its flower-borders and mosses, 
 its old thorn and fallen oak, was in a warm 
 nook, where spring could not but choose to 
 show herself early. It skirted a vast bog, 
 whose rugged brown outlines swept behind 
 in sombre bleakness, and made a bit of 
 beauty all the more gladsome because of 
 ugliness close at hand. 
 
96 
 
 THE WICKED WOODS OF TOBEEEEVIL. 
 
 The girl sat down on a fallen tree to 
 watch for the first appearance of a human 
 figure i'n the distance. The past three 
 montlis had left their traces upon May. 
 Her face was always pale now, except 
 when a blush or a spring wind made it 
 bloom for a passing moment. Her eyes 
 had grown larger and darker, and had a 
 look of hidden suffering. Pauses like this 
 were very difficult to her ; for she could not 
 afford much brooding when in trouble, was 
 not given to tears, and did not do what 
 women call fretting. Grief dealt so hardly 
 with her, that, for life's dear sake, she was 
 driven into resistance. 
 
 This was not the romantic sorrow of the 
 girl of a year ago, whose lover had gone 
 away ; but the quiet woe of a woman who 
 had sworn to be faithful-. Grief that is 
 most unselfish is always hardest to bear. 
 A selfish heart will comfort itself with the 
 little merciful compensations which life is 
 ever providing ; but the heart that aches for 
 another cannot even relish peace while evil 
 has hold of the one beloved. May plucked 
 violets lor occupation, and made them up 
 into nosegays, and wound them together in 
 wreaths ; one she would give to ]?aul for 
 his button-hole, and she would wear anSth- 
 er in her bosom ; but she would not give 
 any to Katherine. She and Paul should 
 share at least a wreath of violets between 
 them. 
 
 At this childish work her heart eased 
 itself a little ; till, looking up, she saw fig- 
 ures in tlje distance among the trees, — 
 Paul and Katherine ; but tliey were not 
 coming (piite her way. The. flowers fell 
 from her fingers; her hands dropped in her 
 lap. She had told Paul in the morning 
 that she would, if possible, meet him at 
 this spot ; but he had met Katherine in- 
 stead, and she was leaning on his arm. It 
 seemed to May that they were walking as 
 lovers walk. She sighed a little ; and then 
 the blow descended on her heart, her 
 senses went away, and she felt from her 
 seat, and lay, forgetful of all trouble, among 
 the primroses. 
 
 At the other side of the bank, and right 
 behind tlie great thorn, an old woman was 
 toiling down in a cutting of the ugly bog. 
 She was the person known in the country 
 as " Bid the Thraveller ; " and she had been 
 busy since daybreak cutting long sods of the 
 black, reeking turf, and setting them upon 
 their ends together in little stacks. By 
 and by she would come back to them, and 
 spread them out to get thoroughly dried ; 
 and ngainst autumn she would have accumu- 
 lated a store of firing to present to some 
 kindly house-holder, at whose fireside she 
 
 was used to sit. Her work done for the 
 present, she washed her hands and feet in 
 the brown bog-water, and put on her old 
 cloak, which Ijad been laid aside carefully, 
 picked up her stick, and began to climb the 
 bank, that she might rest in the grove a 
 little before beginning her evening journey 
 to seek a shelter for the night. Old women 
 can love pretty places as well as young 
 girls ; and May's fallen tree was a favorite 
 resting-place for Bid, who might often be 
 found there on fine days, knitting busily in 
 the solitude. 
 
 Bid felt a little uneasy as she climbed 
 the bank ; for, as she tied on her cloak, she 
 had heard a sigh float past her ear across 
 die loneliness and silence of the bog. It 
 seemed as if the wind had bent the bog- 
 blossoms ; and they had whispered, " My 
 heart is broken." No sound heard here 
 need be surprising, where the air was full 
 of spirits ; but Bid did not quite like to be 
 the confidante of creatures of whom she 
 knew not the dwelling-place nor the nature. 
 The very bending and bowing of the ranks 
 and files of white fleecy blossoms that 
 rocked thenselves towards her^ like living 
 things in trouble made the old creature 
 shiver, and almost believe that they had 
 spoken. She crept up the bank, and cross- 
 ed herself as she set foot in the little grove ; 
 but superstition fled like a bat at a blink of 
 daylight when she saw a fellow-creature 
 lying prone on the earth. 
 
 Bid knew the girl ii-om the abbey. Not 
 once, nor twice, but many scores of times, 
 had she been warmed and fed by her in the 
 kitchen at Monasterlea ; and the old woman 
 was afflicted at this piteous sight. She 
 knew now whose heart was Iproken. Bid 
 was shrewd and sympathetic : there was not 
 a love-story in the country that she did not 
 know of; and she had early scented trouble 
 when things got amiss with Paul and his 
 promised wife. She had called Katherine 
 a witch before that young lady had been a 
 week at Monasterlea ; and, a few minutes 
 since, she had descried this witch and May's 
 lover coming out of the woods. 
 
 " Heart's blood of the hope of the coun- 
 thry I " murmured the old woman, making a 
 kind of mournful song as she chafed the 
 girl's cold fingers. " Ye brought trouble 
 on yer head when ye promised this bit o' a 
 hand to a Finiston. Sure the devil that is 
 tackled wid Paul has took a woman's shape 
 this time ! But ye'U rise out o' her, avour- 
 neen — ye'U ri^eout o' her yet 1" 
 
 The words filtered through May's ears as 
 she lay on the arm of the good Samaritan. 
 She sat tfp, and wondered how her secret 
 had been found out. 
 
THE TRUE LOVE. 
 
 97 
 
 " Deary, don't mind an ould woman I " 
 safd Bid. "Sure I love Paul Finiston mysel', 
 an' I have swore, on my knees, that the 
 divil'll never get him. I niver put up a 
 prayer that wasn't answered in the end ; 
 an' harm shall not get Paul while his friends 
 has tongues to pray I " 
 
 May sat on a stone opposite Bid, who 
 exhorted her thus, with finger uplifted, and 
 a sybil-like look on her weather-beaten 
 face. 
 
 " The curse is against me," said May 
 despondingly. - " It is creeping closer round 
 him, and I am too weak to save him from it " 
 
 Bid looked frightened. " You won't give 
 him up, avourneen ? " she asked. 
 
 " Give him up ! " said May ; and she rose 
 to her feet, glowing with sudden energy. 
 " No, I will not." 
 
 " God love you, my jewel I " said Bid, 
 " for you're fit to have the hope 6f the 
 country in yer hands. Of course ye'll 
 manage him well, for the quality does know 
 how to deal wid one another ; but I'm 
 thinkin' it's mostly the same wid high an' 
 low, an' I wanst lost a lover wid floutin' an' 
 poutia' at him. He got tired o' a cross 
 face, an' went off to seek a pleasanter wan ; 
 so you just despise yon flauntin' hussy, an' 
 smile at Paul Finiston till ye smile the divil 
 out o' him I " 
 
 " You are a kind friend," said May ; and 
 she began to think of how strange it was 
 that she should thus give her confidence to 
 a beggar-woman ; but she put down her 
 pride with a true instinct. " Ask the peo- 
 ple to pray," she said ; " for you are right 
 in saying that this is the affair of the coun- 
 try." 
 
 " Ay ! " said Bid, " it is the affair of the 
 whole counthry ; for, if Paul Finiston gets 
 into evil hands, there'll be another miser o' 
 Tobereevil, an' a star the less in heaven. 
 An" do you keep up yer heart an' smile ; 
 for they say the divil does fly away before 
 the smile o' patience." 
 
 May went home with the beggar's lesson 
 in her heart ; and, coming through the 
 kitchen-garden, she metKatberine tripping 
 alon'i:, carrying a large carrot by its green 
 top, which was soiled with clay, having just 
 left the ground. The guest was singing 
 lou'lly, as if in the highest spirits. She 
 seldom sang except when unable to control 
 the outpouring of her triumph over some 
 one ; and she liked to please, except when 
 she could have her will without the trouble 
 of doing so. Her voice was shrill ; and as 
 she sang, coming down the kitchen-garden, 
 there was a cruel harshness in her song, 
 which might have made the birds shiver. 
 It was dusk ; but the girls could see one 
 7 
 
 another as they met between the ranks of 
 the cabbages, and May wondered greatly 
 at Katherine's fancy for vegetables. The 
 latter stopped her song upon a high, sudden 
 note, while she picked the clay in pieces 
 from her carraj;. 
 
 " Perhaps you are looking for Paul," she 
 said, with a careless air of superior knowl- 
 edge. " He is gone home to his farmhouse. 
 He will not be here to-night." 
 
 " I dare say he is busy," said May. 
 
 Katherine shrugged her shoulders, and 
 smiled. " I don't think he has much busi- 
 ness in his head," she said. " I believe he 
 is not in the humor for our company. He 
 is not happy in his mind. Why don't you 
 make him happy ? " 
 
 " He has a good deal of care," said May, 
 not noticing the insolence of Katherine's 
 tone. " Ho will be happier by and by." 
 
 " Perhaps he will," said Katherine, and 
 turned her back on May, and went towards 
 the house. 
 
 In Paul's absence, conversation was apt 
 to flag of an evening between the ladies at 
 Monasterlea. Since experience had re- 
 vealed Katherine's character to Miss Mar- 
 tha, the young lady took no longer any 
 trouble to amuse her hostess, who treated 
 her, nevertheless, with all politeness and 
 attention ; for hospitality is a tyrant, and 
 the unwelcome guest must be treated like 
 the guest who is most desired. 
 
 Katherine knew this, and made herself 
 comfortable accordingly. On this evening, 
 while May sewed and Miss Martha knitted, 
 she yawned over the pages of a novel. Her 
 entertainers were not sorry when she bade 
 them good-night, and yawned herself away 
 to her own chamber. 
 
 When she had gone. May turned with 
 her sewing to the fire ; for she could not 
 bear Miss Martha's eyes. She had known 
 for a long time that her aunt wanted to 
 speak to her ; and she felt that she could 
 not endure the things that the old lady 
 would surely say ; but now she plied her 
 needle wildly, knowing that the moment 
 had come when she must listen to a lecture 
 with patience ; that a conversation was 
 going to take place which it would bo very 
 hard for her to forget. 
 
 Miss Martha was evidently making a 
 great struggle to begin. Her knitting-nee- 
 dles flew faster, and pecked at each other 
 wickedly, never heeding dropped stitches. 
 Her mouth twitched ; and her chin went up 
 in the air, and came down again. 
 
 " May," she said, " is it possible that you 
 have got nothing to say to me, now when 
 we are alone, and not likely to be inter- 
 rupted V " 
 
98 
 
 THE WICKED WOODS OF TOBEEEEVIL. 
 
 "I, aunty?" 
 
 " Yes you. Who else ? Is it possible 
 that you have nothing to complain of? " 
 
 " Complain ! Why should I complain ? " 
 
 " We shall not get on very far if you echo 
 every word I speak," said' Miss Martha 
 testily. " You may as well be frank with 
 me, — not look on me as an enemy. I am 
 old and fidgety, but I am not at all sure 
 that you have another friend in the world." 
 
 May's lips moved, but no sound came. 
 She tried again, and said, " Only one be- 
 sides, aunty." 
 
 Miss Martha's irritation was soothed 
 away. She drew her chair a little nearer, 
 stretched out her soft wrinkled hand, and 
 laid it on May's shoulder. " Are you sure 
 that you have that one, May ? Come, trust 
 the poor old woman ! Inward grieving will 
 rot the soundest heart." 
 
 May's lips quivered ; but her mouth soon 
 steadied itself, and her eyes kept dry and 
 bright. 
 
 " Now turn round to me, for I want to 
 see your face. If you have got nothing to 
 tell me, then I must speak out to you : I 
 wish, in the name of Heaven ! that you had 
 never set your eyes on Paul Finiston." 
 
 " You must not say that." 
 
 " Yes, I will say it ; for I fear he will 
 break your heart. I will say, also, that I 
 thought you had more spirit. If I were in 
 your place, I would bid good-by to him at 
 once, and let him go about his business." 
 
 " I can't do it, aunty ; and, if I could, I 
 dare not." 
 
 « Dare not ! " 
 
 " Oh ! do you forget ? Paul is not like 
 another man. It is the shadow that he has 
 always dreaded that has come over him, 
 that is all." 
 
 " Fiddle-de-dee 1 " said Miss Martha ; 
 " that old nonsense I I tell you, I won't 
 listen to it : it is a sin against Heaven. I 
 thought you had more sense than to get 
 smitten with his madness." 
 
 " It may be madness," said May ; " but 
 madness is a misfortune, not a crime. Some- 
 thing has gone wrong with him. I will not 
 make it worse by leaving him when he 
 most wants a friend." 
 
 Miss Martha winced. Simon's words, 
 " You who deserted me in my need," came 
 across her ears, as they had many a time 
 done since the day they were spoken ; but 
 May's doctrine was not acceptable to Miss 
 Martha's faith. It must lie in people's own 
 will, whether to be bad or good. 
 
 " Fiddle-de-dee ! " said Miss Martha 
 again. ■"People walk into crooked ways with 
 their eyes open, and then they rail at fate 
 for not putting their leet into straight ones." 
 
 " I don't think Paul is deliberately walk- 
 ing in crooked ways," said May ; " and un- 
 less he himself throws me off I will hold to 
 him even at the cost of being thought to 
 have no spirit. I know him better than 
 you do, and I believe there are stranger 
 things in the world than you think off." 
 
 " You think he is bewitched, so that he 
 doesn't know what he is doing," said Miss 
 Martha, in amazement. 
 
 " I cannot say what I think. He is un- 
 der some influence which seems to have 
 changed his whole nature. If he be quite 
 delivered up to it, the change will be com- 
 pleted, and he will become" — May shud- 
 dered and paused. 
 
 " You have grown as superstitious as 
 himself," said Aunt Martha. "I really 
 give you up. All I can say is, I wonder 
 you can sit by neglected, and see him pre- 
 fer another woman." 
 
 May turned pale, and her hands knotted 
 themselves together in a knot of pain. " I 
 cannot say that I have seen that yet, 
 aunty." 
 
 There was something of agony in the 
 young girl's voice, that smote upon Miss 
 Martha's heart, and made her regret her 
 impatient speeches. 
 
 " Perhaps you are right, love," she said, 
 after a pause. " I am a peppery old wo- 
 man ; but your happiness is\the one object 
 of my life." 
 
 " I know it, dear aunty ; but listen, and 
 I will tell you about my happiness. It is 
 staked on one person ; his welfare is my 
 welfare, his affliction is my affliction: I 
 have no business in the world, except to be 
 true to Paul Finiston. His cares, and even 
 his wrong-going, must all be upon my 
 shoulders. I believe it would be a great 
 misfortune to him if he were to love Kath- 
 erine Archbold ; therefore, I will do all in 
 ray power to prevent such a thing happen- 
 ing. If I saw her truer, more loving, more 
 likely to make him good and happy than 
 myself, I think — I think I could give him 
 up to her ; but I do not believe he likes 
 her, and there are other things which I 
 dread for him more than her influence. 
 He is not in a condition at present to meet 
 his enemies : I piust fight his battles for 
 him, until good times come ; so don't be 
 disgusted if I have got no proper pride, but 
 try to have patience with me, and with him 
 for my sake." 
 
 So spoke May, with a brave air : but 
 later, when quite alone, she walked about 
 the room, weeping silently. The cottage 
 was quiet ; but the wind moaned loudly 
 round the cloisters, and the owls had begun 
 to hoot in the old belfry. Her thought 
 
THE TRUE LOVE. 
 
 99 
 
 travelled through the dark night, along the 
 moorland path to the highest window in 
 the gable of the farmhouse. There was 
 Paul sitting alone, and overwhelmed with 
 strange troubles, as far removed from her 
 as if the sea had rolled between them. 
 Here was an hour in which Katherine 
 - could not divide them, and yet that hour 
 was as useless to her as if it had no place 
 in time. She longed to be a cat or a dog, 
 that she might sit beside his foot, and look 
 in his face, or a bird that she might peck 
 at his window and gain admittance. Was 
 he reckoning the miser's hoards, or think- 
 ing of Katherine ? It seemed long, long 
 eince he and May had made their simple 
 plans at this fireside, counting the world a 
 paradise, and all danger of harm and 
 trouble at an end. Now the night wind 
 assured her that tuese days would come no 
 more. 
 
 Faster and faster her tears came down. 
 She despaired when she found herself 
 weeping, thinking her courage quite gone, 
 and flung herself against the arm-chair in 
 the chimney-corner, burying lier face in its 
 leathern lap. The old clock ticked in the 
 hall by the stone angel, and its voice came 
 into the room and grew hoarse with sym- 
 pathy : the lamp burned low, and the fire 
 glowed in red ashes ; and May was tempted 
 ibr once to think of her aunt's vehement 
 wish, and to doubt whether it would not 
 have been better for her if she had never 
 seen Paul. She might have had . placid 
 years in this home, safe from the world; 
 have made soups for tlie sick, and knitted 
 her life into warm petticoats and socks for 
 the poor ; have heard the winter howl past 
 her in fearless content, and picked the 
 flowers of the summers, and so travelled 
 without a pang to her grave. Now the 
 turmoil of despair was in lier heart, and a 
 prospect lay before her of endless uneasi- 
 ness and pain. The tranquil little home 
 could not comfort her wiLh its shelter ; the 
 household gods' looked down and could not 
 sooLhe: but it was only ibr one moment 
 that this cruel doubt was harbored. 
 
 " It is well that I have known him," she 
 said ; " for I will save liira if it cost me my 
 life. When he is old, and the battle won, 
 he will be glad to think that I lived." 
 
 She dried her tears, and thought upon 
 Paul's case, acknowledging that the thing 
 she dreaded most for him was the utter 
 loss of his mind ; that the curse and its 
 fascinations, or his horror of the same, 
 would in the end drive him to madness. 
 Wliat if after all it had been only a latent 
 insanity that had wrought through genera- 
 tions of the race of Finiston, making them 
 
 creatures unhappy and solitary, and 
 shunned by the rest of mankind? If so, 
 then had Paul better fly from this place 
 with its associations, and seek safety in 
 another part of the world. She would 
 send him across the seas, and never look 
 upon his face again, if thus she could se- 
 cure his perfect welfare. 
 
 Katherine at the same moment was also 
 awake and alive, though she had retired to 
 her room so early. The tall wax candles 
 on her chimney stood in candlesticks 
 adorned with crosses and reverend figures, 
 and which had been taken from the cnapel, 
 having been used on the monk's altar. 
 Her wood-fire crackled merrily, her arm- 
 chair was drawn up beside it, and she was 
 dres.sed in a long red-flannel dressing-gown, 
 with her liair unbound on her shoulders. 
 
 As Katherine sat so she amused herself 
 with a quaint amusement. She held the 
 carrot in her hand which had excited 
 May's wonder in the kitchen-garden ; and 
 she had washed it and cut away its delicate 
 green plumes, and was carving it with a 
 penknife into the likeness of a little man. 
 
 She was making a mandrake in order to 
 keep her word to Tibbie ; and she held it 
 aloof, and laughed at it as her work pro- 
 gressed. She had never seen a mandrake, 
 but then neither had Tibbie ; and, in pleas- 
 ing the old woman, she would follow her 
 own fancy. She was by no means an 
 artist, but contrived to throw a knowing 
 look into the eyes of the little figure, mak- 
 ing it as ugly as it was possible that one 
 could make it. She pared, and picked, 
 and notched till its aspect had become 
 sinister enough to content the most super- 
 stitious hag in the world. When all was 
 done she stained it a darker hue, so that 
 the carrot might not appear. 
 
 But what did Miss Archbold want with 
 Tibbie that she should thus humor her 
 whims? 'Katherine did not ask herself 
 the question while she carved her ugly 
 manikin. A spirit such as Tibbie's de- 
 served encouragement, that was all ; and 
 one who lived so near the miser could not 
 but be interesting to the future bride of his 
 nephew. Katherine wondered, as she 
 worked, how long the old man could live. 
 How if his seventy years should multiply 
 until they counted a hundred ? Katherine 
 sat up long that night, with brows bent, 
 over the fire. She was beginning to feel 
 care, — she who had never met any obstacle 
 to her wishes which had not been easily 
 overcome. The owls hooted in the belfry, 
 and the winds moaned round the cloisters; 
 and even May was fast asleep before Kath- 
 erine left her chair. 
 
100 
 
 THE WICKED WOODS OF TOBEREEVIL. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXn. 
 
 bid's CA8TLB. 
 
 When May awoke next morning, she 
 found tbat she had been dreaming that Bid 
 had spoken to her of a thing, which, in 
 reality, the old woman had forborne to men- 
 tion. Said Bid, " Paul Finiston promised 
 me a corner of land, and that he would 
 build me a little hut upon it. It gladdened 
 my old heart to think that I should have a 
 house I could call my own ; but I find that 
 he lias forgotten me." 
 
 When May awoke she remembered that 
 Paul had made this promise to Bid, and 
 had failed to keep it. She turned the case 
 over in her mind while she was dressing, 
 and out of her solicitude in the matter 
 there sprang a bright suggestion as to her 
 difficulties. She put on a spring-like dress 
 made by her own fingers, hoping that Paul 
 would approve it, of little blue and white 
 stripes upon gracefully flowing cambric, 
 and confined by a pretty ribbon at the 
 waist ; wound a scarf about her shoulders, 
 and went up the road to look for Paul, 
 having some idea that he would come for 
 breakfast after his absence the night before. 
 As she walked along the path by the river, 
 she found that, early as she was, Katherine 
 had been out before her. Here were Paul 
 and Katherine coming over the stile. 
 
 But May's new-born hope was strong 
 enough to stand even this blow. Kath- 
 erine was surprised to see her come onward 
 towards the stile with an open smile and 
 no trace of anger. She had thought to 
 see her turn and go home, alone, offended, 
 and in distress. 
 
 " Good-morning," said May brightly : 
 " the spring is all alive in the air." 
 
 " We have not been thinking of the 
 weather," said Katherine, shrugging her 
 shoulders. 
 
 " I had not noticed it before," said Paul, 
 looking about him with a dull air. 
 
 Katherine cast an insolent glance at 
 May ; but May took no notice ot her, only 
 slipped round to Paul's other side, and 
 began chattering merrily to him, of the 
 rabbit that had run across her feet, and 
 the fishes that she had seen leaping in the 
 river, and presently she broke out into 
 chirruping and carolling in musical mimi- 
 cry of a lark in the clouds. Paul's dulness 
 melted away. He listened to her with de- 
 light ; and new life came into her veins 
 when she found that she still possessed the 
 power to give him pleasure. 
 
 She followed up her advantage ; and 
 
 after breakfast, when Katherine had gone 
 to her room to put on her out-door dress, 
 in order to be ready to accompany Paul 
 when he should go out. May stole her arm 
 through his, and scampered off with him, 
 making him run with her along the paths, 
 and never stopping till she sank panting 
 and laughing at his feet, safely hiddea 
 under the shelter of a great haystack. 
 
 Luckily Paul's little flicker of good spir- 
 its had not expired. He smiled when she 
 laughed, and asked what she meant by 
 leading him such a dance : but the race 
 had done him good ; for there was light in 
 his eyes, and the old natural tone in his 
 voice. 
 
 " Oh ! " said May, " I have been so long- 
 ing for a race. I feel the spring in my 
 veins, and I am ready for any mischief. 
 How I wish we could climb the mountain 
 together — only you and I." 
 
 " Let us go at once ! " said Paul. 
 
 " Ah ! but I mean to take a whole day 
 to it. I have got a little plan, if you will 
 only like it. Tou remember Bid the Trav- 
 eller ? " 
 
 Paul's brow contracted with nervous 
 pain. " I promised her a cabin," he said ; 
 " but Simon " — 
 
 " Never mind Simon : we won't ask his 
 leave. It can't be any harm to take a loan 
 of a mountain rook. We'll go up as high 
 as the Kearney's, and build the old woman 
 a hut. Simon need never hear of it, — 
 he'll never get so far ; and, if this is bad 
 morality, I'll take the sin on my shoulders." 
 
 " The plan is good," said Paul, " if we 
 can only carry it out." 
 
 " Oh, it will be easily done I I'll make 
 all the arrangements, and we'll build the 
 hut with our own hands. The only trou- 
 ble will be to get away from Miss Arch- 
 bold." 
 
 Again Paul's face clouded. 
 
 " But I will be rude to my guest for 
 once," said May. " I have made up my 
 mind to that. She shall not know where 
 we have been until we are home again." 
 
 " Do not breathe it in the house, then," 
 said Paul, " or she will be right upon our 
 track. We shall have a good time togeth- 
 er, — a thing we have not enjoyed for many 
 a day." 
 
 Thus it was settled, and May entered 
 vigorously into preparations for her stolen 
 day in the hills. Even Miss Martha was 
 not told of it until after Katherine had 
 gone to her chamber on the night before 
 the event ; and, at four o'clock on a starry 
 morning May, with Bid and Mrs. Kear- 
 ney's lads, met Paul who was waiting for 
 them at the foot of the mountain. With 
 
bid's castle. 
 
 101 
 
 much laughing and merry jokes, the party 
 began the ascent by the light of torches 
 made of lighted cones of straw which the 
 gossoons carried in their hands, and flour- 
 ished above their heads as they danced on 
 before the rest, showing the way. Pres- 
 ently Con the fool started out of a bush ; 
 and he, too, must have a torch, with which 
 he played strange pranks for the amuse- 
 ment of the rest, firing the wild whins and 
 thorns as lie went along, so that a crack- 
 ling line of flame flared out and flew after 
 him, then writhed away in sparks into 
 darkness. May and Paul followed, and 
 laughed as they trod the sparks under their 
 feet. They were once more a pair of 
 children, as they had been in the old time 
 before Paul put his hand to the miser's 
 work, or Katherine came to vex them. 
 They forgot the curse, and all else that 
 had troubled them. 
 
 By the time they reached the Kearneys' 
 house the day had begun to break ; and, 
 during a pale, chill halt-hour, our cuiious 
 little party were glad to gather into the 
 cabin to bask in the warmth of the fire be- 
 fore beginning the operations of the day. 
 Then Nan and her mother led the way to 
 where the building materials had been col- 
 lected during the past i'uvr days : goodly 
 blocks of bogwood, stones of a handy size, 
 a mess of excellent mortar made of mud 
 and other ingredients, after a famous moun- 
 tain receipt ; heaps of clay, bundles of 
 tough and knotty twigs ; sheaves of rushes 
 and rods ; and a store of straw for the 
 thatching. A council was held as to the 
 site on wliioh Bid's castle was to be built ; 
 and finally a spot was chosen which was 
 dry and sheltered because of a rock which 
 stood behind it, very fit to keep off the 
 storm, yet not high enough to intercept the 
 sun. Bid and the house-mother, Nan and 
 Con, Paul and the gossoons, stood by and 
 watched while May laid the first stone of 
 the little edifice ; the sun suddenly rising 
 to witness the ceremony, the mountains 
 blushing, and the smoke of the Kearneys' 
 cabin turning wonderfnlly into flame. 
 
 Then the work began, every one present 
 lending a hand. Bid and the house-mother 
 trundled the blocks to the builders' feet. 
 May brought the mortar, Nan carried the 
 clay, while Paul and Con and the gossoons 
 laid stone over stone and piled log above 
 log. By nine o'clock the walls had grown 
 wonderfully; and the builders retreated 
 again to Mrs. Kearney's cabin, wliere the 
 kettle was found boiling, and a hamper had 
 been unpacked. Tea, white bread, and 
 toasted ham for the builders : never was a 
 merrier breakfast. Then the work went 
 
 on again ; and by noon the walls had risen 
 to their full height, which was just two feet 
 higher than Bid's silvered head. 
 
 Paul and May left the work for an hour's 
 rest, and wandered away to explore the 
 heathery world. Paul was in happy mood. 
 With May's hand in his own, and the 
 mountain air blowing on him, he was 
 comfortable and at peace, and tasted the 
 rarest enjoyment. With a strange lapse of 
 memory, which was habitual to liiin now, 
 he forgot the engagement whicli he had 
 made with the miser, and talked to May of 
 their future home, and of his mission among 
 the people. May seemed to walk on air, 
 and laughed out loud that she might not 
 weep for joy. They came on a tiny stream, 
 so hidden in the moss that it seemed going 
 on a secret errand to the lower world; and 
 they tracked it for a mile, and hunted it 
 from its ambush, till it tied from their pur- 
 suit down a chink in the steep rock. An 
 eagle wheeled over their lie ids, and they 
 watched with breathless interest while it 
 dropped to the valley for its prey. They 
 counted the different kinds of flowers, the 
 homes within range of their eyes, and the 
 sails on the distant sea. Such interests 
 were enough for the moment, and they 
 wished no deeper subjects for conversation. 
 They understood each oiher so well that 
 they had scarcely need of words. 
 
 ■The new house was a tiny dwelling, but 
 a castle to homeless Bid. A smooth flag 
 was laid for a hearthstone, and a fire kin- 
 dled at once to dry the floor of clay. The 
 gossoons, at their leisure, v/ould daub tar on 
 the unseasoned rafters, .n iid dash the inner 
 walls with sand ; and, ■./hen it was known 
 throughout the country that the " thravel- 
 ler " had got a home, there was many a 
 little necessary for b jusekeeping that would 
 come offering itsc.f to Bid. A " creepie 
 stool " would be the gilt of one friend, a bit 
 of delft that of another ; a third would 
 spare a skillet, and a fourth bestow a ket- 
 tle. May promised a bed of the best goose 
 feathers, a teapot, and a dresser, with some 
 pretty cups and plates. Paul gave money, 
 to be expended at the next fair held in the 
 little shiny white town which could be seen 
 from Bid's new doorway. There she could 
 find whatever other luxuries the magnifi- 
 cence of her new housekeeping might re- 
 quire, as well as a basket of simple wares 
 which she might sell for her future liveli- 
 hood about the country. " There are worse 
 trades than a peddler's," said Paul. " You 
 know I have tried it myself; " which made 
 the little group of builders burst out laugh- 
 ing through their tears. 
 
 The sun had set when May and Paul set 
 
102 
 
 THE WICKED WOODS OF TOBEREBVIL. 
 
 out to walk homeward down the mountain. 
 Before they left, BLil knelt down on her 
 floor, and pronounced a blessing on their 
 heads which turned the listeners pale with 
 awe ; and, after they were gone, she shut her 
 door to be alone under her own roof a while 
 with her gratitude and her God. When 
 Nan, after a while, came tapping' to her 
 door, the girl was half afraid to go in ; but 
 Bid's passion had spent itself, and she was 
 now ready and willing to be bidden to a 
 feast. May had bequeathed to the house- 
 mother the remaining contents of the ham- 
 Ser, and there was a merry supper-party at 
 Irs. Kearney's. 
 In the mean time. May and Paul went 
 their way down the road homeward, with 
 the beggar's prayer following them, track- 
 ing their feet like a trail of light as they 
 threaded the sombre shades of the Wicked 
 Woods. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 TIBBIE FINDS A " DEVIL TO DO HER 
 WILL." 
 
 When Tibbie parted from Katherine in 
 the mansion of Tobereevil, the old creature 
 did not hastily retreat from the shelter of 
 its roof She was too much interested in 
 the golden-haired ! lady who had promised 
 her a mandrake to lose sight of her for a 
 moment, so lonj: as she was within reach; 
 and so followed l.-r stealthily from room to 
 room, peering at Ii.t through key-holes and 
 cracks in crazy doors. When Paul came 
 upon Katherine, up in the lobby of the 
 goblin presses, Tibbie espied him from a 
 room at the lower end >f the passage, and 
 was witness of all that passed between the 
 two young people. She was keen enough 
 to discern that Kitlierine had a mind to be 
 mistress of Tobereevil in spite of her con- 
 tempt for and enmity towards the lieir ; 
 also that Paul " didn't cotton to her, for 
 all her grandeur and her beauty." 
 
 Why this should be, Tibbie could not 
 guess. The poor and the ugly might be 
 slighted and disliked ; but wherefore the 
 rich and lovely ? Tibbie was bewildered. 
 Another cause of amazement to her was that 
 Katherine, thus in want of luck herself, 
 should choose to be so foolish as to give 
 away her mandrake ; and she did not doubt 
 that things had gone wrong with her since 
 she first thought of parting with it. How- 
 ever this might be, these reflections made 
 Tibbie a hundred times more anxious to get 
 
 possossson of the luck-spirit. Katherine 
 might repent, and keep it to herself; and 
 if, after all, the young lady were to be gene- 
 rous and keep her word ? Tibbie felt no 
 gratitude at the thought of so great a sacri- 
 fice made in her favor : she began to despise 
 Katherine. 
 
 When Tibbie had done her eaves-drop- 
 ping, she made her way carefully down 
 stairs to her old haunts about the cellar and 
 the kitchen. To tell the truth, she had 
 never ceased, for long, to be an inmate of 
 the mansion. For a few nights after her 
 dismissal she had sought shelter from the 
 country people, who had given it out of 
 charity, yet with but a shrinking sort of 
 goodwill; and Tibbie knew that she was 
 no favorite, and her vagrant life was irk- 
 some to her: so, after a little time, she 
 came wandering back to the mansion, and 
 at last boldly took up her quarters in the 
 old place. She knew holes in the cellars 
 where she could hide, if Simon took a fancy 
 to come pattering down the stone staircase 
 to make an inspection of his lower premises. 
 This happened but seldom, and at other 
 times Tibbie was free to do as she pleased. 
 Her domestic arrangements were made upon 
 so extremely scant a scale that all trace of 
 them could be hidden at a moment's notice : 
 and, in the mean time, she kept herself alive 
 by pilfering from the nearest farms. 
 
 Tibbie was now out every day, watching 
 to see Katherine bringing her the mandrake. 
 When no Katherine appeared she was much 
 disturbed. The joung lady had then re- 
 pented, and was going to play her false. 
 Tibbie reflected, and thought she would like 
 to punish her ; and, in the midst of these 
 broodings, a bright idea came into her cun- 
 ning mind. 
 
 " I will buy the mandhrake from her wid 
 a charm I " thought Tibbie, " an' I will 
 work my will through her, in a way she little 
 guesses." 
 
 So she went searching and grubbing 
 among her bundles of rags which were 
 stuffed in holes in the cellars ; and she pro- 
 duced a package of dried herbs, which 
 looked, some like dust, and some like ashes. 
 After midnight, when Simon had finished his 
 nightly excursions about the rooms, and was 
 safe in bed, Tibbie kindled a fire, and placed 
 a broken saucepan upon the blaze. Into 
 this she shed two or three different kinds of 
 powders from her store, mixing them care- 
 fully. She hung over this saucepan for many 
 hours of the night ; and Con sat on the 
 hearth, feeding the fire with the wicked fag- 
 ots out of the woods, with his legs crossed, 
 and an expression of doubt and discontent 
 upon his flat white face. As the moments 
 
TIBBIE FINDS A "DEVIL TO DO HER WILL." 
 
 103 
 
 passed, he often glanced fearfully over his 
 shoulder fancying Simon was on the stair- 
 case ; and once he sprang up with a shriek, 
 dropping the fagots on the hearth, and flew 
 into a cellar, where he lay quaking for half 
 an hour. Con's terror of the miser was on 
 the increase ; and, though he had crept in 
 here from habit when he had found Tibbie 
 on the spot, yet he seemed to know by in- 
 stinct that .she had now lost her power, 
 and that she, too, was afraid of Simon. 
 Tibbie did not much mind him, except to 
 give him a push with her foot when she 
 found him in her way ; but, when he came 
 shivering out of the cellar, she gave him a 
 shaking which taught him to be quiet during 
 the rest of this vigil. No two people could 
 be more different than Con at Tobereevil 
 and Con up in the mountain. In the Kear- 
 neys' cabin the fool was light, active, and as 
 frolicsome and merry as a squirrel, ready to 
 help everybody, and grinning with content- 
 ment. Down here he was dull and timid, and 
 sometimes dangerous ; but Tibbie did not 
 heed him. He might growl if he pleased, 
 and snarl, too, if he had a mind : she was 
 not one to be particular about manners. 
 
 When Tibbie's brewing was finished, she 
 strained the stuff carefully, and put it in a 
 clear glass bottle. It was a pale, straw-col- 
 ored fluid, and looked very innocent ; but 
 Tibbie did not count it so. 
 
 " Love-charms I " muttered she, as she 
 hid it in one of her secret holes : " there's 
 no sich thing in the world. I tried them all 
 round when I was a girl, and nobody would 
 care about me ; but let her give this to 
 Paul Finiston, an' it'll make him as mad an' 
 silly as the omadhaun Con himsel' ; an' 
 then let the world judge betune them which 
 is the fittest to be masther o' Tobereevil." 
 
 When Katherine came from her room on 
 the morning on which Bid's castle was get- 
 ting built, Miss Martha broke the truth to 
 her as gently as might be, telling her that 
 May and Paul had gone on business up to 
 the mountain. Katherine recognized the 
 trick that had been played on her, and her 
 face took a strange expression. After break- 
 fast there being nothing better to do, she 
 thought she could pass the time by going in 
 search of Tibbie, so took her way to the 
 woods, guessing she should meet the hag in 
 their neighborhood ; and in this she was not 
 wrong, for Tibbie was watching of her. 
 
 The meeting between the two was not so 
 lively as it might have been ; for Katherine 
 was in bad humor, and Tibbie full of sus- 
 picions. Tibbie's mood was changed, how- 
 ever, when she saw her mandrake emerge 
 from many mysterious wrappings, and held 
 it safely ih her hands. She howled over it 
 
 for joy, and kissed it with her withered lips. 
 In her excitement she almost forgot her 
 contempt for Katherine, who had been so 
 silly as to give this treasure out of her keep- 
 ing, and was ready to lay her gray hairs 
 under the wonderful lady's feet. 
 
 " Try and keep steady, my good woman," 
 said Katherine. " If you make so much 
 noise about this you will be robbed. I ad- 
 vise you now to go back to Tobereevil, and 
 take up your old duties without asking the 
 miser's leave. You need not be afraid 
 of lam now that you have got your man- 
 drake." 
 
 " No,'' chuckled Tibbie, " I need not be 
 afraid of him ; an' if there's any thin' that 
 Tibbie can do for your ladyship, — mind, 
 she'll do it, an' welcome 1 " 
 
 Katherine looked at her, then gazed 
 away darkly into the depths of the woods. 
 " I don't want any thing of you," she 
 said ; " but, if ever I should, remember what 
 you have said. I shall return soon to Cam- 
 lough ; and it may be a long time before I 
 set eyes on you again." 
 
 Tibbie had now secured and secreted her 
 new possession, and all her contempt re- 
 turned for the creature who had been so 
 foolish as to part with her luck. She fum- 
 bled among her rags, and produced the 
 straw-colored bottle. 
 
 " Pardon, ladyship ! but you said you 
 were goin' to Camlough. Might I be bould 
 enough to ax you if ye would leave this 
 small message wid a young girl that lives 
 on the roadside ? " 
 
 " What is it? " said Katherine. 
 " Oh 1 thin it's you that'll laugh at it ; for 
 ye'll nivir want it," said Tibbie. " Sure, 
 it's on'y a little charm, sich as simple 
 bodies does use." 
 
 " A charm 1 " said Katherine contempt- 
 uously. 
 
 " Ay, a love-charm. The girl was goin' 
 to be married, an' her sweetheart he turned 
 agin her ; but the charm will bring the love 
 o' her back to his heart. If wan body gives 
 this to drink till another body, she'll be the 
 dear light o' his eyes for the remainder o' 
 his life. He'll think her beautiful an' love- 
 some, an' won't be able to live out o' her 
 sight. He'll forget them he cared for ; an' 
 the wan that give him to dhrink o' this — 
 she may hould his heart, an' his han' an' his 
 money, an' his lan's till the day o' his 
 death ! " 
 
 " What ridiculous stories you are tell- 
 ing ! " said Katherine angrily ; and her 
 eyes flashed from the bottle to the old 
 woman's face, and from the face back to 
 the bottle. " What could there be in a 
 draught to work such a miracle ? " 
 
104 
 
 THE WICKED WOODS OP TOBEEEEVIL. 
 
 " Ah, ay ! What could tbere be in a 
 draught? Many a woman has axed that, 
 an' yet the charm pushes it away. You 
 keep yer eye on Sally, an' see if she's not 
 married to her sweetheart in a month ; but 
 1 humbly beg yer pardon for mentionin' 
 sich foolishness. It's just like my impi- 
 dence axin' a lady to do my business. I'll 
 get some one goin' the roads that'll pass the 
 bottle to Sal." 
 
 " Give it to me," said Katherine. " If 
 the girl is to be made a fool of, I suppose I 
 can do it; and now I will bid you good- 
 morning, and wish you good luck with your 
 mandrake." 
 
 Tibbie's eyes twinkled ^s she surren- 
 deied the precious bottle; and, in the midst 
 of her profuse thanks, Katherine turned 
 abruptly, and left her talking to the trees. 
 
 May and Paul were as well wearied as 
 two people could wish to be when they 
 came down the road that evening, and es- 
 pied the lights shining in the windows of 
 Monasterlea. Aunt Martha was glad to 
 have them back again ; for she had felt seri- 
 ously in awe of Miss Arohbold's darkened 
 countenance. She had provided dinner 
 with more than her usual care, and rejoiced 
 at May's blooming cheeks and Paul's bright- 
 ened manner, as the two sat down to table 
 and related their adventures. Katherine 
 was the most silent of the company ; but, 
 when Paul rose to go away, she spoke, — 
 
 " Stay a moment," she said, " till I make 
 a request. I am going home to Camlough 
 to-morrow. May I rely upon you to escort 
 me, as I cannot go alone ? " 
 
 " Going home ! " echoed Miss Martha 
 and May in a breath ; and they both felt 
 as if a weight had been rolled away from 
 their hearts. 
 
 " Yes," said Katherine. " I shall ride, 
 and send a carriage for my things." 
 
 " Had you not better send to Camlough, 
 and ask your parents to come and fetch 
 you ? " asked Miss Martha. 
 
 " No." said Katherine bluntly. " I shall 
 ride ; and I shall ride alone if Mr. Finiston 
 will not accompany me." 
 
 " That is out of the question," said Paul, 
 now forced to speak. " If you insist upon 
 going, of course I shall be your escort." 
 
 Katherine bowed slightly, and then 
 turned to Miss Martha. 
 
 " You do not press me to stay," she said. 
 
 " No," said the old lady, " that would not 
 be right. Inhospitable as it may sound, I 
 think it quite time that you were at Cam- 
 lough with your mother." 
 
 Katherine smiled faintly. 
 
 " Thank you," she said. " That is an 
 
 honest speech at any rate. I thank you for 
 all your hospitality ; and you," she said to 
 May, "I thank you also. I don't doubt 
 that I shall yet find means to repay you 
 what I owe you. I must say good-night, as 
 I mean to be up so early." 
 Then she left the room. 
 " This is a nice piece of business," re- 
 marked Miss Martha, as soon as she was 
 gone. " I must say, Paul, I wish you were 
 not going with her." 
 
 " Why should he not go ? " cried May, 
 with glowing cheeks. 
 
 " I shall leave her at the door, and come 
 straight back again," said Paul. " It is the 
 last thing I could wish, — to be her guest 
 even lor a night." 
 
 " You cannot come straight back : the 
 journey is too long and fatiguing," said 
 Miss Martha ; " but you can stay one night, 
 and return the next day. May and I will 
 not be jealous for that time." 
 
 " Jealous 1 " said May. " Dear aunty, 
 what an ugly word ! He shall stay two, 
 three, four days, — a whole month if he 
 likes ! " and she put her hand on Paul's 
 shoulder with a happy look of trust. 
 
 '• See how little she values me I " said 
 Paul, smiling back his thanks into her shin- 
 ing face. And then she went out with him 
 to the door, perhaps to see if the stars were 
 still in the sky ; and Miss Martha remained 
 in the parlor, rejoicing very greatly as she 
 put up her knitting for the night. 
 
 Paul and Katherine set out early the 
 next morning, and May and Miss Martha 
 watched them as they rode away in the sun- 
 shine. 
 
 " Only till to-morrow evening, and then 
 the good old times will have come back," 
 May said to herself as she nailed up loose 
 rose-branches in her garden, and counted 
 the little buds which were already getting 
 red. The day was beautiful, and as full 
 of hopefulness as herself. The ruins smiled 
 darkly out of all the hollow sockets of their 
 windows, and the cloisters gathered up their 
 gloom, and hid it under the ivy. Some 
 swallows had arrived during the night, and 
 were making a great fuss about taking pos- 
 session of their old homes in the chimneys 
 and about the eaves. There was a great 
 whirring and fluttering of wings every- 
 where ; and, though the new-comers had not 
 got leisure to sit down and sin j, yet the air 
 was all filled with their melodious conver- 
 sation. The birds were everywhere : long 
 trains of rooks from Tobereevil sailing 
 across the blue valley of the sky, whole 
 coveys of yellow-hammers dropping hke 
 showers of gold upon the pillars of the old 
 gate, while a goldfinch sat on May's window- 
 
TIBBIE FINDS A "DEVIL TO DO HEE WILL." 
 
 105 
 
 sill, and sang into the chamber. Indoors, 
 Bi'idget was hanging up draperies about 
 the windows ; and May decked the sills 
 with boxes full of blossoms, — the gayest 
 and sweetest that the year had yet produced. 
 All this long day she spent upon the flow- 
 ers, working till past sunset, till the crescent 
 crept up, and sat upon the hills, and a mul- 
 titude of stars came out to inspect her 
 labors. Next day she gave her energies 
 to the interior of the cottage. Many little 
 household matters were taken up and shak- 
 en out, and looked all the fresher and 
 prettier for having been disturbed by skil- 
 ful hands. Pictures were re-hung, and old 
 furniture brightened up. So passed the 
 interval which May had got to spend before 
 Paul could return to her, until, at last, the 
 evening arrived. Dinner was waiting, and 
 May sat on the doorstep watching the 
 road. The sun went down, but Paul had 
 not appeared. Miss Martha began to get 
 fidgety ; but May said, — 
 
 " Wait a, little, aunty ! It is such a 
 long, weary road." 
 
 The old lady went back to the parlor. 
 The place was very quiet, the air sweet 
 and still. Oh, for the ring of a horse's 
 hoof on the road I Never was there a 
 watcher more quiet yet more impatient 
 than this one on the doorstep.- 
 
 Miss Martha came out again. 
 
 " It is getting quite dark" she said, 
 " and we really must dine. We can have 
 something nice for supper, and he will en- 
 oy it much more than if he finds he has 
 ept us starving." 
 
 May agreed to this, and the evening 
 lamps were lit. Dinner was served, and 
 sent away. 
 
 Miss Martha dozed, and the cat played 
 with her knitting-ball. The tea-tray came 
 and went — nine o'clock, ten o'clock. May 
 walked up and down the garden paths, and 
 Miss Martha warned her that she had bet- 
 ter stay indoors. 
 
 " You will only catch cold," she said, 
 " and be laid up to-morrow when he comes. 
 I must say I never saw you so very impa- 
 tient before." 
 
 " No," Siiid May penitently ; but she 
 could not rest. Eleven o'clock passed, 
 and then the cottage was all shut up. 
 When May awoke next morning the birds 
 were all singing as if something good must 
 happen. She dressed herself in great 
 haste, and hurried out on the road. She 
 climbed the old observatory in the belfry ; 
 but there was no sign of a horseman for 
 miles along the road from the Golden 
 Mountain. 
 
 She went about doing nothing all day. 
 
 i^ 
 
 Her hands shook so, that they did mis- 
 chief to every thing they touched ; so she 
 gave up occupation, and went about idly. 
 When she spoke, her voice was irritable, 
 and a flush burned on her cheek. Aunt 
 Martha scolded her, as she always did 
 before offering her comfort. 
 
 " I must say, May, I did not think you 
 could be so exacting. Why should he not 
 stay at Camlough for a few days, if he 
 pleased ? I am quite sure Sir John counts 
 it a godsend to get hold of him ; and he 
 never was there before, and he will have a 
 great deal to see." 
 
 " He ought not to stay there just now," 
 said May ; and her voice had got quite 
 sharp. 
 
 Miss Martha said no more, and another 
 night went past. On the next day May's 
 irritability had disappeared, every other 
 feeling being swallowed up in amazement. 
 Slie appeared quite stunned for the next 
 two or three days ; and it seemed a matter 
 of course that the night and morning should 
 come and go, and that Paul should not 
 appear. She became suddenly very busy, 
 and it might have been supposed that she 
 had forgotten him. She developed an ex- 
 traordinary taste for cooking ; and cakes, 
 jellies, preserves, and potted meats were 
 ranged on the pantry shelves in unnecessary 
 profusion before she began to perceive that 
 she was going too fast. 
 
 " Aunt Martha," she said one morning, 
 " we are badly in want of sugar." 
 
 " So we may be, considering the rate you 
 are going at. 1 don't think 1 am growing 
 stingy ; but, my dear, you must not ruin 
 me ! " 
 
 May looked astonished, and then asham- 
 ed. She peeped into the store-room, and 
 did not go back to it again for a fortnight. 
 Her conscience twinged her when all the 
 dainties came to the table. The cooking 
 had lasted a week, and then another fit 
 came on. 
 
 May would sew, and sew as if her life 
 depended on stitches. Every garment in 
 the house came under her inspection : 
 summer clothes were made, winter clothes 
 were mended and laid past ; but this also 
 came to an end, and the twitching had 
 not worked itself out of May's fingers. 
 
 She was now really at a loss ; but a 
 child came to her gate with a tale of a 
 sick father ; and May packed a little basket, 
 and set off" over the country to seek for the 
 ailing man. A great many other tales 
 were told to her after this, and for another 
 good long spell of time she went trotting 
 about alter sickness with as much zeal as 
 a sister of charity. But the weather was 
 
106 
 
 THE WICKED WOODS OB" TOBEREEVIL. 
 
 getting balmier every day ; and, in time, her 
 patients all got well except one old man 
 ■who died ; and May's active brain and 
 limbs found themselves arrived at a full 
 stop. 
 
 By this time it was early summer ; and 
 there had come no more news from Cam- 
 lough than if it had been an island in the 
 far seas, and boats had not as yet been in- 
 vented. The Wicked Woods had put 
 forth all their most splendid leafage ; and 
 Miss Martha's farm was a pleasant sight 
 to look upon, with its meadows and corn- 
 fields and newly-blooming gardens. The 
 wild roses were in the hedges, and the 
 hawthorn and honey-suckle clambered on 
 every wall, and peeped in at every win- 
 dow. All the sweets in the world seemed 
 to abide at Monasterlea, except the one 
 which sweetens all others, — peace of 
 mind. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 SIMON DOES HIS OWN WORK. 
 
 In the mean time, Simon had been anx- 
 iously expecting his nephew, who strangely 
 absented himself; instead of hastening to 
 complete that engagement which he had 
 almost entered into with his employer. 
 The old man's head was now as busy with 
 Scotch shepherds, as that of his ancient 
 predecessor had been bewitched by the 
 dream of multitudes of spreading trees. 
 He wished to exterminate every peasant, 
 and to cut down the idle woods. He wished 
 to see herds of sleek animals grazing.'Over 
 his land, to have his money in large sums, 
 and no risk about getting it. 
 
 He did not know what his nephew could 
 mean by staying away so long, having ex- 
 pected the young man to return to him im- 
 mediately, lest a terrible threat which had 
 been uttered should be fulfilled without 
 delay. Yet the weeks passed on, and Paul 
 did not appear ; while the old man chafed 
 and fretted about his house, and roamed 
 out into the woods, cursing his nephew and 
 his own wretched fate, since he did not find 
 one creature in the world whom he could 
 trust. 
 
 Tibbie observed him from her secret hid- 
 ing-place, and knew the cause of his anger; 
 watched her opportunity, and presented 
 herself before him. She had hung up her 
 mandrake in a corner of the kitchen, where 
 it surveyed all her labors and her idlings. 
 Confident in her possession of good luck. 
 
 she did not fear Simon ; and her shrewdness 
 suggested the best way of dealing with her 
 aggrieved master, who scarcely listened to 
 her penitent speeches and professions of 
 attachment, but seized on her offers of ser- 
 vice with the greatest eagerness. He was 
 in bad need of a messenger, and Tibbie was 
 ready to go anywhere. Yes, she would go 
 in search of Paul Finiston, though she knew 
 very well that he had gone to Camlough. 
 After a long day's absence, she came back 
 with her news : Paul had gone away for his 
 own amusement, and no one in the country 
 seemed to know when he would return. 
 
 Simon's rage at hearing this was extreme. 
 Tibbie slunk away out of reach till his pas- 
 sion was exhausted ; and then, when she 
 found him feeble and prostrate, with nei- 
 ther voice nor breath left, she ventured 
 again before him, and talked as she had a 
 mind to talk. She told him that Paul Fin- 
 iston never had intended to work for him ; 
 that he had wanted to be his heir, and that 
 was all, laughing in his sleeve while he 
 pretended to be his servant. Of course he 
 was now the heir, and would amuse himself 
 as he pleased till such time as his uncle's 
 death should put him in possession of great 
 wealth. Fine people were courting him, 
 because of those riches which he boasted 
 must be his ; and he reckoned on having 
 enough to spend in his lifetime without 
 troubling himself about laying up an in- 
 crease. Having made these statements, 
 Tibbie went back triumphantly to her 
 kitchen, no longer to hide, but to reign as 
 in former times. Simon was glad to have 
 her at hand ; for, his rage expended, he was 
 feverish with new plans. He would be king 
 in his own kingdom ; and Tibbie should, for 
 the moment, be his minister. Tibbie should 
 go in search of the bailiff, so that notices of 
 ejectment might be served without delay ; 
 and if the people refused to move, why then 
 Simon, having cast off Paul, would prove 
 that he could yet do business without help 
 from his unworthy kinsman. He would 
 hire some stout assistants, who must at least 
 do their duty by him for a day ; but longer 
 than one day he would trust no man again. 
 
 Tibbie set off on her errand on a merry 
 summer morning, and she went greatly out 
 of her way to carry her news across the 
 mountains. Con followed after her heels ; 
 but he was busy watching the squirrels in 
 the trees, and the leverets on the heath. 
 The world was gay for the fool ; and he grew 
 merrier and noisier as he got nearer to the 
 clouds : he knew that he was going a visit- 
 ing to his friends up in the hills. 
 
 The first house they arrived at was happy 
 Bid's. The old woman was preparing for 
 
SIMON DOKS HIS OWN WORK. 
 
 107 
 
 a ramble through the country with her bas- 
 ket of wares. The basket sat on the table 
 full of little pictures in brass frames, pin- 
 boxes, and pin-cushions, dressing-combs, 
 and rosary-beads, tin brooches, and glass 
 ear-rings, besides many other valuables fit 
 to make eyes dance at her coming. By it 
 lay her staff. The fire was raked on the 
 hearth in preparation for a long absence of 
 the householder from her home, — that home 
 of which she was so proud, and which had 
 made her old age so honorable. The place 
 looked as clean as a new pin ; and she had 
 got a chair for a visitor, and a little stool 
 ior herself, a very tiny table, and a dresser 
 with some crockery. Three gaudy pictures, 
 with brazen frames, were hung round the 
 walls, and gave the place quite a splendid 
 look. The first was the Nativity, the sec- 
 ond the Crucifixion, the third the Resur- 
 rection of the Lord ; and these made a 
 history, which were as Scripture for Bid, 
 to whom the alphabet was but a string of 
 hieroglyphics. All these delights she had 
 tasted and enjoyed ; but Tibbie had come 
 to tell her that the feast was at an end. 
 
 Bid herself, queen of her castle, came 
 forward to meet the visitors, brimming full 
 of the good-humor of hospitality. She was 
 dressed ready for travel in the usual long 
 gray cloak and bright scarlet kerchief; she 
 had also a new white cap, whose borders 
 looked as fresh round her pleasant face as 
 a spring hedge round a garden. By such 
 signs of luxury one could see the change in 
 her life. Well might she smile on visiting 
 neighbors, even though Tibbie should come 
 among them. She had not much to offer 
 to any one, besides a seat on her chair, and 
 a sight of lier pictures ; but to Bid's man- 
 ner of thinking this was no mean entertain- 
 ment. 
 
 Tibbie was presented with the chair and 
 Con with the stool, and Bid sat down on 
 her floor, which was well-nigh as clean as 
 a satin couch. 
 
 " There'll be a bit of ,a note comiu' to ye, 
 by an by," said Tibbie, " but may be ye 
 won't be able to read it." 
 
 "'Deed an' I can't," said Bid. "Ye'll 
 tell me what'U be in it ? " 
 
 " That's aisy done," said Tibbie. " Ye'll 
 be out o' this, bag an' baggage, before this 
 day month." 
 
 Bid, who had been so happy, turned as 
 white as her nice clean cap. 
 
 " Anan ! " she said faintly ; but she knew 
 the whole story well. 
 
 " Yer bad ways is found out," continued 
 Tibbie, speaking loud in the pride of her 
 office. '•! wondher yer not ashamed to 
 steal yer lan'lord's land. Ye thought to sit 
 
 here free because the old man was dotin' ; 
 but he's not dotin' a bit; an' he's doin' his 
 work himsel' these days. He'll be up wid 
 ye in a fortnit's time, an' I advise ye not 
 to sit waitin' for him." 
 
 Poor Bid listened with meekness : she 
 was indeed overthrown from her glory; 
 her old hands fell lax in her lap, her very 
 cap-border hung limp by her cheeks. 
 
 " Because, having lifted me up Thou 
 hast cast me down." So said Bid's dim 
 eyes, which had no thought of rebellion in 
 their sadness. She only found suddenly 
 that she could no longer be a queen. It 
 was plain that the Lord had not loved her 
 in her pride. i 
 
 "It's all right, ma'am," she said, pluck- 
 ing up her spirits ; " on'y there's wan thing 
 I would ax ye. Would a small trifle o' rent 
 be like to make a differ? The basket has 
 done beautiful wid me; an' bymanes o' the 
 pinch of hunger I could save up a little 
 somethin'." 
 
 " Sorra bit o' differ," said Tibbie. " Si- 
 mon wants the Ian'. There's gran' rich 
 cattle fellas comin' to the hills ; an' it's not 
 the likes o' you that's goin' to stan' in the 
 road o' sheep an' fat bullocks. I'm thinkin' 
 Simon's tired o' gettin' his money in ha'- 
 pence an' pence. But I'm too long talkin' 
 to ye ; I must be off to the widow Kear- 
 ney's." 
 
 At the sound of her friend's name the 
 expression of Bid's meek face was changed. 
 A look of lively terror came into her eyes. 
 
 "The Kearneys!" she cried. '• Oh, ye 
 niver meant the Kearneys 1 Yer niver 
 goin' to them on the same arrant ye came 
 tome?" 
 
 " May be not," said Tibbie, " but I know 
 my own business." 
 
 Con had been .hovering about the cabin, 
 looking at Bid's pictures, and hanging with 
 rapture over the treasures in her basket. 
 When Bid cried out " the Kearneys ! " in 
 a tone of anguish, he started and gazed at 
 her, and his white face turned red. Then 
 be looked at Tibbie ; and his brows began 
 to lower, and he went and took his stand 
 by the side of Bid. 
 
 " Nan 1 ",said the fool. 
 
 But Bid was too much afllicted to give 
 any heed to him. Her eyes had now got 
 fire in them, and her figure had lost its 
 limpness. She got up, and grasped her 
 staff, and prepared to follow Tibbie ; 
 
 " He threvvn them out wanst," she said, 
 " an' will he threwn them out again I 
 What ha' they done to Simon but pay him 
 his heavy dues ? The Lord, sure, will be 
 even wid him wan day for the like o' 
 this I " 
 
108 
 
 THE ■WICKED WOODS OP TOBEEEEVIIi. 
 
 " Curses does no good," said Tibbie vir- 
 tuously. 
 
 " I do not curse," said Bid ; " but oh, 
 Mary, my poor frien', it's the says'Il get you 
 now ! " 
 
 Con was white again, and he listened 
 with all his ears. He knew there was come 
 some trouble upon his friends ; knew that 
 Bid was griuviniT for them, and that Tibbie 
 had brou'ht the grief. He handed her 
 staff to Bid, and pulled her to the door. 
 " Nan 1 " he kept saying, " Nan ! " But 
 Bid wept loudly as they went along the 
 heath. 
 
 The Kearneys saw them coming, and 
 many smiling faces appeared at the door; 
 but the smiles soon faded away into looks 
 of sorrow and amazement. Who had seen 
 Bid cry since she buried her last child ? 
 
 Mrs. Kearney went out full of sympathy 
 to meet her weeping friend. 
 
 " Mary, my poor woman 1 " said Bid, , 
 " it's the throuble that's come to yer door ! " 
 
 Tibbie now played her part, and an- 
 nounced the miser's will. 
 
 " It's none o' my fault," she added sulk- 
 ily, as she met the frantic eyes of the 
 mother of many children. Mrs. Kearney 
 threw her apron over her face, and retreated 
 into the cabin; but Nan stepped up, and 
 spoke to the bearer of evil tidings : her blue 
 eyes flashed, and she tossed her yellow locks. 
 
 " Don't come here again," she saiil, " or 
 ye'U have cause to rue the day. What do 
 we care for Simon when the Lord has give 
 us Paul ? " 
 
 "Paul, inagh!" sneered Tibbie. "It's 
 much he cares for the likes o' you ! He's 
 dancin' an' singin' at Camlough; an' ye'll 
 all be out o' the country afore he comes 
 back." 
 
 " We'll not be out o' the country," said 
 Nan. " We'll walk, if it was on our knees, 
 till we find him, an' tell our story." 
 
 "Ye needn't walk on yer knees, nor on 
 yer head neither," said Tibbie ; " for he 
 wouldn't lift a hand for ye if he was here 
 this very day. An' what's more, if he 
 would, he has no more power nor you have. 
 Simon has cast him off, an' is doin' the 
 work hissel'." 
 
 Nan bent her fair head, and a cry went 
 out from her lips. If Paul was taken from 
 them, then, indeed, their case was desper- 
 ate. 
 
 Bid and Mary were together weeping in 
 the cabin, and the gossoons were on their 
 knees comforting their mother. Con had 
 been an eager listener to all that passed 
 between Nan and Tibbie, his shifting gaze 
 becoming every moment more pitiful when 
 turned on the one, and more lowering when 
 
 directed towards the other. Nan's sharp 
 cry seemed to madden hjs simple brain. 
 He turned into the cabin, and seized a 
 creepie stool, heavy enough to break a hu- 
 man skull. Tibbie saw him flying out of 
 the doorway, with face of fury, and the 
 stool swung above his head. She cried 
 out loudly, and fled a few paces, then had 
 just time to stoop before the " creepie " 
 whizzed over her shoulders. Death had 
 been very near her : she retreated hastily, 
 and disappeared behind the rocks; while 
 Nan laid hold of Con, and dragged him into 
 the cabin. 
 
 After this. Bid and the Kearney family 
 held counsel together as to what there was 
 to be done in this sad strait: Paul was 
 their only hope, and he was gone to Cam- 
 lough. The only thing they could think 
 of was that Bid should go without delay to 
 Miss May at the old abbey. If there was 
 any tale or tidings of him she would have 
 it, without a doubt. 
 
 Bid took up her staff, and set out with a 
 heavy heart. She arrived at the little gate, 
 and walked up through the pretty rose- 
 garden, and round the back way to the 
 kitchen. 
 
 " Yer welcome ! " said Nanny, with her 
 fingers on her lips ; " but ye'll plase to 
 make no noise, for our young misthress is 
 sick." 
 
 This was bad news to Bid, but she came 
 in as invited. She was far too discreet to 
 speak to the servants about Paul, but 
 asked to see Miss Martha ; and Bridget 
 went to tell the old lady, who was sitting 
 in May's room. The chamber was very 
 silent, the blinds were all drawn down, 
 and the figure in the bed lay with its face 
 turned to the wall. 
 
 " It's Bid the Thraveller, ma'am," whis- 
 pered Bridget ; " an' she wanted Misther 
 Finistou. An' whin she couldn't see him, 
 she's axin now for Miss May." 
 
 " You needn't have come in," said Miss 
 Martlia; " Miss May is too ill " — 
 
 " Let her come in, aunty," said May, 
 sitting up in her bed. 
 
 " My love, you know you are ill " — 
 
 " I have plenty of time to be ill, aunty : 
 I want to see old Bid." 
 
 Miss Martha was obliged to relent, and 
 Bid was brought into the bedroom. Miss 
 Martha warned her not to stay too long, 
 and went away to give some orders to 
 Nanny. 
 
 Bid coming in, leaning on her staff, saw 
 two hollow eyes bent on her out of a white 
 eager face. 
 
 " You are good to come to visit me, Bid. 
 Have you got any news for me ? " 
 
PAUL AT CAMLOTJGH. 
 
 109 
 
 " 111 news, honey — nothin' but ill news. 
 There's cattle cpmin' till the mountain, an' 
 the poor'U have to go ; for Simon's taken 
 to mind the Ian' hissel'. But it's cruel o' 
 me to be tellin' ye this, and yer cheeks the 
 color they are." 
 
 " Never mind my cheeks, Bid : tell me 
 all about it." 
 
 Bid told her the whole : how thirty fam- 
 ilies, for the first instalment, were to be 
 turned out of house and home ; how the 
 very huts they had built of the mud, and 
 hollowed out of the sandy cliffs, were priced 
 BO high above their heads that they could 
 not hope to pay for them, even if they were 
 able to live like the flowers, — on air and the 
 dews from heaven. How some that had 
 paid heavily for many a long year were to 
 go now at last, no matter wliat they might 
 promise. This one was bound to go, and 
 that one was going too. At the Kearneys, 
 Bid broke down. There was no hope tor 
 the Kearneys, and the old woman could 
 tell no more. 
 
 • " Your own little house, Bid. That will 
 be safe enough ? " 
 
 "Oh, throthl" cried Bid, tossing her 
 head, " it's little matter about a body like 
 me. I was thrampin'long enough, ai^' I 
 can take to the thramp again ; but I 
 thought if Mr. Paul was to the fore, sich 
 business couldn't go on." 
 
 " I think he would try to prevent it, but 
 you know he is not here. Mr. Paul is 
 gone to Camlough, and we do not see him 
 now." 
 
 Bid looked at the strained fevered eyes, 
 and at the little wasted hands, that were 
 locked so tight together ; and she knew 
 how things were going here, and that there 
 was no hope at all. 
 
 " You see," she said evasively, " it's 
 goin' this ways wid Simon, that he's comin' 
 near his death. The misers o' Tobereevil 
 does always get a bit harder an' erueler 
 afore their end. It's the way the curse 
 works in them, an' the Lord on'y knows 
 why it should be. Who it is that'll come 
 after him there's no one now can tell, since 
 he has cut ofl Misther Paul." 
 
 " Cut him oH, did you say. Bid ? " 
 
 " That's what I said, an' sure it's little 
 ye need vex. On'y the poor need fret, 
 that doesn'tknow who'll come over them." 
 
 " Are you sure that it is true ? Then I 
 thank Heaven ! Do you think. Bid, that 
 when the property is gone to another, and 
 he ceases to be the heir, do you think then 
 that the curse will let him go ? " 
 
 " I'm thinkin' that it will, honey ; I'm 
 thinkin' that it will. An' sure it's betther 
 to be a poor body wid the blessin' o' the 
 
 Lord, nor be rich an' have the divU playin' 
 thricks on ye all yer life." 
 
 " Listen to me. Bid. Can I put a great, 
 great trust in you ? " 
 
 " God sees if ye do ye'U not put it to 
 the bad." 
 
 " I want you to go to Camlough.'' 
 
 " I'll go, avourneen." 
 
 " I want you to go to Camlough, and to see 
 Mr. Paul liniston. You will notice what 
 he is doing, how he looks, and how he 
 speaks. You see, Bid, it is not natural, 
 this that has happened to him ; he is not 
 the man to go away, and forget his friends. 
 I don't understand the curse, nor how it 
 works ; but it seems to me that it puts his 
 mind astray, so that his enemies have got 
 power over him. He believed this himself, 
 and I promised that I would save him ; 
 but now he is far away, and I am too weak 
 to move. There is only one who can help 
 me, and that is you." 
 
 " Tell me what to do," said Bid, drawing 
 her cloak about her, and grasping her staff. 
 
 " Nothing," said May, " except to go to 
 Camlough upon some errand of your own. 
 Observe all you can, and come back to me 
 with news." 
 
 Then Miss Martha returned to the room 
 and the old woman went away. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 PAUL AT CAMLOUGH. 
 
 Summer was very lovely at Camlough ; 
 bowery foliage clothed the mountain-sides 
 with softness, and in the hollow the swards 
 were brilliant with flowers ; the castle 
 gleamed out of a mantle of flowering bloom, 
 and terraces girdled it with garlands as of 
 fire caught from the sun. The gardens 
 were hived with sweets, the trees heavy 
 with perfumes that crept up into their 
 boughs. The birds sang in chorus, the 
 sea made a delicate music, and the peaks of 
 the upper mountains crowned the valley 
 with a sapphire crown. 
 
 Sir John had ceased to be uneasy about 
 his unruly daughter. His head was full 
 of things more important. He knew she 
 was safe, and that the best way to manage 
 her was to let her have her own way. But 
 the mother could not so easily content her- 
 self; had grown more wretched everyday 
 that her child staid away from her, could 
 no sleep at night nor rest by day. Her daugh- 
 ter's indifference was eating away her life. 
 There was no peace about Lady Archbold ; 
 
110 
 
 THE WICKED WOODS OF TOBEREEVIL. 
 
 her dark hollow eyes still glowed with rest- 
 less passion ; her haughtiness had broken 
 up into querulousness. She was too feverish 
 for occupation, and always at odds with 
 Time for not quickening his lagging steps. 
 She did not care for reading, for there was 
 no story so interesting or so pitiful to her 
 as her own. She looked into her past life 
 by that envious and fitful light which such 
 minds will fling backward upon joys from 
 which they scorned to draw much sweetness 
 while they lived. Why had the world 
 failed her, having so many years been her 
 slave ? Why had pride ceased to charm, 
 and the only love she coveted been denied 
 her ? Why had poverty threatened to pinch 
 her with unknown wants, while bitterness 
 and reproach must be her only solace in 
 the trial ? These were the hard problems 
 which Lady Arehbold had got to solve. 
 
 She walked with weakly steps, about her 
 room, but nobody had any idea that her 
 life was nearly spent. Partly deceived 
 by pride that would not complain, partly 
 by rouge and pearl-powder, Sir John had 
 no suspicion of the intensity of her suffer- 
 ing, or of the havoc it had made. On every 
 one of these summer days her maid dressed 
 her with infinite pains, arranging laces and 
 satins, flowers and jewellery, as carefully as 
 if her mistress had been a young belle going 
 to court for the first time. On her face 
 there were the red and white that simulat- 
 ed health ; and her hair was not suffered to 
 lose the rare blue-black for which the 
 tresses of Lady Arehbold had been famed. 
 She thought, tliat, when her child returned, 
 she should not see the changes which 
 grief and disease had wrought upon her 
 mother. Every day the poor lady sat in a 
 chair filled with cushions, which was placed 
 on the sward at a sunny side of the terrace, 
 a lap-dog on her knees which she did not 
 caress, by her side books which she never 
 opened, fancy-work untouched, and a heap 
 of fresh roses which she crushed to an early 
 death in her hot fingers. Here she sat, 
 watching for one who would not come, and 
 here she still sat, when Katherine at 
 length appeared riding out at the distance 
 with Paul by her side. The mother could 
 not bear the sight which she had so passion- 
 ately longed to see. She fainted in her 
 chair, and had to be carried to her room. 
 
 Sir John was right glad to welcome Paul. 
 In his economic fit he had lately denied 
 himself the pleasures of hospitality, being 
 a man who could not choose to invite his 
 friends to bear him company, unless be 
 surprised them with the most costly enter- 
 tainments; but he was now thoroughly 
 tired of loneliness at Camlough, and pleased 
 
 to see a man coming to share it. He had 
 heard something of Paul, and felt an inter- 
 est in him ; thought him a fine young fellow, 
 who would be a pleasant kind of neighbor, 
 and likely to work some changes which were 
 needed in the country. 
 
 For the first few hours after his arrival, 
 Paul was in high spirits, and won golden 
 opinions from Sir John. He was pleased 
 with all he saw, pleased to get rid of Kath- 
 erine, and to know that to-morrow he 
 should return without her to Monasterlea. 
 Above all else he was glad to find himself 
 happy. Miss Arehbold played hostess, as 
 her mother was not well enough to appear. 
 Her father praised her looks, declaring that 
 the air of Monasterlea had done her good ; 
 did not reproach her, or remark in any way 
 upon the manner in which she had chosen 
 to leave her home. The only thing that 
 clouded Sir John's enjoyment was Paul's 
 determination to return the next day 
 whence he had come. No persuasion would 
 induce him to think of remaining longer 
 than this one night. The master of Cam- 
 lough was vexed at his obstinacy ; but 
 Katherine said carelessly to her father as 
 she left the dinner-table : " Oh, do not 
 trouble about it ; believe me he will stay 1 " 
 
 After dinner, Katherine, her father, and 
 Paul set out for a ride about the estate in 
 the long soft light of the early summer 
 evening, so that Paul might make the most 
 of the few hours at Camlough. The excur- 
 sion was a pleasant one, till, on their return- 
 ing homeward in the dusk, a wild-looking 
 man flung himself suddenly before Paul's 
 horse, throwing up his arms, and uttering 
 curses upon the whole race of the Finistons. 
 Paul, always sensitive to the feeling of the 
 poor towards himself, started with a great 
 shock, and urged on his horse past this evil- 
 wisher, who seemed to have started out of 
 the furze-bushes to banish his contentment. 
 Sir John lingered behind, and, after some 
 parleying with the wayfarer, rode after his 
 visitor, and rejoined him with a grave 
 countenance. 
 
 " I am sorry to hear this," he said. " I 
 have learned from the man that Simon Fin- 
 iston is evicting the people." 
 
 " Is evicting ? " asked Paul in amaze- 
 pient. 
 
 " Yes. This very day : the man says so. 
 His own wife and children are among a 
 hundred who have been turned out, without 
 notice, upon the hills He was working 
 elsewhere, and has been running all day on 
 his way to Tobereevil. This is bad indeed. 
 I had hoped you might have had influence 
 to prevent such iniquities." 
 
 Now, this was many weeks before the 
 
PAUL AT CAMLOUGH. 
 
 Ill 
 
 real evictions took place atTobereevil ; but 
 here was one of the many occasions on 
 which rumor declares that a thing has act- 
 ually occurred long before it is possible that 
 it can have happened. A whisper of Si- 
 mon's intention had blown over the moun- 
 tains, and taken the shape of the tragic 
 story which Sir John now told to Paul. 
 
 A dark flush overspread the young man's 
 face, and his head sunk on his breast. He 
 seemed stunned by this news, the truth of 
 which he never thought of doubting, and 
 did not speak again until they arrived at 
 the castle door. By that time the stunned 
 feeling had left him, and his mind was in a 
 flame. This iniquity had been done under 
 his very eyes, and he had not seen it. He 
 had been warned, and had not striven 
 against the danger. His weakness in tem- 
 porizing with the miser at that last interview 
 now appeared to him as a crime of the 
 darkest hue. His cowardice had wrought 
 the evil, and the sin was on his head. 
 
 Not all Sir John's polite efforts, not all 
 Katherine's fascinating attentions, could 
 restore to Paul the good spirits which he had 
 enjoyed an hour ago. He said good-night 
 to his entertainers while it was yet early, 
 and retired to the chamber which was pre- 
 pared for him. When there, however, he 
 did not go to rest, but walked feverishly 
 about the room, thinking on his own weak- 
 ness, and on the sad case of the poor, and 
 loading himself with the bitterest reproaches. 
 When at last he flung himself on his bed, 
 he was ill in mind and body ; and, when 
 morning came, the guest was found unable 
 tQ leave his room. 
 
 Thus began a fever which wasted Paul's 
 strength for two or three weeks. Kathe- 
 rine was in great dismay, so much so that 
 her father was surprised in a great degree, 
 never having seen her show feeling for any 
 one before. His concern as to the sick 
 man was inoroased by this anxiety of his 
 daughter. He agreed to all her arrange- 
 ments, sent for the country doctor who at- 
 tended to his own gout, and who lived on 
 the western side of the Golden Mountain, 
 inviting this gentleman to spend a fortnight 
 at the castle. To the servants and out-door 
 retainers it was merely said that the guest 
 had got a cold. This was Katherine's wish ; 
 so Sir John made a point of it, though 
 he could not understand it ; and every care 
 was taken to prevent a rumor of serious ill- 
 ness getting abroad. Katherine's old n'urse 
 sat by Paul's bedside night and day ; and 
 Katherine herself often stole in, and sat mo- 
 tionless behind the curtains, with looks so 
 pale and distracted that no one could have 
 any doubt but that the patient's life was at 
 
 least as dear to her as her own. And it 
 was understood that Miss Archbold was 
 engaged to Mr. Finiston. 
 
 At last, after much suffering, Paul was 
 able to rise from his bed. He was weak in 
 body and mind, but this was to be expected 
 for a time. Sir John gave him his arm as. 
 he walked up and down tlie lawn, and 
 Katherine waited on him with dainties; 
 but as the invigorating days of early sum- 
 mer passed over his head, and the body 
 became strengthened, it was found very 
 strangely that his mind did not regain its 
 natural balance. His memory was a blank, 
 his thoughts could not fix themselves on 
 any thing for more than an instant. It was 
 some time before Sir John could persuade 
 himself that this failure of mental powers 
 was so complete and unvarying as it proved 
 itself to be. There were moments when 
 Paul seemed dimly conscious of an extraor- 
 dinary change within himself, and struggled 
 to shake off the cloud which had settled on 
 his brain, to remember whence he had 
 come, and how he had brought himself to 
 Camlough ; but, as days went by, even this 
 slight effort became too much for him. The 
 past dropped away from him, and left him 
 in peace. He was placid and calm, some- 
 times silent for long hours ; sometimes talk- 
 ing with curious simplicity of the things 
 around him. He shrank from society, 
 spending his time roving aimlessly through 
 the hills and little glens, or losing himself 
 among the high green walls of the beech 
 alleys. Lady Archbold, who had recovered 
 from the attack of 'illness which joy had 
 brought upon her, pronounced Paul a sim- 
 pleton, and. wondered why Katherine had 
 brought him to the place ; but Sir John re- 
 buked her for so rash a judgment. 
 
 " You do not understand, my dear : he 
 came here as intelligent a younn- man as 
 could be found. This is only the effect of 
 illness, and will pass away ; for Kathe- 
 rine's sake we must be patient with 
 him." 
 
 Lady Archbold refused to believe in the 
 engagement. She did not wonder that 
 Katherine should have bewitched him away 
 from May, but she looked on Paul as a beo-- 
 gar as well as a simpleton. Sir John con- 
 sidered that it was time to change her 
 mirid, and took her to walk with him down 
 the terraces in the glow of the setting sun, 
 while two peacocks strutted behind them 
 with their magnificent tails spread. 
 
 " Do you not notice how Katherine is al- 
 tered ? " said Sir John. " Her heart is en- 
 gaged at last, and for that we must be 
 thankful. A worthy affection will make 
 her all that we can desire." 
 
112 
 
 THE WICKED WOODS OF TOBEREEVIL, 
 
 " I had no idea that you were so exceed- 
 ingly unworldly," answered his wife. 
 
 " I do not pretend to be altogether un- 
 worldly : I could not afford it now ; but 
 this thing is fortunate from a worldly point 
 of view." 
 
 " Fortunate ! " 
 
 " My love, do not publish our conversa- 
 tion. I know a good deal of the history of 
 Tobereevil. Its owners have been hoard- 
 ing treasure for over three hundred years. 
 They have spent literally nothing. Paul 
 Finiston is the heir — in a short time will 
 be master ; and he seems quite untainted 
 by the besetting sin of his family. I pre- 
 dict a noble career for him, and I cannot 
 but think it happy that my fortunes should 
 be linked with Lis. I have not gone to 
 seek him, nor forced my daughter's fancy. 
 She has had her own way, as I have always 
 allowed her to have it. If the result is sat- 
 isfactory, you are not to call me worldly." 
 
 After this Lady Archbold no longer called 
 Paul a simpleton, but became anxious to 
 see his virtues, and to behold his mind re- 
 stored to health ; the welfare of Katherine 
 being, as usual, her only care. Neverthe- 
 less Paul did not grow wiser nor less fan- 
 tastic in his ways. He would pass hour 
 after hour picking pebbles ti-om the rocks, 
 and flinging them into the sea. He would 
 sit high up in the hills, and hold converse 
 with the sheep. The herds were half afraid 
 of him, though they liked him ; for, besides 
 his singing to the sheep, they heard him 
 declaiming to the mountains, with head 
 thrown back, and arms folded on his 
 breast, addressing the unconscious cliffs in 
 lofty language. Whilst he rambled about 
 in this way, Katherine was often seen hover- 
 ing at a little distance. She followed him 
 about like a nurse trying to guard a refrac- 
 tory child of whom she has some dread. 
 She scarcely ever lost sight of, but seldom 
 ventured to approach him. Her face had 
 grown very white, and lost a great deal of 
 its beauty, and her eyes had got a strangely 
 timorous look. The people talked quite 
 openly about Miss Archbold's engagement 
 to a, fool. She had been over hard to 
 please, and now her heart was set on an 
 idiot. It was wonderful to see her so meek, 
 so absorbed in her care of one person, be- 
 ing never angry now, except when she 
 heard whispers about her fool ; then she 
 would fly into such a fury that every one 
 fled from before her face. 
 
 When many weeks had gone past, the 
 parents of Katherine consulted as to what 
 steps ought to be taken in Paul's case. 
 The doctor prescribed amusement and ex- 
 citement ; so the heads of the people at 
 
 Camlough began to devise plans for the di- 
 version of this demented young man. 
 
 Things were just in this state when Bid 
 arrived at Camlough, with her basket on 
 her arm. She hoped to tempt the maids 
 to buy of her wares ; at all events her mer- 
 chandise was to be the excuse for her ap- 
 pearance; and, coming over the lower hills 
 that sloped towards the' castle, it chanced 
 that she met Paul face to face. She courte- 
 sied to.him and nodded at him ; but he never 
 gave her a glance. The change in his looks 
 struck fear to the heart of his simple friend. 
 
 " Misther Paul 1 " cried Bid, following 
 him, " don't you remember me ? " 
 
 He stopped and gazed at her, and shook 
 his head. 
 
 " I never saw you before," he said, and 
 walked on with his head drooped on his 
 bi-east. 
 
 " O Heavens ! what is this ! " cried Bid. 
 
 " Misther Paul ! " she said, following him 
 again, " I seen Miss May yesterday. You 
 never forgot yer own Miss May ? " 
 
 Paul turned, and stared at her again with 
 the same blank look in his eyes. 
 
 " I don't know what you mean," he said. 
 
 " O mother o' God ! have you forgot 
 her I " cried Bid : but Paul noticed her no 
 more, only walked on and left lier ; and the 
 old woman sat down on the heather, and 
 wept till her eyes were sore. 
 
 A milkmaid was coming over the hills 
 with her milk-pail on her head. She 
 stopped, and looked at Bid, and asked her 
 why she was crying. Poor Bid was too 
 sorrowful to think of any thing but the truth. 
 
 " I met Misther Paul," she said, " an' not 
 a bit he knewn me." 
 
 " Wirra wbist, ould woman, don't you 
 know that the man is mad ? " 
 
 Now, indeed, it was Bid's turn to ques- 
 tion ; but for May's sake she remembered 
 that she must be wise. She accepted the 
 milkmaid's invitation to th6 castle, and sold 
 a pair of blue glass earrings on the spot. 
 She was brought into the kitchen, and af- 
 terwards had an invitation to the house- 
 keeper's private room, where she disposed 
 of all her jewellery, and was hospitably 
 entertained. When she started to return 
 homewards she had learned all that could 
 be learned as to Paul's unhappy state. 
 
 As she came homeward over the moun- 
 tains, her head was dizzy with grief. Paul 
 Finiston mad 1 How could she carry such 
 news to May. The hope of the country was 
 gone on the wind ; but, for the moment, she 
 thought May's the hardest share of the 
 trouble. 
 
 " She'll break her bit o' a heart," said 
 Bid. " She'll turn to the wall, an' die." 
 
PAUL AT CAMLOUGH. 
 
 113 
 
 When the old woman came to the end of 
 her weary journey, and walked up the gar- 
 den-path, she saw the blinds were still down 
 in the cottage at Monasterlea, and she 
 knew that May was no better than when 
 she had left her. So Bid crept round to 
 the back door as before,"and stepped noise- 
 lessly into the kitchen. This time Bridget 
 had no need to put her finger on her lip, 
 for Bid's spirits wore so crushed that she 
 was as quiet as a ghost. Miss Martha came 
 to her presently, and sent her into May's 
 chamber. 
 
 Poor Bid had little art to break her ter- 
 rible news. She told it out bluntly, in a 
 burst of sympathetic sorrow. 
 
 " Oh, my dear ! " she said, " there's little 
 use in goin' to look for Paul. He's strayin' 
 about yon hills like a lamb that's lost its 
 mother. He doesn't know you nor me, nor 
 e'er a wan belongin' till him. They say 
 he's promised in marriage to yon bould, 
 cruel hussy, that took him away wid her out 
 o' here ; an' she walking about afther him 
 like a cat afther a mouse. But a wo- 
 man might as well marry hersel' till our 
 poor Con at home. God sees it's the black 
 word to come out o' my mouth to yer ear, 
 but our cliver gintleman has no more sinse 
 left nor a fool." 
 
 May sat up in her bed devouring every 
 word that fell from Bid. The old woman 
 glanced at her as if she feared the news 
 would kill her on the spot. 
 
 " I knew it," said May quietly. " I knew 
 it was not his own will that did it. Now, 
 Bid, I'll get well. Open that window 
 wide, and bring me something to eat. " 
 
 Bid stared at her vacantly. 
 
 " O Bid dear, don't loiter. Hurry, and 
 do what I tell you, for I have no time to 
 lose." 
 
 Bid did as she was told, putting her won- 
 der aside to wait for another time. She 
 opened tlie window wide, and the river and 
 the flowers looked in at May. She trotted 
 away to the kitchen, and cajne back with a 
 basin of soup. Greatly amazed was Miss 
 Martha to find May sitting up in her bed, 
 and Bid holding a basin of soup to her 
 mouth. 
 
 Miss Martha was very busy at this time. 
 It was the hay-making season, and she had 
 got to look after her laborers. So Bid 
 staid with May ; she sat by her bedside 
 during the long summer day, telling her 
 stories of the pleasant summer world out 
 of doors. She talked, just as if she had got 
 a sick child to nurse, of how the river was 
 laughing on the stones because the sun was 
 trying to dry it up ; but the source in the 
 mountains was too plentiful for that. How 
 8 
 
 the cock was scolding his wives because 
 the chickens were long about walking, 
 and the young ducks were gone off' in 
 search of water to have a swim. Nothing 
 sad did Bid tell to May ; but every tale had 
 life in it, and a sparkle of fun and joy. 
 
 The next evening Miss Martha found 
 May up and dressed, and sitting at the open 
 window. 
 
 " You see, I have got well, atinty," said 
 the ^irl. " We have a great deal to do, 
 and I can't afford to be sick." 
 
 " Thank God you are better, my darling ; 
 but what have we got to do V " 
 
 " In the first place, there are all these 
 people who are to be driven out of their 
 homes. We must try and do something 
 for them. There will be sick people 
 amongst them." 
 
 Miss Martha looked grave. " I ara 
 ready to do what I can," she said. " I can- 
 not do very much." 
 
 "Bid has gone to the mountain," said 
 May, " to see how things are going. She 
 will be back here in the morning -with the 
 news. And, aunty, there is another thing — 
 you and I have got to save Paul Finiston." 
 
 " Now, my love, forgive me ; but I will 
 not hear a word about that graceless young 
 man. A person who behaves as he has 
 done is never worth a thought. When jour 
 health is a little stronger, my darling, you 
 will regain a proper spirit. Till then have 
 patience, and do not mention the man's 
 name." 
 
 May's face had become as white as the 
 mountain snow. She caught the arms of 
 her chair, and held them tightly. Soma 
 minutes passed before she spoke again. 
 
 " Aunt Martha," she then said, " you 
 have not understood me. I will explain 
 myself better, and you will not refuse to lis- 
 ten to me. Paul Finiston has lost his mind, 
 and he is in the power of an enemy. I feel 
 that he will never recover, never be the 
 man God intended him to be, while he is 
 here in this country, under the shadow of the 
 curse which he has so feared. If he were 
 away in some bright, new country the 
 trouble would leave him ; and he might 
 there live his life as he ought to live it. 
 Don't believe 1 wish for him here that I may 
 hear his voice and see his face, for I ara a 
 truer woman than you think me. What I 
 ask is this — ■ do you take Paul to France, 
 or to Italy if you like better, and place him 
 with good people, and leave hira there to 
 God. I will manage here during your ab- 
 sence, and will be happy, feeling we- have 
 tried to save him. Now you know what I 
 mean, aunty. Will you do this thing for 
 the sake of your little May ? " 
 
114 
 
 THE WICKED WOODS OF TOBEEEEVIL. 
 
 Miss Martha jerked a tear or two out of 
 her eye. She was impatient with herself 
 for not feeling sterner. 
 
 " That is all very fine," she said ; " but 
 how am I to take possession of an able- 
 bodied young man ? Am I to ride to Cam- 
 lough, and carry him off in my pocket ? " 
 
 May had no longer any smiles for her 
 aunt's fidgety little speeches. Her eyes 
 gazed strangely out of the window, with 
 that fixed bleak look which tliey had taken 
 ■when Paul was expected and did not come 
 — like eyes that had given up seeking for 
 the thing that could give them joy. 
 
 " I do not know how that will be," she 
 said ; " I do not know yet." 
 
 She closed her eyes, and Miss Martha 
 thought she slept ; but she was pondering 
 all the time over that difficult problem — 
 how could Paul be carried out of the coun- 
 try and saved ? She had no doubt at all 
 that his present state was directly owing 
 to the influence of the curse. Anxiety 
 must have caused that sudden and myste- 
 rious illness which had left his mind a 
 wreck. She thought of him happy and 
 light-hearted as she had first seen hirn. 
 Had he staid in that foreign country to 
 which an honest impulse had driven him, 
 he would not now stand blighted in his 
 prime. It was she who had brought him 
 into danger, she who had kept him under 
 the cloud ; and now she must send him 
 away from her, so that his troubles might 
 come to an end. It was only a poor conl- 
 fort for her to know that he had already 
 forgotten her, so that it would cost him no 
 pang if he were never to see her again. 
 Of Tier own future she did not dare to 
 think. 
 
 Miss Martha's thoughts on the subject 
 wore very different. The old lady did not 
 quite believe in the story of Paul's loss of 
 memory, and suspected that Katherine had 
 bewitched him, and that he had chosen to 
 stay at Camlough. She had not, however, 
 the heart to thrust such opinion upon May. 
 If the child believed him mad, why let her 
 believe so. 
 
 Meanwhile, Bid had arrived at home on 
 the eve of a day of affliction. People were 
 passing from one cabin to another, saying 
 sad farewells, and mourning together over 
 the woe that was come among them. 
 The Kearneys were carrying their small 
 possessions into a cave under a cliff, where 
 they intended to live till they could sell 
 their pig and their little bits of furniture. 
 With the few pounds that such sale would 
 bring they must start by and by, a sad and 
 timid band of wanderers, to seek their for- 
 tunes or misfortunes in some unknown and 
 
 dreaded town. Some others were doing 
 likewise, thanking God as they worked, 
 that things were not worse with them. 
 
 " Sure it's the summer sky we have over 
 our heads," said one. " If a body must 
 sleep on the grass, it's good to have it 
 dhry." 
 
 " You say well," said another : " we're 
 betther off nor the old people — heavens be 
 their bed I What debate could me an' the 
 baby make if the snow was blindin' our 
 eyes, and freezin' our hearts." 
 
 " The Lord wouldn't let that happen 
 twicet," said a third. 
 
 But there were others who could not 
 make an effort to be cheerful : the people 
 who had their sick and their dying to pro- 
 vide for. What could Tim's old father 
 and little Bride's crippled grandmother do 
 but die on the side of the hill? There 
 was patient Norah in the last stage of con- 
 sumption, and there was a mother of many 
 children who had been bedridden for years. 
 The children clung to their mother, who 
 could not move, and moaned over the hor- 
 ror which the morrow was to bring to them ; 
 and the woman with the sick daughter sat 
 with her arms round her dying child, and 
 prayed with frantic earnestness that God 
 would take her home before the cruel 
 hour should come. Sympathizing sufferers 
 passed in and out of the cabins, and wept 
 a little with one, and wept a little with an- 
 other ; while each would rebuke her neigh- 
 bor for the despair which she felt herself 
 
 Bundles were packed, and Sunday clothes 
 put on. In most cases where there was a 
 strong healthy father or b other; he had 
 gone away already to look for work in the 
 nearest town, or in some other part of the 
 country. Those who were to begin their 
 journey to-morrow were all the weak, if 
 not the helpless. People were dressed al- 
 ready for their travel ; for there was no 
 thought of sleeping on that last ever-to-be- 
 remembered night before they left the 
 homes that had sheltered them, never to 
 see them more. They kept walking about 
 visiting each other, all the short summer 
 night ; sitting round the fires ibr the few 
 dark chill hours talking over their past, or 
 trying to predict the future. Con sat by 
 the fire in the Kearneys' cabin, his face 
 dark with gloom, his hands clasping his 
 knees under his chin, his eyes roving from 
 the red hearth to Nan, and from Nan back 
 to the hearth. The girl was busy mean- 
 while, making jackets for the little brothers, 
 and cloaks for the small half-naked sisters, 
 out of every rag of stuff she could find, in- 
 cluding the bed-clothes. The little ones 
 sat round her, awed into unusual hush, and 
 
MAY IS BIDDEN TO AN ENTERTAINMENT. 
 
 115 
 
 watching every stiteli with the eyes of 
 frightened rabbits. 
 
 " God help ye ! " said a visiting neighbor, 
 " but ye're the long wake family ! " 
 
 Nan threw her head back, and stifled a 
 
 groan. 
 
 "Misther Paul 
 
 she 
 
 Misther Paul ! 
 said, " thin why did you desave us ? " 
 
 " Arrah whist ! " said tlie neighbor : 
 " could he carouinvint the devil ? " 
 
 "Mick! the daylight's comin'. Will 
 you run an' thrv if you see a sight o' 
 Bid ? " 
 
 The neighbor went out sighing. 
 
 " Well, well, well I but the obstinate hope 
 is in that girl ! " 
 
 " Slie ought to ha' come back," said Nan ; 
 " she ought to ha' come back." 
 
 Here Bid and the house-mother entered 
 the cabin together. The old woman had 
 been detained, condoling and helping in 
 many houses on her way. 
 
 " Well I " cried Nan, springing to her 
 feet, and dropping her work. 
 
 " The curse is down on Paul," said Bid 
 solemnly : " ye have ne'er a wan to look to 
 but the Lord ! " 
 
 Nan crouched on the floor, and burled 
 her face in her gown. 
 
 " Get up, girl, get up ! There's worse 
 off nor you. Ye've all got yer feet undher 
 ye, an' young blood in yer veins." 
 
 " Young enough ! " wailed Nan, as a tod- 
 dling child tumbled into her lap. 
 
 " Ye'll make yer mother break down," 
 said Bid. "I looked for betther things 
 from ye. Ye haven't the sick an' dyiu' to 
 take on yer shoulders. Get up now, an' be 
 a woman, Nan Kearney ; an' I'll show ye 
 Katy Daly, that can't stir, an' her 
 seven little girsheens all cryiu' round her 
 bed." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 MAT IS BIDDEN TO AN ENTERTAIN- 
 MENT. 
 
 When morning dawned, Bid went into 
 her own little house, and stripped the walls 
 of the pictures which had lent them such 
 splendor, carrying with these her chair, 
 'table, stool, and basket all to the cave 
 which held the possessions of her cher- 
 ished friends. " Sell them wid the rest," 
 she said ; " for Bid will be Bid the Thrav- 
 eller to the end o' her days." It was not 
 without a sigh that the old creature thus 
 put out of mind her last earthly dream ; 
 but so many earthly dreams had faded 
 
 from her, that one more seemed easy to 
 forget. Having emptied the cabin, she 
 left the door standing open, so that Simon, 
 or the winds, or the foxes might take pos- 
 session when they pleased. 
 
 Early in the day, Simon arrived with 
 some stout rufEans ready for any mischief. 
 It was a very great labor for the old man 
 to climb the Iiills; but his duty was before 
 bun, and he accomplished it. He did not 
 find- much trouble in doing the work after 
 all ; and he perceived, with bitter regret, 
 that he could have easily done it alone, 
 without the expense of assistants. The 
 people walked out quietly with their bun- 
 dles in their hands, having already suffered 
 the worst of the evil that had been thrust 
 upon them. They had wept out the 
 blaze of their hearthstones ; they had 
 broken their household gods with their 
 own hands ; there was onlj' now to pass, 
 for the last time, across the familiar thresh- 
 old. In one house, indeed, there was tbund 
 a little difficulty; for Simon, on pushing 
 into it, came face to face with a. corpse, 
 the body of the poor consumptive girl who 
 had died of fear in her mother's arms. 
 Simon retreated in horror before the sif^ht 
 of death ; and this house was left in peace. 
 
 The woman who could not move was 
 lifted, bed and all, and placed on the hill. 
 Later, friends came, took her on their 
 shoulders, and carried her down the moun- 
 tain to Miss Martha's barn, where a snug 
 little chamber had been cleared for her in 
 the straw. Her eldest daughter staid by 
 to take care of her; and the other children 
 were settled among the farmers in the 
 neighborhood by May, who was now mov- 
 ing about. So this family was disposed of 
 till the father, who was in England, could 
 contrive to find money enough to bring 
 them across the sea. 
 
 Miss IMartha gave a lodging to many 
 other tired souls that night. In the dusk 
 of the summer evening the partings took 
 place. There was wild wringing of hands, 
 and weeping and embracing ; tor friends 
 gathered from many parts to say good-by 
 to the wanderers. The band of sad trav- 
 ellers passed away down the road, and dis- 
 appeared like the shadows in a dream. 
 They sang a wild " keen " in chorus as they 
 went ; and the shrill note of sorrow hung 
 long, and vibrated in the still air. Faintly 
 and more faintly it echoed in the night, 
 the mountains replying to it as long as they 
 could hear ; then silence and darkness 
 settled down upon the moors, and Simon's 
 work was done. The shepherds and the 
 cattle might come to the mountains whea 
 they pleased. 
 
116 
 
 THE WICKED WOODS OP TOBEEEEVIL. 
 
 News had come over the hills of great 
 doings at Camlough. It was quite a year 
 since there had been any thing like an 
 entertainment given at that place ; but the 
 whispers of debt and difficulty which had 
 been multiplying like cobwebs over Sir 
 John's fair fame for hospitality were now 
 to be blown away upon the breath of much 
 dissipation ; and Camlough was to witness 
 scenes such as the hills had never dreamed 
 of Guests were coming from England, 
 the castle was filling rapidly ; and a series 
 of entertainments had been devised. In 
 this way were the ArchboMs carrjing out 
 the doctor's prescription. They were pro- 
 viding amusement for the heir of Tobe- 
 reevil ; and they were bent upon doing it 
 well. 
 
 The first piece of gayety was to be a 
 fancy ball, and guests were invited to it for 
 a hundred miles round. It was a rare 
 idea of Ka,therine's to send Blay an invita- 
 tion. Miss Martha was not invited, nor 
 was May asked to stay longer tliau just 
 while the ball lasted. No carriage, no 
 escort, no chaperone, no dress ! Katherine 
 smiled as she sealed the missive which was 
 meant to make May weep. 
 
 It was a sultry evening towards the end 
 of July : the sun had gone down ; but the 
 crests of the mountains were stid at a red 
 heat. Crimson and yellow were throbbing 
 in tlie air, and the woods looked hot and 
 dusty; for the dew had not as yet begun to 
 fall. The garden paths were baked, the 
 roses hung their heads, and May knelt on 
 the ground, tying up the rose-trees, and 
 gathering their fallen leaves. The sky 
 made a wall of flame at the back of tlie 
 Golden Mountain ; and May's thomjhts 
 were beyond the mountain* and seemed to 
 scorch themselves in the flume. A servant 
 in hvery rode up to the gate, and Bridget 
 came down to the garden with a note for 
 her young mistress. 
 
 May read the note ; and, as she did so, the 
 blcjod rushed to her cheeks and forehead, 
 till liur eyes ached wiih the heat, and re- 
 fused to read any more. Then the flush 
 ebbed away, and bhe walked into the house 
 .as white as a ghost. 
 
 " Aunty," she said, " look at this. I am 
 going out for a walk ; " and before Miss 
 Martha's spectacles were fairly set on her 
 nose. May was several perches across the 
 heather. 
 
 Lines of shadow were tracking out the 
 hollows of the moor, and there were brazen 
 lines beside them. May seemed walking 
 all the way through wreaths of fire ; but she 
 noticed nothing of that, having fire within 
 her heart. Castles were burned to cinders 
 
 in the sky, crags quivered in flames, and 
 were left charred and spectral. The fires 
 were vanquished at last ; twilight came, and 
 a veil crept over the brazen brow of the 
 woods. Fevered nature drank the dew, 
 and slept. It was quite dark when May 
 came in from her walk. The fives then 
 were also quenched in her heart ; but a 
 daring thought had been moulded into 
 purpose while they burned. 
 
 Ip the morning she had written a note 
 and burned another before her aunt at- 
 peared. 
 
 "I thank you, Katherine Arehbold, for 
 giving me an idea," she said solemnly, as 
 she tore the pretty letter, and burned it in 
 little pieces. 
 
 " A wilful piece of impertinence," said 
 INIiss Martha, entering the room as May 
 held the last fragment to her taper. " So 
 plain that they did not want you when they 
 never mentioned me. They might safely 
 have paid the compliment, not fearing we 
 should go. So plain that they did not want 
 you." 
 
 " Very plain, indeed, aunty. I shall 
 take them by surprise." 
 
 " My dear," said Miss Martha faintly, 
 " what did you intend to say V " 
 
 " That I have accepted the invitation," 
 said May ; '■ and I mean to go." 
 
 Miss Martha dropped her hand, which 
 had been raised to grasp the teapot. She 
 looked astonished, shocked ; then pained 
 and angry. For some moments she was 
 speechless. 
 
 " My love," she said at last, " you are 
 surely not yourself. You do not know what 
 you are saying. You" — 
 
 " Do not say a word till )'0u hear my 
 plan," said May quickly. " If I fail, you 
 may talk to me in any way you please, or 
 you may scold me if I succeed ; but you 
 mu^t not hold me back, for, aunty, this is 
 the enterprise of my life." 
 
 " Tell me what you mean," said Miss 
 Martha, with the air of a person whose mind 
 is made up to the worst. Then May un- 
 folded her plan ; and her aunt, with many 
 misgivings, was obliged to allow her to put 
 it in practice. 
 
 May having got her will, began to follow 
 it in curious fashion. She h-id first to con- 
 sider about a costume in whiuh she could 
 appear at a fancy ball, and wont about her 
 duties with her mind set on queens and 
 heroines, and especially on their wardrobes. 
 She visited all Miss Martha's ancient 
 stores, lumber-rooms, and closets, deep 
 drawers, and seldom-opened chests, looking 
 for possible treasures of color and material, 
 and hoping for an inspiration as she went 
 
MAT IS BIDDEN TO AN ENTEETAINMENT. 
 
 iir 
 
 along. There was little to be found that 
 could suit her purpose till Miss Martha at 
 last produced, a little reluctantly, some 
 yards of carefully-saved light-blue tabinet 
 which had been part of her own mother's 
 wedding finery ; and upon this May seized 
 at once with greedy hands. 
 
 " Give it to me," she said earnestly : 
 " indeed, it could not be- used for a more 
 sacred purpose." 
 
 This fragment of the past, some old 
 black velvet, and some clear-starched mus- 
 lin, were the best they could find to suit her 
 purpose. A pair of long gold ear-rings, 
 with a gold cross to match, presented to 
 Miss Martha while she lived in Normandy, 
 decided May as to the costume wliich she 
 I must assume. She must make the best at- 
 tempt she could at (he dress of a Norman 
 peasant. Miss Martha gave help in de- 
 signing the apparel ; and by the aid of her 
 aunt's memory, and the suggestions of an 
 old water-color drawing done in Miss Mar- 
 tha's governessing days. May cut out the 
 garments, and set to work. When Bid ar- 
 rived from the mountain she was told that 
 the young lady wanted her, and was taken 
 into her chamber, where Miss May was 
 stirching busily, and with plenty to say to 
 Bid. 
 
 In one of Miss Martha's outhouses there 
 stood an odd little vehicle, which had been 
 much used in its time, intended to be drawn 
 by a mule, and called a wagon. It was 
 covered with close curtains of a dark green 
 stuff, and had a seat running round the in- 
 terior supplied with hard green cushions. 
 The floor was matted, and many people 
 have travelled in a less comfortable equi- 
 page. On the night of the fSte at Cam- 
 lough this wagon stood in waiting under 
 the thick-set hedge at the lower end of the 
 garden at Monasterlea, having found a 
 hiding-place, since its driver wished to es- 
 cape all observation from the road. There 
 were many strollers abroad on this particu- 
 lar night, who watched for a glimpse of the 
 carriages that had been rolling past all the 
 evenin'i-. It was now getting late, and the 
 carriages had ceased appearing. They had 
 a long way to drive after they had passed 
 by Monasterlea. 
 
 May had been tired that day, and had 
 gone to bed early. Bridget had brought 
 her some tea, and Miss Martha had given 
 orders that she was not to be disturbed 
 again that night ; so the servants had 
 gone to bed, and the place was very buiet, 
 though about eight o'clock a young Nor- 
 man peasant was standing in May's cham- 
 ber, trying, with shaking hands, to fix Miss 
 Martha's long gold 'fear-rings into her ears. 
 
 Her short, blue, quil ted petticoat, and bod ice 
 of black velvet, her shoes, white muslins, 
 and ornaments were complete. Her hair 
 was rolled away tightly under the tall white 
 cap, her cheeks glowing with excitement, 
 her eye flashing from place to place to see 
 that nothing was forgotten. May had a 
 trjing time before her ; and she was not 
 going to turn coward, but rather to strain 
 every nerve for the accomplishment of her 
 enterprise. Now she was all ready, missal 
 and beads in one hand, and a small black 
 mask in the other. Miss Martha wrapped 
 her closely in a long black cloak, and lastly 
 embraced her ; and the old lady was 
 trembling like a thorn-bush on a windy 
 day. 
 
 " My darling ! " she said, " give it up 
 even now. If any thing were to happen to 
 you ! " 
 
 " Now, aunty, who are you going to send 
 to do me harm Y " 
 
 " If only the servants were to find it out 
 — how humiliating that would be." 
 
 " But you know the servants are not 
 going to find it out. If there were any 
 chance of this, I'd have done it before 
 them all. We don't want it talked about, 
 and that is the whole thing." 
 
 " Well, the day is past when I was mis- 
 tress : you are your own mistress now. 
 Go, in God's name, and may he hold you 
 in his keeping I " 
 
 A few minutes afterwards. May was 
 seated close by Bid in the little wagon. 
 Mrs. Kearney's eldest gossoon had taken 
 the management of the mule : he touched 
 her with his whip, and May's adventure 
 began. 
 
 It was a hot still night, and very dark ; 
 but the mule and the gossoon knew the 
 road on the Golden Mountain. May kept 
 back her curtains, except when the sound 
 of coming wheels warned her of other 
 travellers on the road. The world seemed 
 a mass of ragged and confused shadows, 
 with here and there a startled light flash- 
 ing out of a hollow. The stars blinked 
 drowsily on the edge of the sombre moun- 
 tains, as if they could scarcely keep their 
 eyes open in the heat. The air was filled 
 with the rich scent of hay, the sweets of 
 many flowers, and of the dew-laden thyme 
 and heath. The journey seemed to May 
 like the whole length of a day and night ; ^ 
 and yet the mule did its work bravely. 
 When the travellers caught sight of Cam- 
 lough, it was just one o'clock in the morn- 
 in^ 
 
 Below them in the hollow lay a fairy 
 scene. The illuminated castle stood like 
 a castle of light in the slope of the dark 
 
118 
 
 THE "WICKED -WOODS OF TOBEEEEVIL. 
 
 valley ; and tents lay spread beneath it, 
 ■whicli seemed also made of light. Many- 
 colored fires encircled the inner rows of the 
 trees ; and the foam-curves of the sea just 
 glinted through the distance in the gleam 
 of the late-rising moon. The wagon 
 pulled up in the shelter of a little by-road 
 which led off Sir John's great mountain- 
 road, just above the gates which separated 
 that great road from the drive to the castle. 
 The mule was lied to a tree which hid the 
 wagon, and the gossoon lay down beside 
 it to doze in the grass ; for Bid and May 
 left him, and disappeared behind the brae. 
 
 They threaded their way very cautiously 
 at first through bushes and ferns, by little 
 tangled paths that wandered down to the 
 level lawns and gardens, pausing, at last, 
 in one of those long beach-alleys which 
 spread their mazes over part of the 
 grounds. To-night these alleys were 
 lighted with colored lamps ; and here and 
 there a gayly-dressed pair enjoyed their 
 lirivacy, sauntering together apart from 
 the crowd upon the lawns. 
 
 "Now, God A'mighty purtect ye, 
 honey ! " said Bid, in a frightened whisper, 
 as she removed May's dark wrappings, and 
 beheld her standing trembling in her 
 strange attire, and about to be left alone. 
 ".Ye'll know yer way back to the boreen, 
 avourneen. -I'll wait for ye there, for 'fraid 
 we might miss other." 
 
 j\Iay nodded, and bent back the branch 
 of a tree with both her hands, and the 
 next moment she found herself in the 
 crowd. 
 
 For the first few moments she felt sick 
 with fear ; but she had not come there with- 
 out first assuring herself that she had 
 courage for the adventure. The privacy 
 which was insured to her by the wearing 
 of the mask, gave her a certain amount of 
 confidence ; and she kept where the crowd 
 was thickest, so that she might not be ob- 
 served to be alone. A lady or gentleman 
 near her might be presumed to be her pro- 
 tector by any one who took a thought upon 
 the subject ; and she felt that she must be 
 safe while she kept her presence of mind. 
 
 It was a curious sight even to eyes that 
 were accustomed to festive scenes. If May 
 had ever been " out" in the world, even in 
 the mildest sense of the word, had ever 
 danced at a ball or mixed in any gay 
 crowd, the present experience might not 
 have been so wonderful to her ; but, after a 
 life spent in solitude, it was not unnatural 
 that a scene like the present should take 
 away her breath. After a time, she con- 
 trolled her wonder, and drifted along with 
 the crowd, becoming a part of the pageant, 
 
 which seemed to grow familiar to her, as 
 if in some other life she had shared in it 
 before. She had made acquaintance with 
 such a picture between the leaves of .some 
 old romance; and presently she became 
 aware of this truth, which gave a fantastic 
 unreality to all that she heard and saw. 
 This very unreality was an assistance to 
 her enterprise, for she could not feel great- 
 ly frightened at people who only seemed 
 part of a dream. She was half carried 
 along by the crowd, her eyes not dazzled 
 but charmed by the subdued color and 
 glitter of the figures moving along with 
 and around her, her ears not troubled by 
 noise, but soothed,with happy murmurs, and 
 softened music. The large tents on the 
 lawn were filled with flowers, and refresh- 
 ment tables were spread in them ; and peo- 
 ple sat among the flowers, or came in and 
 out at will. A band was playing some- 
 where, and there was dancing on the lawn ; 
 yet, from the sounds that came fi'om the 
 castle, and by the flashing of brilliant fig- 
 ures past the open windows, one could see 
 that this out-door entertainment was only 
 the lesser portion of a curiously splendid 
 whole. 
 
 As the crowd shifted about. May at- 
 tached herself, first to one group, and then 
 to another; and, in this manner, made her 
 way half way across the lawn. She 
 scanned anxiously every face that was un- 
 covered, and every masculine figure that 
 came within reach of her eyes, expecting 
 a change in Paul, yet not knowing what 
 appearance the change might take. She 
 found herself watching the movements of 
 a quadrille, in which Haroun Alraschid 
 was dancing with a gypsy ; it was a gay, 
 fantastic picture, but Paul did not make 
 part of it. She peered into the last tent, 
 which she had left uninspected ; but there 
 was no Paul anywhere as yet to be seen. 
 
 What if he were too ill to appear, and 
 shut in some upper chamber of the castle. 
 The thought was not to be entertained, but, 
 even in passing through 'her mind, left a 
 trail of horror behind it. She battled off 
 the idea, and renewed her energies in the 
 search. Might he not have escaped from 
 the crowd, and be wandering in some of 
 the dim alleys, or even down by the sea ? 
 She gazed towards these quiet places, but 
 dared not venture near them till her search 
 in the crowd had been thoroughly made. 
 
 Meanwhile, Paul and Katherine were 
 dancing at this moment in the chief draw- 
 ing-room of the castle, Katherine having 
 kept her hand on Paul's arm ever since the 
 first guests had made their appearance. 
 May's acceptance of the invitation had 
 
MAY IS BIDDEN TO AN ENTEETAINMENT. 
 
 119 
 
 caused her great amazement, and no little 
 dread. A hundred times she told herself 
 that it was utterly impossible the girl from 
 Monasterlea could keep lior word, yet had 
 all the time a latent conviction that May 
 meant what she had said, and an unac- 
 knowledged faith in her power of doing any 
 thing that she had deliberately undertaken. 
 And then what change might be wrought 
 in Paul by a sudden meeting with her? 
 Would it bring back his memory all in a 
 moment, and with it his love for May and 
 dislike of herself? These thoughts were 
 not good for Katherine, as . she walked 
 about with her hand on Paul's arm, mak- 
 ing search through the rooms for May. As 
 soon as she espied the unwelcome guest, 
 she would put Paul into safe keeping, and 
 go off and dispose of May ; for it must be 
 the business of the night to keep the two 
 apart. So her hand did not leave Paul's 
 arm ; and people pointed out Miss Arch- 
 bold and her very singular lover. Now, 
 while May hesitated outside the walls, un- 
 certain whether to enter in at the door or 
 peep through the windows, Katherine and 
 Paul were dancing in a quadrille. Kath- 
 erine was dressed like Marie Antoinette 
 in a robe of white satin, with her fair hiiir 
 powdered, and dressed high above her 
 head ; and one could hardly look away 
 from her, she was so beautiful. 
 
 All this excitement had a singular effect 
 on Piiul. It had certainly driven away his 
 stupid placidity, and his eyes had a wild 
 brilliance. His movements in the dance 
 were quite correct : he did what other peo- 
 ple did ; yet people watching him closely 
 would say the man was out of his wits. 
 Katherine watched him closely as they 
 danced together ; if he happened to turn his 
 head she turned her head also in the same 
 direction, being not easy in her mind while 
 he crossed the floor in the quadrille. She 
 scarcely breathed freely when he passed 
 out of the reach of her hand. 
 
 The reception-rooms of the castle led one 
 from another, and the windows came to the 
 ground and opened like so many doors 
 They were all flung wide now, with curtains 
 of silk and lace meeting lightly within the 
 opening. May passed along outside, look- 
 ing through the windows into each room 
 as she went ; and she did this very cautious- 
 ly, for fear of attracting notice to herself. 
 
 So at last she caught sight of Paul, and 
 Katherine in all her glory by his side. A 
 great blow smote upon her heart, and her 
 impulse was to turn at once and run away, 
 to leave this false lover to a new love, new 
 friends, and new magnificence. Was it 
 not shame for her, May, to come here 
 
 stealthily looking for him ? Let her turn, 
 and go home quickly, and leave these hap- 
 py lovers to their dance. 
 
 But, no : he was neither false nor happy, 
 and she would not move an inch. He 
 turned towards her suddenly ; and it was 
 not Paul's face, though the face of no other 
 man. Oh, how had they been dealing with 
 him that he had come to look like this ? 
 She saw plainly with her eyes the thing 
 that Bid had described to her ; Paul, and 
 yet not Paul — a man whose mind was 
 gone. 
 
 The dance over, Katherine took Paul's 
 arm again, and moved with him towards 
 May's lurking-place. May's eyes followed 
 the pair, and Katherine looked even_ more 
 proud and determined than usual.' Her 
 face was saying quite frankly that she had 
 always had her way, and intended to have 
 it always. She could break a hundred 
 hearts to get her will. She had now laid 
 aside all fear of seeing May's unwelcome 
 face ; it was past one o'clock : impossible 
 that any guest should arrive at so late an 
 hour, and she bad taken note of every lady 
 who had until now presented herself. So 
 Katherine made up bar mind to put this 
 dread away from her. The rooms were 
 very hot, and she wished for air, and step- 
 ped out of a window, still holding by Paul's 
 arm. May, who was watching her move- 
 ments, followed near as they crossed the 
 lawn. 
 
 Katherine sauntered up and down for 
 a while, had some refreshment, spoke to 
 everybody, and caused a little sensation 
 wherever she went. She made the circuit 
 of the whole lawn, while the poor little 
 Norman peasant who was following upon 
 her footsteps began to feel her heart beat 
 wildly; for the moon was already setting, 
 and signs of approaching dawn were becom- 
 ing visible in the heavens. True, it was 
 still dark ; but how long would the darkness 
 last ? 
 
 Katherine at last seated herself in a 
 satisfied way upon a rustic bench under a 
 tree ; in a moment was surrounded by 
 flatterers, and relinquished her hold of 
 Paul, who remained standing by her side. 
 People did not mind him much ; but they 
 paid eager court to her, one fanning her, 
 another offering a smelling-bottle, and all 
 expressing the conviction that she was 
 intolerably fatigued. Katherine yielded 
 herself to the flattery, and received the 
 homage which was precious to her ; and, in 
 her greediness over the feast, she forgot her 
 vigilance as to her charge. Paul was 
 pushed a little here and a little there ; and, 
 by degrees, he became separated from her, 
 
120 
 
 THE WICKED WOODS OF TOBEREEVIL. 
 
 and strayed, overlooked by the crowd, in 
 the purposeless way now habitual to him. 
 His look of excitement had passed away, 
 his head had sunk on his breast, and hu 
 took no notice whatever of the scenes going; 
 on around him. May alone watched his 
 movements, and, after a time, had the happi- 
 ness of seeinj; him direct his steps towards 
 those dim quiet alleys which had latterly 
 become his accustomed haunt. He crept 
 under the trees, and was alone in a dark 
 ■walk walled by high hedges of beech. 
 
 Ho hesitated, as if uncertain where to go ; 
 and May's heart died within her as she saw 
 that here was the opportunity which might 
 never occur again. AVould_ he go down 
 towards the sea, or move upward towards 
 the hills? While he wavered, the hum of 
 merriment came swelling through the trees. 
 May expected that at any moment figures 
 might run through the woods in search of 
 Paul. Not yet — -not yet; and, meanwhile, 
 he walked up the alloy which led to the 
 woody hills. May waited then, just a very 
 little longer, till the bushes and young trees 
 had hidden him from the view of the possi- 
 ble pleasure seekers in the alley. Then 
 she spranc on lightly, and was at his side. 
 
 " Paul, Paul ! " she said. 
 
 He stopped short suddenly. 
 
 " Who spoke ? " 
 
 She put her hand lightly on his arm. 
 
 " It is May — it is I. This is my hand. 
 Don't you know me ? " 
 
 It was so dark here that he could not 
 see her face ; but her voice was enough 
 for him. 
 
 " Know you ? " he cried. " Of course I 
 knqw you. AVhere have you been so 
 long ? — and I have been so wretched." 
 
 He had got her hand now. 
 
 " Where are we this moment ? " he said. 
 "I do not know — I cannot remember. 
 O God ! I cannot remember." 
 
 " It doesn't matter about remembering," 
 said May. " You have not been well, and 
 this place is not good for you. I liave 
 come to fetch you away. You will not 
 object to come with me ? " 
 
 " What is not good for me ? " said Paul. 
 " And tell me whore I have been. I can- 
 not remember any thing. My mind is all 
 dark." 
 
 He spoke in a wailing tone, very terrible 
 to hear from a man. It shook May's heart ; 
 but she only said, " Never mind — hold 
 my hand, and let us keep close together V " 
 He obeyed her readily, and they plunged 
 on through heather and furze-bushes, 
 through trees and loose stones, up the ruo-- 
 ged hills, getting every moment higher up 
 into the air, and further removed from the 
 
 castle lying glittering in the hollow. May 
 trembled, thinking of her light dress, which 
 she feared might attract attention ; but she 
 forgot that the merry-makers were sur- 
 rounded by artificial lights, and their eyes 
 too bedazzled to be caught by a speck of 
 white up on the distant heights. 
 
 The fugitives pushed on together towards 
 the rugged part of the hills, climbing slip- 
 pery rocks and threading mazes of furze. 
 Paul, in his helplessness, clung to the hand 
 that dragged him on. He knew it was 
 May's hand, and that May was beside him ; 
 her voice had aroused him so far as to feel 
 that a great affliction had come upon him, 
 that he had quite lost his memory and 
 powers of thought ; but every idea fled 
 away from him as quickly as it was grasp- 
 ed, except that May had long been lost to 
 him, and that he had found and was trying 
 to hold her. The shimmering castle, the 
 fire-wreathed trees, and tents of light, all 
 danced and shifted very far below them 
 now as they sped along ; looking like sparks 
 in burnt-out ashes when the children cry, 
 " Look at the soldiers marching I " By 
 and by the clouds broke up suddenly, 
 and the sky became of a chill and pallid 
 gray. Stones, furze-bushes, and thorn-trees 
 were to be seen peeping out from the 
 darkness with an ashen look as of fear 
 upon them; but then. May and Paul had 
 reached the road, and found their Iriends 
 ready in waiting for them. ' They seated 
 themselves, one at each side of Bid, in the 
 vehicle behind the tree ; the curtains were 
 closely drawn, the gossoon cracked his 
 whip ; and Miss Martha's little wagon 
 set off on its journey home. 
 
 The mule trotted well ; yet many a time 
 before the journey was over had the wagon 
 to get under a hedge, so that fine carriages 
 might pass it on their way from the bail. 
 The midsummer morning grew rosy above 
 their heads, birds sang blithely; and the^ 
 peasants whistled and lilted as they went 
 to their work: but the travellers did not 
 enjoy these pleasant signs of life, and would 
 sooner it had been dark till home was 
 reached. May sat in a corner of the wag- 
 gon, holding Bid's arm, while Paul slept 
 like a child, with some straw supporting his 
 head ; and in his sleep the marks of a change 
 were very visible upon his face. 
 
 Bid saw them as well as May, hut she 
 pretended not to think much of them. 
 " He'll be Paul Finiston yet," she said, " in 
 spite o' the devil." 
 
 It was twelve o'clock in the day when 
 the wagon was guided into ■ another by- 
 road, and Paul and May got out to walk to 
 Monasterlea, which was only a mile away. 
 
THE FOOL'S DERELICTION. 
 
 121 
 
 May had stifled her heartache, and talked 
 her old merry chatter as they strolled along 
 through the daisies. Paul heard her with 
 delight, and held her hand fast on his arm ; 
 but he did not know where they had come 
 from, nor did he remember any thing that 
 had happened. Miss Martha saw them 
 approaching ; and so also did Nanny, who 
 was getting vegetables in the kitchen gar- 
 den. 
 
 " Musha, thin," said Nanny, returning 
 to the house, " what for did you tell me 
 Miss May was in her bed V She's comin' 
 down the road wid Misthor Paul ; an' the 
 hood o' her cloak turned over her head." 
 
 " Well ! " said Bridget, " I could ha' sworn 
 she didn't lave her room to-day. An' so 
 she met wid Misther Paul 1 God sees it's 
 nearly time he took a thought o' comin' 
 back to us I " 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 THE FOOL'S DERELICTION. 
 
 The Kearneys retired to their cave, and 
 Con staid with them. He made himself 
 a bed of heatlier arid ferns, on which he slept 
 every night, lying across the mouth of the 
 rude dwelling like a mastiff at his master's 
 gate. The cave was as good to him as the 
 cabin had been ; and, so long as he could 
 carry turf and water for Nan, and get his 
 food from her hand, he oared very little for 
 what was happening in the world. The 
 midsummer days were long and fine, and 
 tlje nights short and starry, and the moun- 
 tain just the same mountain as before ; 
 yet Con was seen to look sad when he 
 passed the empty houses of the people who 
 had gone away. He would sometimes stop 
 and scowl, and mutter to himself about 
 Simon, aijd had once been caught flinging 
 stones down the cliff in the direction of the 
 chimneys of Tobereevil ; but his queer fits 
 of passion soon spent themselves on the air. 
 The Kearneys wore beside him, and he was 
 content, little knowing of the plot which 
 was being hatched for the destruction of 
 his peace of mind. 
 
 Tiie Kearneys, nine in family, were now 
 reauy to take the road out into the world, 
 having sold their pigs and furniture, and 
 finding themselves with no longer a pre- 
 tence for lingering among their mountains. 
 In Galway they had a well-to-do friend, 
 from whom they hoped to borrow money, 
 enough with what they had got to bring 
 them across the Atlantic. Once in a new 
 
 country, when their hearts had bled away 
 the sorest throes of grief, they hoped to 
 earn a hving, and to build up a new home 
 with the toil of their many hands. Save 
 for the anguish of memory, they would no 
 doubt do very well. 
 
 But now a difficulty arose. What were 
 they to do with the loving fool ? They 
 could not take him to America ; there was 
 no question about that ; and to leave him 
 alone in some city to which he might follow 
 them would be a cruelty of which they 
 could not even think. Hardship and star- 
 vation must be his portion in a town, while 
 at home in his familiar mountains he would 
 always have friends enough. So Con must 
 be left behind ; but how were they going to 
 escape from him ? 
 
 He followed Nan everywhere, keeping 
 his eyes on her, as if he feared she would 
 vanish if he closed them. He did not sleep 
 soundly as he used to do, hut lay all night 
 awake and watchful, ready to spring up if 
 any sound alarmed his ear ; or, when he did 
 fall asleep, the slumber was so light that it 
 was broken by the whimper of a plover. 
 His friends knew very well, that did they 
 try to set out without hijn, he would follow, 
 while he had strength to crawl, were it 
 through flood or fire ; and that no man 
 might seek to hohl him back. Yet the 
 Kearneys must surely go, and Con be left 
 behind. 
 
 At last a plan was hit upon to cheat him. 
 Some lads who lived at a distance, came 
 and coaxed him to go with them for a day's 
 climbing in search of an eagle's nest, and 
 Con the fool forgot his vigilance, and fell 
 easily into the snare. After a long and ex- 
 citing day, scaling high rocks, and racing 
 along upper ridges of the mountains, he 
 returned to the cave where he e."5pected to 
 find his friends. He was weary, and his 
 steps lagged as he came along in the ruddy 
 heat ; and his fool's heart leaped as he 
 caught sight of the dear hole which was 
 the door of his home. He looked for the 
 gossoons coming to meet him ; for, if Con 
 did not reason, lie knew the habits of every 
 living thing' around him. This evening 
 there were no gossoons about the hills, and 
 Con was disappointed, and quickened his 
 lagging steps. He went into the cave, but 
 the place was empty. Neither the Kear- 
 neys nor their bundles were to be seen. 
 Con was surprised ; and his heart sank, just 
 as a wise man's will sink under the chill of 
 disappointment. He consoled himself in 
 the best way he could, by drawing together 
 the embers of the fire, near which had been 
 left for him a heap of turf and a pile of 
 potatoes. He need not be cold or hungry 
 
122 
 
 THE WICKED -WOODS OF TOBEEEBVIL. 
 
 for this night at least, even though his 
 friends who had cherished him were gone 
 away. To-morrow, indeed, he must look 
 for another home ; but of this Con knew 
 nothing, while he set to work upon the fire, 
 kindling it up deftly as he well knew how 
 to do. Nan would be coming in to make 
 the supper by and by ; and Con laughed in 
 his crowing way to think how glad she 
 would be to see the blaze. She would 
 laugh along with him, and pat him on the 
 head. The fool was used to such treatment, 
 and knew what he had to expect. 
 
 The fire burned up and down again, and 
 would have burned out, too, if Con had let 
 it ; and still no steps and no voices came 
 near the cave. In vain he strained his 
 ears, sitting cross-legged at the fireside ; 
 Nan's gay laugh did not come blowing 
 round the cliff's, and no shrill whooping in 
 the distance announced that the gossoons 
 were coming home. Even the shrill . voice 
 of the house-mother scolding the little ones, 
 would have been melody to the ears of the 
 now anxious fool. Many times he started, 
 and rushed to the mouth of the cave, fan- 
 cying that the lads were whistling on the 
 brae, or the children crying and calling in 
 the distance. These sounds, so exciting, 
 led him often round the hills and past the 
 corners of the rocks, but proved a cheat. 
 Tlie curlew and the plover wore bidding 
 each other good-night, and that was all. 
 
 The red hue had fled away from the 
 heath, and the stars had come to light 
 The mountain was deserted indeed. Con 
 sat, the only human being among the empty 
 cabins, feeling his own loneliness, which 
 horrified him ; growing afraid to look out 
 any more througli the opening of the cave, 
 and crouching close to the fire, as the only 
 thing that could comfort and protect him. 
 He fed it continually, and trembled when it 
 got low ; did not eat nor sleep, but sat 
 clasping his knees, and listening with the 
 vigilanoe of a hare ; but nothing came near 
 him, nothing moved save the ashes that 
 kept crumbling at his feet. The breeze 
 moaned and sobbed through the chinks in 
 the cave, and Con lamented and wept. 
 The tears of his desolation wet his hands 
 and his naked feet. 
 
 As soon as the oppressive darkness with- 
 drew from the realm where Con reigned 
 alone, tlie poor fellow started from his 
 watch-fire, and set off in quest of his friends, 
 wandering up-liill and down-hill ; calling, 
 whooping, whistling. The sun rose and 
 gave him courage, and he went ou confi- 
 dently, hoping to meet the little crowd of 
 Kearneys lurking, for mere mischief, be- 
 hind a heathery knoll, or racing up to meet 
 
 him from below ridges of wavinw broom. 
 He mistook a slender bush for Nan as it 
 courtesied and becked to him in the morning 
 breeze, and shot forward as if on wings, 
 thinking he saw a group of little black 
 heads nodding, which must surely be the 
 children at their play, but which proved to 
 be clumps of loose broom blackened by the 
 fires already kindled in preparation for the 
 shepherds. After each one of these fail- 
 ures, .Con lifted up his voice and wept 
 aloud. He met no one all day, so deserted 
 was the mountain. He got up to the high- 
 est peaks, higher than he had been the day 
 before when tracking the eagle. Foxes fled, 
 and wild birds cried at his approach ; but 
 nothing human did he meet. " Nan, Nan ! " 
 ho shrieked ; and the echoes enr.iged him, 
 mocking back again with " Nan, Nan ! " 
 
 Towards evening he came down from the 
 clouds, and made his way back to the cave. 
 The place was as solitary as when he lefb 
 it, and the fire was dead besides. He took 
 flints from his pocket, and struck sparks 
 and made a fire ; but silence and desolation 
 still reigned round him as before. He 
 walked round all the cabins, rattled at the 
 locks, and peeped in at the windows ; but 
 not so much as a mouse did he find to make 
 response. He returned then to the cave 
 with the sickness of hunger upon him ; ate 
 some potatoes, and started again on his 
 quest. 
 
 This time he descended to the lowlands, 
 and after'sunset was coming along a moor, 
 beyond which lay some green fields, when 
 he met a little girl carrying a milkpail. 
 She was a lowland lassie ; but every one 
 knew Con, and she was touched by the 
 sight of his tear-bedabbled face. She of- 
 fered him a drink out of a tin which hung 
 to her pail ; and Con drank greedily, and 
 then looked eagerly in her face. 
 
 " Nan," he cried, " Nan." 
 
 " Och, thin, poor boy," said the pitiful 
 little maid, " is that the ways it is wid you ? 
 Ye'U be lookin' long for Nan afore ye set 
 eyes on her. Sure, Simon has settled wid 
 them all, the creatures. Simon has sint 
 them away." 
 
 Con stared at the girl with open mouth 
 and eyes, till the vacant look dropped away 
 from him like a mask, and his face became 
 dark and convulsed v/ith wrath. He ut- 
 tered a long, savage shriek, which staAled 
 the herds at their evening meal, and made 
 the goats look down inquisitively from the 
 cliffs at a little distance. " Simon 1 " he 
 screamed, with murder in his voice, and 
 flung himself on the earth, and tore the sod 
 with his hands. The little girl was terri- 
 fied, and ran away and left him. 
 
THE fool's DBRELICTIOK. 
 
 123 
 
 All tbe agony of his desolation fell now 
 on the fool's heart; for the word " Simon " 
 had been enough to suggest to hua that 
 Nan had disappeared ibrevermore. He 
 raged and wept ; tore his clothes and his 
 shaggy hair ; but by and by got to his feet 
 again, and began running towards the 
 woods. Very glorious they looked, decked 
 out in all the hues of the evening sun. 
 Many a summer evening had Con disported 
 himself in their shelter, swinging from 
 bougli to bough, laughing and crowing in 
 delicious happiness. Now they flamed 
 with rage at him as his eyes flamed at 
 them. 
 
 There lay about two miles of trees be- 
 tween Con and the mansion of Tobereevil ; 
 and twilight had begun to fade when 
 he plunged into the thickets, pusliing 
 right and left, crashing through the under- 
 wood, his pale face livid, and a lurid 
 gleam of purpose burning for once 
 in his vacant eyes. He knew his way 
 well through the darkest labyrinths of 
 the woods, and he went straight to the des- 
 tination toward which he had set his face. 
 It was wonderful that he did not dash him- 
 self against trees, trip over the brushwood, 
 tear his feet with thorns, or cut his hands 
 with piercing brambles as he swept them 
 out of las path, yet no such ill befell him. 
 He passed easily and witliout seath through 
 savage places from which another would 
 have come forth bruised and bleeding : shot 
 like lightning across the dark spots which 
 Tibbie knew so well, and trod out the bale- 
 ful life-juice of wicked herbs beneath his 
 feet. The trees groaned and rocked as if 
 they knew that there was a vengeful spirit 
 among them, who, unconscious as he was of 
 the evilness of the evil, was yet possessed 
 of all its power which he would use for their 
 destruction. Deeper and deeper plunged 
 Con into the woods; and the perpetual 
 roar of the trees arose to a tumult, with a 
 shriek in the voice of many, a frantic wrath 
 in the movement of the swaying multitude, 
 as if the woods, knowing their doom, as also 
 the spirits of wickedness that lurked in 
 them, had found themselves at last and ir- 
 retrievably undone. Or was it that the 
 breeze was a little livelier than is usual on 
 summer nights ? At last a tree stooped 
 down in fury, caught Con by the hair and 
 smote him on the face, breaking some 
 of his teeth, and making the blood start out 
 of his flesh. His heart was full of murder, 
 and he turned to wreak his vengeance on 
 the tree ; beat it, smashed the lower branch- 
 es with his feet and hands, while the foe 
 stood as straight as ever, roaring in mali- 
 cious triumph over his head. Other trees 
 
 joined in chorus with it, and they scoffed 
 at him where he stood quivering like a pyg- 
 my among giants ; but his cunning served 
 him now that he might wreak vengeance 
 on his enemies. 
 
 He took flints out of his pockets, and 
 struck sparks, with which he tried to burn 
 the skin and fingers, that is, the bark and 
 little twigs, of his stalwart foe. This would 
 not take effect, and then he tried another 
 plan. Groping among the feet of tlie trees 
 till ho had swept up in a pile dead leaves, 
 rotten sticks, withered herbs, and bits of 
 bark, all so dry and tindery with the hot 
 breath of the summer that it needed but a 
 spark to kindle them into a blaze. The 
 spark was flung amongst them, spark after 
 spark, as Con wrought to make a lire out of 
 them, and triumphed. The fire hissed at his 
 knees, and the rocking of the trees fanned 
 it into intensity, and all the underwood 
 around him became wrapped in flame. Fire 
 was a thing that Con had always loved, and 
 now he laughed as he beheld it do his bid- 
 ding. He gathered up burnin'j; sheaves 
 and flung them into the trees, ticil stones 
 among wicked sticks and crackling leaves, 
 and impelled them wrapped in flame into 
 the upper branches. The trees roared and 
 groaned again as the fire went into their 
 hearts, and flung themselves upon each 
 other to try and extingni-h it ; but the 
 flames ate into the wood, and the scorching 
 breath of the one sent destruction into the 
 bosom of another. When Con saw that his 
 work had taken effect, he daslied from the 
 spot and fled forward as before, with his face 
 towards the mansion of Tobereevil. 
 
 The miser was very restless at this time. 
 Even since he had taken thinojs in bis* own 
 hands, and found that he could do his own 
 work so well, he had grown more impatient 
 of the little progress he made in money- 
 getting, anil more feverishly ambitious of 
 doing better in this respect ; the event of 
 the shepherds seeking his mountain gave 
 him new and broad ideas as to the amount 
 of capital which might yet bo wrought out 
 of the stones and heather. One day people 
 might come asking to make a quarry among 
 his idle rocks; and, in anticipation of this 
 moment, he marked oifmany new names 
 whose owners must be taxed severely in 
 preparation for their departure when the 
 quarry-seekers sliould arrive. The workers 
 of the quarry would want dwellings for their 
 families, and should pay him a good rent 
 out of their wajes. The manager of the 
 works would need a comfortable residence, 
 and the best farm on the estate must be put 
 at his disposal. He would doubtless be 
 very rich, and inclined to pay nobly for the 
 
124 
 
 THE WICKED -WOODS OF TOBEEEEVIL. 
 
 accommodation so needful to him. Simon 
 reviewed in his mind the many farms which 
 belonged to him, and decided that the man- 
 ager of the quarry would prefer to have 
 Monasterlea ; it being rich and fertile land, 
 which had been cultivated for years, and the 
 master naturally liking to be near his works. 
 So Miss Martha was written down as hav- 
 ing to " flit " as soon as the quarry-seekers 
 should have arrived. 
 
 All these plans made Simon very restless. 
 He could not bear to wait wliile his dreams 
 realized themselves slowly out of the future. 
 He thought that events which were to come 
 ought to come at once, and meantime while 
 they delayed the suspense was a torture 
 which wasted his life. 
 
 All that day, on which Con had searched 
 for Nan, and fired the woods, Simon had 
 wandered restlessly about his house ; in- 
 doors and out of doors ; unable to sit still 
 for a moment to reckon his treasures in his 
 memory, or to remember about where he 
 had hidden his keys. He went out glean- 
 ing, this being harvest-timii for Simon, as 
 well as for the farmers his tenants. He 
 knew from day. to day what fields were 
 going to be reaped, and followed like a sp.ec- 
 tre in the frail of the reapers. Some of the 
 richer or more generous would leave ears on 
 the field purpo.seIy, so that the wretched 
 old man might not be disappointed in his 
 quest ; but to-day lie had to glean ground 
 over which he had passed before, and there 
 was little for him to get. Siill, with great 
 toil, he succeeded in finding a few stray ear.', 
 besides sundry little wisps of straw ; and 
 had added to these treasures little scraps of 
 rajs and down, and some cold potatoes 
 which had been forgotten in a field. With 
 these he was coming home ; but his limbs 
 trembled so violently with that anxiety 
 about the quarry-men, that he spilt the best 
 of ills spoils, and tlie breeze carried some of 
 them away. Upon this he wailed and wept, 
 so enfeebled was he by his cares, but was 
 consoled by seeing a fine bird's-nest be- 
 tween two branches of a tree. He poked 
 it down with a stick, and found it lined with 
 soft wool plucked from the backs of sheep. 
 " What wickedness and waste I " cried tlie 
 miser as he ripped it up. " It is shocking 
 to think of the robberies which these crea- 
 tures commit on man I " He found eggs in 
 the nest, however, so that his day did not 
 go for nothing. 
 
 He was standing at the foot of the tree, 
 picking the nest to pieces and carefully 
 stuflSng the wool into the pocket of his gar- 
 ment. His thin white hair fell on his shoul- 
 ders, crowned by a hat so frail and discol- 
 ored, that it seemed to have been placed on 
 
 his head more in mockery than for protec- 
 tion. His thin sharp face — long keen nose, 
 greedy eyes, and twitching mouth — was 
 bent over his task with all the avidity of an 
 eagle that has found its prey. The worn and 
 many-eolored garment clung around the 
 skeleton limbs ^ and the sun laughed over its 
 wretchedness, and pointed out its rents and 
 patches. He was standing close by the cot- 
 tage of a poor tenant whose field he had 
 been gleaning ; and, as he tore the bird's- 
 nest, a boy sprang suddenly forward. 
 
 '• Ah, sir 1 Don't tear the robin's nest, 
 sir I Indeed it is the robin's : I saw her fly 
 out this morning." 
 
 " Well, you young rascal. A useless, 
 thieving bird!" 
 
 " Oh, sir ! don't say that, sir I The robin 
 that bloodied his breast when he was tryin' 
 to pick the nails out o' the Saviour's feet ! " 
 
 The child looked up as he spoke with a 
 face full of earnestness and horror. It was 
 as if he had been begging for the life of 'a 
 little human playfellow. When he named 
 the Saviour's name, Simon shrank back from 
 him with a look of terror, throwing up his 
 trembling arm with an impulse to screen his 
 face from the child's gaze. He dropped the 
 nest, and the boy picked it up, and ran 
 away ; but Simon had the wool and the eggs 
 safe in his wailet. Nevertheless it had not 
 been a good day, and he was in a restless and 
 hungry humor. For his dinner he bruised 
 down the ears of wheat, into a paste, boiled 
 the bird's eggs, and warmed the cold pota- 
 toes ; and these, with a draught of water, 
 made a meal which was quite enough. There 
 was a dead thrush in the larder, but that 
 must do for to-morrow. " Now that I have 
 some prospect of doing well at last," said 
 Simon, thinking of the quarry, " I need not 
 spoil every thing by extrava'jcance ! " 
 
 It was quite evening ; and he still walked 
 about, strolled some way into the woods, 
 rubbing his thin hands together, and pon- 
 dering his new scheme. The glorious 
 harvest sunset cast a halo around his 
 wretchedness, and flung after him trails of 
 solemn splendor as he glided into the 
 thickets. He was thinking as he went, 
 that, after all, it might be better to have 
 the useless woods out down. True, there 
 would at first be some expense ; but what 
 a heap of money all this timber must pro- 
 duce : these idle giants might gradually 
 be changed into golden pieces. It was not 
 the first time that Simon had thought of 
 the plan ; but it had seemed a part of the 
 fate of the masters of Tobereevil to clino- 
 with great faithfulness to the trees of the 
 Wieked Woods, and to resist every temp- 
 tation to lay them low. There was some- 
 
A STEANGE NIGHT. 
 
 125 
 
 tiling in the fact that eyery thing which 
 involved expense at the first starting was 
 sure to be shunned ; but Simon had gath- 
 ered confidence from tlie success of his 
 negotiations with the shepherds, and from 
 tlie impending success of the quarry. He 
 did really entertain the idea of cutting 
 down the woods. 
 
 The air grew more glowing as the sun 
 sank nearer to the hills, and the trees 
 basked in the golden glare. Simon thought 
 not of, the beauty of the world, nor of the 
 blessings that fall from heaven, as he tot- 
 tered in and out of the thickets, planning 
 their destruction. Now that he had made 
 up his mind to the idea, he became almost 
 delirious with impatience to have the value 
 of the woods poured in gold into his lap, and 
 walked about feebly, guiding himself by the 
 branches. Thus did Simon take his last 
 walk in the Woods of Tobereevil. He had 
 resolved upon their ruin, but another had 
 been before him. 
 
 He returned to the house, and again felt 
 the impossibility of sitting down quietly 
 to think of the riches which promised to 
 flow in upon him, so wandered through his 
 melancholy mansion, up the staircase, all 
 aflame with the setting sun, past the black 
 burning nymphs, past the mutilated Flora, 
 with her gay and floating garments, and 
 away through many solitary chambers. 
 He was in a busy mood this evening, and 
 he wanted to see if there was any thing 
 under his roof which he could turn to profit, 
 — any thing which he had overlooked and 
 allowed to go to waste with that careless- 
 ness and extravagance of which he had 
 never been able to cure himself He 
 looked angrily at the fragments of discol- 
 ored velvet which hung above some of the 
 windows. Perhaps irom these the birds 
 • — robbers who came through broken win- 
 dows — picked some of the rags and wool 
 with which they lined their nests. Rags 
 were worth monuy, and these rags must 
 be ietched down and sent to market. 
 He gloated over the few pieces of worm- 
 eaten furniture which remained in the 
 stalely rooms, and which he resolved should 
 be sold at a high price to the quarry-mas- 
 ter who was to live at Monasterlea. He 
 went up to the lobby where the goblin 
 presses stood, containing those precious 
 heir-looms which the peddler had forborne 
 to buy, ascertained that the goods were 
 safe, and foresaw that some other merchant 
 would be found wise enough to purchase 
 them. Coming down again through the 
 house in tlie gathering of twilight, he be- 
 thought him suddenly of a third great plan 
 for the increase of his store. He would 
 
 take down the mouldering mansion of To- 
 bereevil, every stone of it, and turn it also 
 into gold. These quarry-men would need 
 good dwellings, many more than were to 
 be found upon his land ; so he would sell 
 them his Tjricks and beams, his door-frames 
 and window-frames and fireplaces ; and 
 another heap of gold would be the result. 
 This third vision was too much for hira : 
 his head began to reel with the splendor 
 of the hopes which spread before hira. By 
 the time he made his way to the lower 
 staircase, all the heavenly fires were burnt 
 out for that day ; the nymphs released 
 from torture, and sleeping tranquilly, with 
 the stars shining in at them. When at 
 last he sought his chair of rest in his own 
 particular den, he was utterly exhausted 
 with his hopes. He tottered to the stand 
 on which his pistols always lay, examined, 
 and found them loaded, and placed them 
 on the table beside hira before he would 
 sit down. The window shutters were open, 
 that he might have the last lingering light 
 to bear hira company as he sat ; for neither 
 candles nor fire were to be thought of in 
 such weather. Very soon he would bar 
 the shutters, and go to bed. He sank back 
 in the chair, and closed his eyes, opened 
 them again, and started, with his gaze 
 ■fixed on the window, seeing Con's white 
 face glaring at him with a dreadful look 
 of meaning, through the pane. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX Vin. 
 
 A STEANGE NIGHT. 
 
 When' Miss Martha saw the condition 
 into which Paul had strangely fallen, she 
 agreed with M.iy that it would be well to 
 remove him to new scenes, and leave his 
 restoration to time and Providence. Her 
 anger was at once lost and forgotten in 
 her pity ; and she began to pack her trunk 
 in preparation for a journey which must 
 begin before twenty-four hours should go 
 past. There was no reason to fear that 
 Paul would refuse to accompany her. and 
 every cause for haste, for the mood of his 
 mind had changed since his arrival at 
 Monasterlea. He no longer lived in that 
 quiescent condition which was almost a 
 state of unconsciousness. Things which he 
 saw around him here seemed striving to 
 arouse his memory, and a struggle was 
 beginning between the reason obscured 
 within him, and that power by whose 
 agency he was afflicted ; the result being 
 
.126 
 
 THE WICKED WOODS OF TOBEEEEVIL. 
 
 a growing irritability which threatened to 
 increase to wildness did he remain long in 
 the atmosphere which induced it. So Miss 
 Martlia made preparations for her jom-ney, 
 while Paul wandered in his restless fashion 
 about tlio fields and moors; and May hov- 
 ered between the two, now silently help- 
 ing her aunt, now seeing that Paul was 
 safe. Her face .was white, and Iier eyes 
 had that look in them which we turn upon 
 the dead ; yet the was ready with her hands, 
 and had her wits about her, and did not 
 heave a sigh, nor shed a tear. 
 
 When the Kearneys, . watching their 
 opportunity, had left their cave in the 
 mountain, they had sought shelter for a 
 night with a friend in the lowland, about 
 a mile away on their road from Tobereevil. 
 Plere they must wait for the eldest gossoon, 
 who had been hired by their friend Bid to 
 drive her on an errand to Camlough. The 
 Kearneys waited gladly, suspecting that 
 Bid's mysterious journey had something to 
 do with Paul ; that she was making an efibrt 
 to save them, though she had not thought 
 fit to inform them of the venture. The 
 errand was one of importance, that the 
 house-mother knew ; for had not Bid got a 
 loan of JNIiss jMartha's little wagon-cart for 
 the journey 1 Now, when the gossoon had 
 made the mule a bed in the stables, put the 
 cart in the shed, and left Bid enjoying her 
 breakfast at Monasterlea, he ran off to tell 
 his mother that Mr. Paul Iiad come home 
 at last. 
 
 Then Mary, the mother of all the Kear- 
 neys, rose up and thanked the Lord for 
 sending her this friend, who would take the 
 trouble out of her heart. So easily will 
 people grasp at hope, that Mary began to 
 believe that Paul came all the way from 
 Camlough for the sole purpose of forcing 
 Simon to restore her to her homo. She 
 would go now to Monasterlea with all her 
 children round her, and relate to young 
 Mr. Finiston the dismal tale of her dis- 
 ti'ess ; but first, ought not she to wait to 
 see if Bid would come and fetch her ? 
 She waited till past sunset, and yet Bid 
 had not appeared ; the truth being that 
 the old woman was engaged with Miss 
 Blartha, and knew that the Kearneys would 
 not think of departing till she went to see 
 them ofi'. Bid would not quit Monasterlea 
 till Miss Martha and Paul were fairly 
 started on their journey. 
 
 But Mary Kearney had not patience to 
 wait for this. As soon as twilight began 
 to fall she started with her children, and 
 walked to Monasterlea. Paul was walking 
 up and down the road with his liead bent 
 on his breast, and his hands clasped be- 
 
 liind him, in that dreary, restless way which 
 was habitual with him now. He stopped 
 now and then, and passed liis hand over 
 his forehead, and threw up his face with a 
 look of pain, as if he strove to recover his 
 memory at one bound, whereas it would 
 only return to him b)' slow degrees. Some- 
 times he stamped his foot in despair, or 
 kicked the pebbles out of his path, as if 
 they had angered him. His mood was in- 
 deed changing, and it were well that he 
 was out of the country. Suddenly Mary 
 Kearney and her children came round him, 
 it being still just light enough for people 
 to see each other dimly. They came lightly 
 along in their bare feet, and surrounded 
 him swiftly and suddenly, Paul starting as 
 if ghosts had risen up to confront him. 
 This sensitiveness in itself was evidence 
 of a change : a few days ago he would not 
 have started if the strangest visions on 
 earth had passed under his eyes. 
 
 " God save you, Misther Paul ! " 
 
 " Mrs. Kearney 1 " cried Paul, looking 
 keenly in her face. 
 
 " See that; now I — how well he knew 
 me, an' it dark 1 " said the woman. " Lord 
 love j'ou, Misther Paul ! it's you that had 
 the wish for us. We have walked the 
 roads back to get a word wid you." 
 
 " What is it ? " said Paul, with some- 
 thing of his old air. It seemed as if the 
 start with which he had greeted these old 
 friends had helped him in bis struggle, and 
 sliaken some of the mists out of his brain. 
 
 " It's on'y our little trouble, sir. I mane 
 that Simon — that's the miser — I mane 
 yer uncle, sir, has threwn a heap o' us out 
 of our houses, Misther Paul. O' course 
 you know that sir, an' some o' us is dead 
 an' undher groun' out o' his road, an' some 
 o' us is gone across the say. Some is gone to 
 beggary ; but I'm here yet mysel', sir, wid 
 the little girshes and gossoons. An' I 
 made bould to tell mysel' that if I seen a 
 sight o' yer honor you would remember ye 
 had a wish for ua, an'd put a word in wid yer 
 uncle to let us go back to our little house. 
 We built it a'most oursel's, sir, when he 
 threwn us out before, an' little Nan's get tin' 
 a clever han' at the basket makin'. The 
 gossoons'll be men after a bit, plase the 
 Lord ; an' there's not an idle bone in them, 
 an' they'll pay it back to yer honor." 
 
 Paul stood listening, somewhat like a 
 deaf man who suddenly found that he 
 could hear ; his eyes fixed on the woman 
 while he devoured all her words. 
 
 " Simon put you out ! " he said. " Is 
 that what you Iiave told me ? Simon, the 
 miser, put you out? You and how many 
 others?" 
 
A'STEANGE NIGHT. 
 
 127 
 
 " Thirty families, sir. Sure I thought 
 yer honor knewn it." 
 
 " I did not know it," said Paul, " or I 
 should have seen to it before. You may 
 go now, ray woman, and I will settle with 
 Simon." 
 
 He walked quickly up to the cottage ; 
 May met him on the garden path, and 
 looked at him in amazement ; his eyes 
 were flaming, his mouth was moving ner- 
 vously. He was walking straight towards 
 the door, and did not see her. 
 
 " Paul I " she said, " oh ! what is the 
 matter? " 
 
 " Nothin!;," he said fiercely, " only I am 
 going to settle with Simon. This has been 
 a long t ime delayed. I was boi-n to do it ; 
 and look at me, a man come to my time of 
 life, and my work still undone ! I have 
 been astray this long time ; I had quite 
 forgotten my duty ; but a messenger has 
 just come to remind me of it. Simon has 
 driven out the people lo die about the 
 world. He has repeated the sin of the 
 first Finiston : it now remains for the last 
 one to punish him, and put an end to this 
 foul race I " 
 
 He pushed into the hall, and took his gun 
 down from the wall. 
 
 May said, " What are you going to do ? 
 Come in here, and tell me ; " and she drew 
 him into the parlor, and turned the key in 
 the lock behind them. 
 
 " Do ? " cried Paul. " Why, of course, 
 I will shoot him through the heart. I often 
 told you," he said testily, " that I have got 
 to do this thing, and you vpould not believe 
 me ; but now you shall have proof of it." 
 
 " Very well, but you must wait a little. 
 You have nothing to load your gun with : 
 your things have not arrived." 
 
 " That is most provoking. How soon 
 will they be here ? " 
 
 " Oh I in about half an hour; in the 
 mean time you can rest yourself, so as to 
 be better able for your work." She shook 
 up the pillows on the couch, and he flung 
 himself impatiently upon them, taking out 
 his watch to count the minutes ; while 
 May, hovering about the room, began tell- 
 ing some laughable story. After a time 
 he gave her his attention, and put away 
 the watch. Presently, she began to sing 
 softly a drowsy lullaby, which she had 
 heard mothers singing to their babies in the 
 cabins ; and Paul listened to her tranquil- 
 ly, having quite forgotten his passion as 
 well as the cause of it. At last he lay so 
 still that she turned her head cautiously to 
 observe him, and found that he was asleep. 
 She brought wrappings, and covered him, 
 so that he might rest there safely during 
 
 the night ; for it was now eleven o'clock, 
 and she hoped he would not wake till the 
 morning. She locked him in the room, 
 and the household went to rest. 
 
 Yet May could not sleep, only lay star- 
 ing at the little pools of moonlight on the 
 floor, and wondering about the ending of 
 this sad drama, in which she played so 
 soi-e a part. ^Vould Paul ever get well 
 again ? Would he, indeed, seek the miser 
 when he awakened on the morrow, and 
 accomplish in his madness that doom 
 which he had dreaded before the madness 
 came? She could not sleep while there 
 was so much to be prayed tor ; that Paul 
 might be saved from impending evil, and 
 guided into the keeping of good and faith- 
 ful hands. 
 
 In the midst of her sad thoughts she. 
 heard a noise, and sat up and listened in- 
 tently. Surely that had been the sound 
 of a window opening I She did not wait 
 a moment, for there was but one thought 
 in her mind. She went swiftly to the par- 
 lor door, and opened it softly, softly. The 
 moon shone into the room ; the window 
 was wide open, and Paul was gone. 
 
 She dressed herself rapidly, and fled out 
 of the house, hurrying down the garden 
 and out on the road. She could see a long 
 way before her in the clear midsummer 
 night, which is scarcely night at all. Paul 
 was not to be seen, but her lively terror 
 could only lead her flying feet in one di- 
 rection. She sped, like the wind, towards 
 Tobereevil, thinking as she went along of 
 the likelihood of the mansion being well 
 barred up, so that no one, not even a mad- 
 man, could make his way inside the walls. 
 She should find Paul wandering about the 
 avenue, or in .the woods, or about the win- 
 dows ; would find him and bring him home. 
 
 Her heart beat so quickly, and her feet 
 went so fast, that she had often to pause 
 for breath, leaning against a hedge or tree, 
 straining her eyes everywhere in hopes of 
 seeing a figure, either behind her or before 
 her on the road. At last she was obliged 
 to go more quietly, lest, having utterly ex- 
 hausted herself, she should faint at the 
 sight of Paul, and be of no further use to 
 him , 
 
 The beautiful calm country lay all 
 around her, the hills wrapped in solemn 
 shadow, but with lustrous peaks crowned 
 with stars in the sky ; sad glimmering 
 fields and moors with all their human lights 
 extinct at the moment ; the patient and 
 melancholy land that had suffered and 
 smiled and been beautiful under the tread 
 of many afflicted generations, born to a 
 cruel time, but perhaps to a kind eternity. 
 
128 
 
 THE WICKED WOODS OF TOBEEEEVIL. 
 
 " How long, O Lord, how long ? " seemed 
 written over the wistful face of the valley. 
 The woods had caught no tender glance 
 from the moon, but rolled in black masses 
 against the sky, as if the surges of their 
 wicked restlessness would flood the fair face 
 of the heavens, drowning the innocent stars 
 which grew like blossoms of light therein. 
 Thus appeared the woods in the last hour 
 of their magnificent pride and might, even 
 while there was a red spot in the midst of 
 them that glowed and pulsed like an angry 
 thought In their heart. 
 
 May did not notice it, as she pierced 
 her way through the crowding trees to the 
 avenue. She had seen smoke and flames 
 in the distance when she first set out on the 
 road ; but fire-wreaths were common on the 
 mountain now, and the sight had been no 
 surprise. 
 
 As she drew near the dreary mansion 
 she sickened at the thought of approaching 
 it with such a terrible fear in her mind. 
 Was it not altogether fantastic this jour- 
 ney of hers in the midnight ? How could 
 she have allowed terror so to work upon 
 her, — knowing Paul as she did, and that 
 he would not hurt a fly V A man quite 
 unarmed I What harm could he do to 
 another, even if Simon's doors and win- 
 dows were not locked and barred I Per- 
 haps even now he was safe at home, hav- 
 ing returned to his rest after roving a little, 
 in his wild way, about the fields. Admit- 
 ting these thoughts, she leaned tremblingly 
 against a tree, and again, strained her eyes 
 towards the thickets and across the moors. 
 
 The gray early dawn came creeping over 
 the scene ; frown after frown dropped from 
 the trees, and groups and masses of' un- 
 known something threw off their sombre 
 mystery, and became broken-down fences, 
 clumps of rj.gged hedge, pieces of ruined 
 wall, or bushes of unsightly shape I The 
 bogs showed their dreariness, the river 
 threw up a steel-like ray, and the marshes 
 gave forth pale glimmers of beautiful hues ; 
 a gray look of awe was on the face of the 
 waking world, as if the coming of a new 
 day had been a fearful and unexpected 
 boon. The dull shoulder of the mansion 
 rose above some bristling trees ; and there 
 was a great roar in the air coming from the 
 distance. May noticed it without think- 
 ing of it, for every one knew of the grum- 
 bling of the woods ; but the trees of Tobe- 
 reevil had never made such a sound as this 
 before. 
 
 She told herself that she had much 
 better go home, yet could not bear to turn 
 till she had first walked round the man- 
 sion to see that the fastenings were all un- 
 
 touched, and that no wandering footsteps, 
 save her own, were about the place. 
 There was a dreadful fascination for her ia 
 the nearness of the stern gray walls : she 
 could not turn her eyes away, and began 
 walking quickly cowards them. 
 
 She had been there but once before, and 
 did not quite know her way among the 
 vagrant bushes and straggling trees to the 
 front of the house. She found herself at 
 the back, and walked round many sides 
 and gables, noticing with relief how well 
 the windows were barred, and thanking 
 God for the miser's caution, which was 
 good for something at last. " When the 
 back is so well guarded," thought she, " it 
 is not likely that the front will be found 
 neglected. The door will be locked and 
 bolted." Then May came stealing round 
 the last corner of the house. But the hall- 
 door was lying open I 
 
 A cry of anguish rose in her heart ; but 
 the sound of it did not come through her 
 lips, as she drew near the open door hov- 
 eringly, as a blessed spirit might approach 
 the mouth of hell, seeking for some lost one, 
 sorely afraid to enter, yet impelled by the 
 love that is stronger than death. She 
 could not but go in : her feet carried her 
 across the hall, moved by the same fascina- 
 tion which had drawn them towards the 
 trees. Away to the right was the door 
 through which Paul had passed with Simon 
 on the day when they had first met as 
 uncle and nephew, when Paul had con- 
 sented to share the miser's interests and to 
 touch the miser's gold. That door led, as 
 she knew, to Simon's sitting-room ; and it 
 also lay open. A second threshold was 
 crossed — she advanced a few steps, and- 
 did not need to go farther. Simon was 
 sitting in his chair ; his head lay back so 
 that tlie face was almost hidden, his arm 
 hanging over the chair, the long skeleton 
 fingers nearly touching the ground. The 
 old man was a corpse, his breast covered 
 with blood, and blood lying round about 
 him on the floor. 
 
 This was the ghastly spectacle on which 
 May and the cold dawn looked in through 
 door and window. A terrible cry — of 
 more than fear, of more than horror — 
 rent open May's lips, and made the old 
 house echo as it had never before echoed, 
 even to the cries of the lamenting winds. 
 Simon did not stir, nor was any thing 
 startled within the cursed walls except the 
 echoes. May tried to fly, with some vague 
 idea about saving some one spinning round 
 and round in her dizzy head ; but, though 
 the spirit might will, the body would not 
 obey, and she fell on the floor of the 
 
A STEANGE NIGHT. 
 
 129 
 
 hideous chamber. For a long time she lay 
 there silent, motionless, dead, — like a 
 second victim to whatever hatred had spilt 
 an old man's blood on the floor by her side. 
 While the long spell of silence lasted, the 
 light ^rew clear in the room ; and the 
 dreadful sight it looked upon became more 
 fully revealed in all its details. It was 
 a colorless, gray morning ; the sun had not 
 yet risen, and yet there was a bright red 
 glow lying on the ground outside, and 
 creeping like a gilding round the window 
 frames. Jt shone in through the panes, 
 and danced with fearful frolic over the aw- 
 i'ul figure in the chair, glancing on May, 
 and dyeing her white dress, while the feel- 
 ing of life returned gradually into her 
 body. At the risk of bringing madness 
 with it, consciousness came creeping back 
 to her. 
 
 She wakened to life again, struggling 
 with a pain at her heart, which seemed 
 trying to crush it, that she might have 
 death and peace ; but her healthful youth 
 would not have it so, and out of her strug- 
 gle came recollection, and with it the 
 strong will and self-forgetting impulse 
 whicb had already carried her so far in 
 this adventure. She rose to her feet, and 
 staggering, indeed, and still hulf-stunned, 
 and covering her eyes with her hands, that 
 she might not behold again the sight that 
 had nearly killed her, she fled back across 
 the hall, and out of the house. 
 
 Then she found herself wrapped in the 
 glare of the burning woods ; hissing and 
 roaring the fire roUuJ towards her over the 
 heads of the nearer trees, which were not 
 yet drawn into the furnace, though it shone 
 right behind them. Clouds of smoke 
 blotted the heavens, and were luridly 
 ■pierced by the flames which seemed to es- 
 cape with every groan from the hearts of 
 the perishing trees. Now that it had got 
 mastery over the woods, the fire spread 
 with a terrible rapidity, licking up root and 
 branch, devouring oak and beech and 
 chestnut, wrapping away in its embraces 
 stalwart trunks and writhing boughs, and 
 opening up such a raging abyss between 
 heaven and earth, that it seemed as if the 
 spirits of fire had been let looseout of their 
 kingdom, and the world having been given 
 up to them, the last day had begun. 
 
 May stepped out from the shadow of the 
 grim house into a scorching atmosphere, 
 that made her eyes grow dim, and her 
 breath seem to burn. Her dress, her flesh, 
 her hair grew hot, so that she felt as if al- 
 ready wrapped in the flames, while the fire 
 half encircled her at the distance of 
 about a hundred yards. \A ith still the one 
 9 
 
 idea of Paul's madness possessing her, the 
 thought flashed through lier mind that this 
 new horror must be in some way owing to 
 it, — • that he himself was even now buried 
 in yonder furnace. " Paul, Paul I " she 
 shrieked in a high, shrill note that pierced 
 the smoke-clouds, and reached farther than 
 the bellowing o^ the trees ; and, bereft of 
 all reason, she rushed frantically towards 
 the flames. 
 
 A few wild steps, and her feet stopped 
 again. What was that ? Oh ! what was 
 it ? Not the roaring of the trees, nor the 
 hissing of the flames ; not the groaning 
 of the newly-attacked giants, whose bodies 
 were girdled by fire, — not like to any of 
 these Was the sound that made her stop. 
 It was Paul's voice calling to her. "May, 
 May 1 " it cried, in a loud and ringing 
 voice ; and it was not coming from the 
 fire, though, if it had summoned her from 
 thence, she would have obeyed it. It was 
 coming from behind her, from the side 
 where lay fields and meadows, and the 
 river cooling the land. 
 
 " May, May I " This time the voice sound- 
 ed nearer to her. Paul was not far away, 
 he could see her, and was calling to her ; 
 and it was not the voice of a murderer rior 
 that of a madman, but the clear, honest 
 voice of Paul Finiston in his senses. 
 May knew it of old : it was a sound 
 sweet and unhoped for, and each echo 
 of it pierced her brain with perilous joy. 
 The revulsion of feeling was so sudden 
 that it almost robbed her a second time of 
 her senses ; and, as she wheeled around to 
 obey the call, she doubted her own sanity, 
 and moaned aloud piteously in the agony 
 of uncertainty. Was she, too, mad, and 
 did she imagine happy sounds which could 
 be heard no more on earth ? 
 
 She began running towards the direction 
 from which the sound had reached her. 
 When the hot mist that had obscured her 
 eyes cleared away a little, and allowed her 
 to see, she perceived Paul coming to meet 
 her, walking rapidly, pushing his way 
 through the bushes from that side of the 
 wood not as yet approached by the fire. 
 It seemed as if he had descended from the 
 mountain. He was quickly at her side, and 
 threw a protecting arm round her. 
 
 " You are going to faint," he cried. 
 " What can have brought you out here 
 alone 1 " 
 
 May shuddered, and shrank from him. 
 
 " Simon is dead ! " she said. " Simon is 
 murdered I " 
 
 Paul started. " Simon murdered I " he 
 said, awe-struck. " What do you mean ? 
 How do you know ? " 
 
130 
 
 THE "WICKED WOODS OF TOBEEEEVIL. 
 
 . " I mean — I know — God, Paul, O 
 God I — tell me you did not do it ! " 
 
 " I V " Paul drew back, and looked at 
 her with horror. 
 
 " Forgive me, forgive me ! I think my 
 senses have left me. O Heaven, what I 
 have suffered ! Oh, this terrible, terrible 
 night ! " 
 
 "My darling, calm yourself ! You are 
 distracted by the sight of tbis extraordi- 
 nary fire. It has frightened you out of 
 your sleep. It is very strange and awful, 
 but can be traced, I do not doubt, to some 
 simple cause, — the great heat of the 
 weather, or some sparks from the fires on 
 the mountain. You were raving just now, 
 saying that Simon had been murdered : 
 the fire has not reached the house, and hu 
 shall certainly be saved. I was hastening 
 to look after him when I caught sight of 
 your white dress." 
 
 May looked in his face with a puzzled, 
 ■wistful gaze. 
 
 "Paul ! " she said, " are you sure you are 
 in your right senses ? " 
 
 Paul smiled, though ' he was uneasy, 
 thinking her a little crazed by fright. 
 
 " I think I am," he said. " I feel like a 
 sane man. I am more in my right 
 senses at least than you are ! " 
 
 Still she looked at him wonderingly *and 
 fearfully. 
 
 " Do 3'ou remember last night ? " she 
 said. 
 
 " Yes," he answered, smiling, and ■will- 
 ing to humor her. "I do remeniber last 
 nigbt : should you like to hear an account of 
 it ? I wakened with the moonlight, where 
 you allowed me to fall asleep on the sofa, 
 in your parlor. I could not go to sleep 
 again, and turned out to enjoy tlie night, 
 and to think over a crowd of things which 
 came into my head. I got up into the 
 hills, and soon saw that the woods were 
 burning. I watched them for some time, 
 knowing that there was nothing for it but 
 to lot them burn themselves to death" — 
 
 j\I:iy shuddered. 
 
 " And then I suddenly thought about 
 Simon, and was hurrying down to save 
 him, when, as I say, I caught sight of 
 you." 
 
 ;\Iay listened, still looking at him with 
 that pale, unsatisfied gaze. 
 
 '■ But, before all that '! " she urged him. 
 " Do you remember what happened in the 
 evening, and yesterday, and the day be- 
 fore V " 
 
 " Of course I do," he said. " On the 
 day before yesterday I escorted Miss Arch- 
 bold to Garalough, and returned to Mon- 
 asterlea yesterday evening. I came home 
 
 late, and very tired, and was allowed to 
 sleep upon your sofii. How this came to 
 be is the only thing I am not perfectly 
 clear about. But why do you question me 
 like this ? and what does it all signify ? " 
 
 May looked half relieved, yet still terri- 
 fied. 
 
 " Paul," she said, '' it was April when 
 you went to Camlough with Katharine 
 Archbold ; and now it is July." 
 
 " May, you have been dreaming I " he 
 cried. 
 
 "O Paul,'0 Paul! it is you who have 
 been out of your senses. You went to 
 Camlough ; you became ill, and lost your 
 mind, and they kept you there. I went 
 and stole you away that you might be 
 cured. While you were gone, Simon ill- 
 used the people, and then tbey were in 
 distress. Last nigbt they told you this ; 
 and, in your madness, you tbreatened to 
 murder Simon. I soothed the idea out of 
 your mind, and you fell asleep. After- 
 wards, when you awoke, I heard you quit 
 the house, and followed you in terror lest 
 the idea of doing harm might still be 
 working in your mind. I found Simon's 
 door open ; and, O God, Paul ! he is lying 
 murdered in his chair 1 I thought you had 
 done it in your madness. Forgive me, 
 Paul 1 I thought it was in your mad- 
 ness." 
 
 Paul had become deadly pale. " Is this 
 all true ? " he said. " Am I dreaminnr, or 
 are you .' 
 
 " Neither, neither, — we are both too 
 wide awake. It is all true that I have 
 said; but jou' did not murder Simon, 
 Paul ? Your senses had returned to you 
 when you wakened out of your sleep? 
 You know what you have been doing all 
 the time since you left the house ? " 
 
 Paul reeled under her words, and leaned 
 heavily against a tree. May stood before 
 him like a figure of snow, and waited for 
 his answer. The fire hissed and roared, 
 and they neither saw nor heard it. 
 
 " I remember all distinctly," he said at 
 last. "I have not the 'slightest doubt. 
 My mind has been sound and clear since I 
 wakened out of my sleep, and left tlie house. 
 I know what I have been doing, and I 
 did not murder Simon. Must I believe 
 all that you tell me ? — it is unspeakably 
 strange and awful ! " 
 
 " He did not do it," said May, speaking 
 to herself in a kind of rapture. " He did 
 not do it at all — he did not even know of 
 it. Stay, Paul; indeed I will not faint. I 
 have turned a little blind; but, indeed, I 
 shall not faint." 
 
 He held her up in his arms till the swoon- 
 
A STRANGE NIGHT. 
 
 131 
 
 ing sensation left her. Suddenly a sharp 
 cry broke from her. 
 
 " The curse is now at an end," she said : 
 " the last miser is dead I Even the proph- 
 ecy is fulfilled — murdered 1" she shud- 
 dered. 
 
 " Not by a kinsman of his own," said 
 Paul. 
 
 " No," said she ; " but still the curse is 
 ended, and you are free, and need fear no 
 more." 
 
 " I do not fear any thing," he said, " un- 
 less it be pain for you." 
 
 It was very plain, indeed, that whatever 
 mischievous powers had hitherto irritated 
 and maddened Paul, had at last given up 
 their hold of him, and had left him in pos- 
 session of the faculties that God had given 
 him. He spoke and moved with a calm 
 and self-contained air which May had never 
 noticed as belonging to him. Thoughtful 
 and awe-struck as be was at this moment, 
 there was still no trace of that confusion of 
 trouble — that gloom and nervous dread — 
 ■which had always been so painfully visible 
 in him when grief or perplexity had thrust 
 themselves in his way. Even in his joy 
 there had always been a feverishness and 
 uncertainty which had not suggested peace 
 nor any well-grounded happiness. Now 
 there was a quiet look of strength in his 
 face, . — an expression of resolved content in 
 his eyes, as if he would say, " Come what 
 may, I will weather this storm ; " for he 
 already saw it coming, though May did not 
 as yet. She thought pf nothing at the mo- 
 ment but the wondrous change in Paul ; 
 and joy, mingled with aWe, filled up all her 
 consciousness, leaving no room for antici- 
 pation of things to come. Paul was re- 
 stored to her, or rather given to her newly. 
 As she clung to his arm, and he led her 
 from the spot, she felt him to be at last 
 possessed of that power, strong and fine, 
 on which she could repose, by which he 
 should govern himself and others without 
 hinderanoe of doubt or fear. What her 
 faith had discerned latent in him, hidden 
 by the overshadowing of some mystery in- 
 scrutable, she now beheld manifested to her 
 senses. Truly and indeed she had got 
 matter for joy. Hitherto she had been the 
 stronger, — had battled for him and pro- 
 tected him as the man might- protect the 
 woman. Now the God-given strength and 
 dignity of man had appeared, and asserted 
 its superiority over her own ; and, with a 
 sigh brimful of bUss, the woman fell back 
 into her place. 
 
 Paul led her away, with her face to the 
 fields and the cool river. He wanted to 
 bring her home as quickly as possible, so 
 
 that he might return, and have Simon's 
 body carried decently from the house be- 
 fore the flames should get round the walls. 
 As they hurried along they saw numbers 
 of people running from all sides, attracted 
 by the strange spectacle of the burning 
 woods ; all the early risers in the neighbor- 
 hood having been attracted from their 
 homes by so extraordinary a sight. They 
 were talking and gesticulating as they ran, 
 suggesting causes for the phenomenon, and 
 giving vent to their amazement. 
 
 " Oh„good Lord ! " cried a woman, " the 
 divil himsel' must ha' whisked a spark out 
 o' hell wid him by mistake when he was 
 night-walkin' as usual in the woods I " 
 
 " Whisht wid yer blatherin'," said a 
 stout farmer. "" The heat o' the weather's 
 jist enough for to do it. A flash o' fork 
 lightnin' when the branches is that dhry ! " 
 " A wheen o' sparkles from yon cursed 
 fires that the shepherds has for ever goin' 
 night and day ! " suggested a third. " Oh, 
 murtherl here's Misther Paul and Miss 
 May hersel'." 
 
 " They've been lookin' after Simon," said 
 a fourth. " Bad as he is, a body couldn't 
 see him burnt." 
 
 " God knows frizzlin' would be too good 
 for him all the same. Save ye, Misther 
 Paul ! This is a terrible night we have." 
 
 " Very strange and terrible," said Paul. 
 "-But there is something more awful still, 
 up at the house. Simon Finiston has been 
 murdered." 
 
 " Murdered ! " A hum of horror rose 
 and sank into silence. There was an ex- 
 traordinary look on every face. 
 
 " God knows he desarved it ! " cried a 
 woman fiercely, breaking the silence. 
 
 " Oh, ay ! " said a man, " but some wan 
 be to done it on him," 
 
 " That's the point," said the farmer sol- 
 emnly, with a sombre look at Paul. " Thou 
 shalt not kill." 
 
 Some of the people looked askance at 
 the young couple, and others gazed away 
 from them with grief and «nibarrassment 
 in their faces. Paul quickly saw the signs 
 of the storm that was coming upon him, 
 and his greatest desire was 'to see May 
 safely at home. 
 
 " i must take this lady home, my men," 
 he said to them; " and then 1 will return to 
 you. Will you hurry on, and remove the 
 body before the fiames get up to the walls ? 
 There is not a moment to lose." 
 
 " Ay, ay 1 " they said, assenting, and 
 moved slowly on. There was a heavy 
 doubt on their minds, and Paul knew it. 
 
 " Till wan o' them be murdered by a 
 kinsman of his own," muttered the farmer 
 
132 
 
 THE "WICKED 'WOODS OF TOBEEEEVIL. 
 
 to himself. " I did not think Paul Finiston 
 had it in him." 
 
 " Oh, ye coward 1 " cried a woman who 
 caught or divined his words. "Oh, ye ill- 
 minded man 1 " 
 
 " I didn't say nothin'," said the man. 
 " It's the law's affair, not mine." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 THE fool's sad FATE. 
 
 When Katherine Archbold, sitting on 
 the lawn in the middle of her guests, was 
 able to disentangle her mind from the flat- 
 teries which had wound themselves about 
 it, she became suddenly and vexaitiously 
 aware that Paul had left her side, and was 
 no' longer within reach of her hand. As 
 soon as she made this discovery her mood 
 so quickly changed, and seemingly with no 
 reason, that the guests who had been wor- 
 shipping her withdrew, shrugging their 
 shoulders, and comm'Bnting on her temper. 
 The day broke soon after, and the whole 
 crowd of fantastic creatures fled. Sun- 
 rise found Katherine in frantic humor : 
 Paul was not to be heard of; was nowhere 
 to be seen. Her father suggested that he 
 might have strayed out over the hills in 
 his meaningless way, and have hurt or 
 lost himself, very high up in the hills. 
 " Let us go out at once, and look for him, " 
 said Sir John ; and Katherine agreed read- 
 ily, and they went out on the hills and 
 searched. 
 
 The party of seekers went this way and 
 that way, taking different paths. They 
 sought for many hours ; but, in the heat of 
 the day, gave up the effort, while Sir John 
 sent messengers to Tobereevil and Mon- 
 asterlea. In the dawn of the next morn- 
 ing Katherine was out again upon the 
 hills, unable to rest, haunted by a half- 
 formed ghastly fear that Paul would be 
 found lying dead in some gorge of the hills, 
 or at the foo^; of some precipice. In the 
 darkness he might have missed his footing, 
 and fallen fi-om a great height. With a 
 mantle thrown over her head, and dress 
 careless for once, with pallid face and 
 frightened eyes, she went clambering up 
 steep rocks and looking over the edges, 
 peering round corners of cliffs, and creep- 
 ing down into ravines, starting at every 
 black object that came within her vision, 
 as if it had been the thing for which 
 she was seeking. She got at last into a 
 narrow gorge which descended between 
 
 high cliffs down to a narrow and basin-like 
 valley, hollowed out of the very crown of 
 one of the mountains. It was toilsome 
 work, getting safely to the bottom, and she 
 emerged wearily into the open waste 
 which was the valley ; hearing as she did 
 so the sound of a human voice weeping, 
 and ' talking incoherently. A few steps 
 further she came on a spectacle, ghastly 
 enough, if not actually so sad as that which 
 she had feared to see. 
 
 It was the corpse of Con the fool, lying 
 bruised and disfigured at the foot of the 
 cliff, with Tibbie bending over him, wring- 
 ing her shrivelled hands, and mourning 
 into the deaf ear of the dead. Her lamen- 
 tation was in Irish ; but, from time to time, 
 she raised the dismal sobbing " keen," pro- 
 longed it for a few minutes with frantic 
 energy, then dropped it again with a wail 
 of despair, and went on with her incoherent 
 mutterings. It was awful to see and hear 
 this old creature, herself livid as a corpse, 
 talking aloud to the dead in the silence of 
 the wilderness. 
 
 Con lay upon his back, having evidently 
 fallen from a great height ; for his brow was 
 deeply wounded. Tibbie had straightened 
 his hmbs as well as she could ; his arms 
 lay by his side, and one hand held a pistol ; 
 the fingers clinched on it as if it had been 
 a foe whom lie had griped to death. Some 
 force would be needed to remove it from 
 the grasp of those frozen fingers. Kath- 
 erine stood gazing on this scene in silent 
 amazement. She had been looking for 
 death; and here was death, accomplished 
 by the very means which she had supposed 
 likely to inflict it in such a place. Here, 
 indeed, was somebody who had been killed 
 by a fall from those sharp overhanging 
 cliffs. Only it was not Paul the madman, 
 but Con the fool. 
 
 Katherine stood gazing with a feeling 
 that she had been tricked by her eyes, or 
 understanding, till Tibbie looked up by 
 chance, and saw her. The " keen " died on 
 the old woman's lips when she beheld the 
 unexpected intruder on her grief; and a 
 harsh, growling sound broke from her in- 
 stead, as she rose quickly to her feet with 
 her eyes fixed on Katherine. She ad- 
 vanced a few steps, tottering, and holding 
 both hands before her, just as the sun rose 
 above the opposite peaks of the valley, 
 lighting up the strange scene with a jubi- 
 lant splendor. 
 
 " It's you 1 " cried Tibbie hoarsely, " it's 
 you, is it ? Yer come to take yer sport 
 out o' me. You an' the divil that has 
 cheated me betune ye 1 Look at him 
 there, a corpse, — my hid that was to ha' 
 
THE fool's sad FATE. 
 
 133 
 
 been master of Tobereevil, wid murtlier on 
 his soul, an' blood upon his face. Con, 
 avourneen, alanna ! the purty lady's come 
 to have her laugh over ye now.' We'll 
 laugh wid her, my darlin', — ha, ha, ha, 
 ha 1" 
 
 Her wild laughter sobbed itself away 
 into the terrible " keen," and the rocks 
 rang their dismal echoes as if in sympathy 
 with her woe. 
 
 " How did it happen ? " asked Katherine, 
 disgusted at the scene, yet curious all the 
 time. 
 
 "Happen!" shrieked Tibbie. "She 
 dares to ask me how did it happen! It 
 happened by way o' this," she said, draw- 
 ing something froni her bosom : " the, divil 
 ,that you give me, that was promised to do 
 my will ; a divil that worked agin me that 
 ye might get yer laugh at me ! Bad luck 
 came down on me from the first day I tuk 
 it out o' yer ban's. Take back yer man- 
 dhrake, lady ! an' may curses go back to ye 
 wid it, an' light on yer heart ! " 
 
 So saying, she flung something right at 
 Katherine's breast, — the mandrake which 
 Katherine had carved for her, half in 
 malice and half in fun. At another time 
 Miss Archbold would have laughed, and 
 flung the thing back to her ; but now the 
 terrified young woman had got something 
 in her mind which excluded both mirth 
 and anger ; and the manikin fell unheeded 
 into the grass, to remain there and rot 
 under the sun and rains. Tibbie had said 
 that Con was dead, and with a murder on 
 his soul. Who, then, was also dead ? 
 Whom had the fool murdered ? 
 
 " How did it happen ? " she repeated, 
 with a new meaning in her question, think- 
 ing that two creatures witliout reason had 
 met, and quarrelled, and that both were 
 dead. " You spoke of murder," said Kath- 
 erine : " whom has he murdered ? " 
 
 " Murther ! " screamed Tibbie. " Who 
 said he had murthered any wan ? If any 
 wan dares to say it, I'll kill them wid 
 this ! " 
 
 She lifted a heavy stone, and rushed 
 towards Katherine, wlio turned and fled 
 round the corner of lh«s cliff, nor drew 
 her breath till she had toiled her way up 
 again through the gorge, and was safe out 
 of reach of her wretched and feeble foe. In 
 fear and trembling she then continued her 
 search, fully persuaded now that Paul had 
 indeed been brought to untimely death, 
 but met nothing on the hills to relieve her 
 suspense. At last, when utterly wearied 
 and unable to go farther, she returned to 
 the castle, her face wild and white, her dress 
 torn and disordered, no longer the proud 
 
 beauty, only a scared and remorseful crea- 
 ture who had forgotten self at last in care 
 for another. Returning to her own dress- 
 ing-room, however, she was startled to see 
 the spectacle she had become, and the old 
 Katherine Archbold revived within her 
 again. 
 
 Come what might, there was nothing in 
 the world worth the grief that could trans- 
 form a woman like that. She would not be 
 haggard and ujly, even if Paul were mur- 
 dered, and the Tobereevil treasures lost for- 
 ever. May must, at all events, suffer quite 
 as much as herself; and May was a weak 
 creature, and could not get over it as she 
 would do. She dressed herself perfectly ; 
 and, her vanity thus comforted, she pre- 
 sented herself in the breakfast-room, where 
 her father was already waiting for her. 
 Her mother was ill in bed ; but that was 
 not to be thought about at present. Kathe- 
 rine had quite enough on her hands, with- 
 out thinking about her mother. 
 
 Sir John was walking up and down the 
 room in excitement. 
 
 " Katherine," he said, as she entered, 
 " have you heard this awfiil news ? You 
 must nerve 'yourself for a shock ; but I have 
 no doubt that you can bear it." 
 
 He did not mean to be satirical, for he 
 had believed in Katherine's sincerity for 
 once. ' 
 
 " He is dead, I suppose," said Kathe- 
 rine ; and her face was white enough. 
 
 " He 1 Paul ? JSTo ; but old Finiston, his 
 uncle, has been murdered." 
 
 " Welt! " said Katherine eagerly, with 
 Tibbie's words and the truth flashing into 
 her mind at once. 
 
 " Paul is suspected of the crime,'' said 
 Sir John solemnly ; " Paul and that pretty 
 little girl at Monasterlea. It seems he had 
 been paying attentions to her as well as to 
 you. I cannot understand it, I confess. 
 When he left us here, he went straight to 
 Miss Mourne's house; and the strangest 
 thing of all is, that they say he is now in 
 his proper senses. He was seen about 
 Monasterlea the day after he left us, and 
 the murder was committed on the very 
 next night. He and the young girl were 
 met coming from the miser's house at day- 
 break in the morning, by some people who 
 had run out to see a fire, which, strangely 
 enough, has broken out in the woods, and I 
 believe is burning yet. They say he told 
 them the old man was murdered, and took 
 the matter quite coolly. It is all exceed- 
 ingly strange. As a magistrate, I am bound 
 to be busy in the afiair, and must go to 
 Tobereevil for the inquest." 
 
 Katherine stood grasping the back of a 
 
134 
 
 THE WICKED WOODS OF TOBEEEEVIL. 
 
 chair, and gazing with distended eyes at 
 her father's face. 
 
 " And the girl '/' " she asked presently. 
 " Is she also suspected ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Sir John, " I believe so. 
 There is something about a spot of blood 
 on her dress." 
 
 Katherine sank into a seat, and said noth- 
 ing. It was now all plain to her about the 
 murder. 
 
 Con had done it ; and Paul and May had 
 discovered it when they went out like the 
 rest to see the fire. Paul was in his right 
 senses ; and he and May were just as they. 
 had been before she divided them, except 
 that they were under a grievous cloud of 
 suspicion, overwhelmed with disgrace and 
 grief. A word from her would even now 
 divert this trouble from them, leaving them 
 happy in each other, and thg possession of 
 wealth untold. And should she have to do 
 this? 
 
 She could not do it yet — of that she was 
 very sure. She sat quite still for some 
 time, hating Paul and May with all her 
 heart. " Let them be accused ! " she said, 
 " I will not speak." She shuddered a little, 
 and her father bade her take some break- 
 fast. And she went to the table, and sat 
 down and ate. 
 
 " I shall go with you,'' she said to her 
 father. " 1 must see the end of this." 
 
 " It would be much better taste for you 
 to stay where you are," said Sir John. 
 
 But Katherine was not used to think 
 much about matters of taste. 
 
 When May returned to the cottage she 
 found Bridget and Nanny at the gate, 
 watching the fire, and hearing news from the 
 passers-by. 
 
 lliey looked amazed at seeing Paul and 
 May coming quickly down the road. Paul 
 left Ma:y a little way from the gate, and 
 hastened back towards Tobereevil, as he 
 had promised he would do. May passed 
 in at the gate. 
 
 " O Miss May, Miss May ! " cried Brid- 
 get, " there's blood on your dress ! " 
 
 May looked down at it, startled. " Si- 
 mon Finiston has been murdered," she said, 
 shuddering, and went on into the house. 
 
 Her aunt was not awake; for it was only 
 four o'clock, and the cottage was quite still 
 in the early summer sunshine. For dear 
 life. May could not have helped being unut- 
 terably happy, in spite of the a%vful sights 
 which had lately passed before her eyes : 
 that Paul was well and safe was a good 
 which must outweigh all the troubles of the 
 earth. It was true, she felt weary and 
 
 shaken with the recent shocks she had sus- 
 tained ; her head was dizzy, and her limbs 
 stifl"; but she felt nothing inconvenient to 
 her, not even suffering of the body. She 
 knelt and poured out her thankfulness to 
 Heaven ; then sleep and utter weariness 
 overpowered her ; and, throwing herself on 
 her bed, she slept soundly until breakfast- 
 time. 
 
 On awakening, the horror of the murder, 
 with its attendant and glaring horror of 
 the fire, rose luridly in her mind ; but she 
 had left all that with God before sleeping, 
 and this morning she would think of noth- 
 ing but her joy. Paul met her coming 
 down the hall, — pale, certainly, but fair 
 and fresh-robed as a lily, and smiling out of 
 eyes that denied any cause for gloom. 
 Paul looked at her silently ; and the love in 
 his heart could not refuse her a smile in 
 answer to her own ; but there was sadness 
 in the smile, — not of the old kind, which 
 May now looked no more to see, but a new 
 and reasonable sadness, which had nothing 
 to do with fret or fear. He took hei^ hands 
 in his own, and drew her into the parlor 
 that they might talk. 
 
 " What is it, Paul ? " she asked, feeling 
 that there was something which she did not 
 yet know. 
 
 " You have borne a great deal for -me,'' 
 he said. " Can you still bear something 
 more ? " 
 
 She blenched a, little, for her physical 
 powers were worn somewhat low ; but she 
 said firmly, '•! can, Paul." 
 
 " God bless you 1 " he said, with a solemn 
 passion that made her tremble, knowing 
 there was something heavy, indeed, to be 
 yet borne. 
 
 " May," he said, " you and I are suspect- 
 ed of this murder 1 " 
 
 " Are we ? Paul ! " She drew a long 
 breath, broken by neither sigh nor sob. 
 " Well, we can bear it till the truth be 
 found out. Why are we suspected V " 
 
 " Circumstances are against us — don't 
 you perceive it? We were met coming 
 from the place so early — and — and — 
 there was blood upon your dresS ! " 
 
 " I see ; but I shall explain how that got 
 there." 
 
 "My love ! don't you see that your expla- 
 nation will tell against us — against me, at 
 least — more than any thing else. Then, 
 there is that idea in the people's minds 
 about the prophecy that a Finiston would 
 be murdered by a kinsman of his own." 
 
 They looked in each other's faces, — two 
 poor young creatures, — brave in their con- 
 scious innocence, but with all the world 
 against them. Paul drew her to his heart, 
 
THE FOOL'S SAD FATE. 
 
 135 
 
 and thus they met their great woe. May 
 quickly recovered herself. 
 
 " Of course we must take this solemnly, 
 Paul, but not too much in earnest. We 
 know wB did not do it, neither you nor I ; 
 £ind some one else did. God will reveal 
 all ; and, meantime, we must not let our- 
 selves be crushed." 
 
 " No, darling : we will not let ourselves 
 be crushed." 
 
 He held her hands tightly within his, 
 and felt that thus linked together they 
 must, indeed, stand strong. Heaven could 
 not forsake one so innocent and trustful as 
 the woman who was bound with him in this 
 martyrdom. 
 
 " We need not tell Aunt Martha yet, 
 Paul — unless it is unavoidable. It would 
 kill her in an hour." 
 
 " No, we need not tell her," said Paul. 
 " Not, at least, till the inquest is over." 
 
 When Miss Martha appeared, she was 
 enlightened as to the events of the night, 
 but was not inforftied of the crowning 
 trouble that was impending. A few groans 
 and shudders expressed her horror at the 
 tale, as it was related to her ; but she was 
 deeply affected, and sore old spots smarted 
 badly in her heart. She did not complain' 
 of these, however, but let them wait till she 
 could see to them in the privacy of her 
 chamber. Her grief could not be such as 
 to deaden her appreciation of the good 
 things which must be the issue of this evil. 
 It was horrible, indeed, that Simon should 
 have been murdered, but an excellent thing 
 for the country that he was dead. It was 
 good for Paul and good for May ; and the 
 trouble could not be any thing to compare 
 with the delightful comfort of seeing Paul 
 Finiston master of Tobereevil and great 
 wealth, sitting there in his own character, 
 in possession of sound reason and perfect 
 health, by the side of his promised wite. 
 
 " And so the old house is burning, you 
 say, Paul ! Well, that is no harm : you 
 never could have made use of it, and it is 
 better it should fall. I have never heard 
 of a more singular coincidence — the fire 
 and — and — the other event happening in 
 one night. Does any one know how the 
 fire could have happened V " 
 
 " It is thought the heat might have 
 caused it, or sparks falling from the furze- 
 fires on the mountains. The timber be- 
 ing so dry a little thing would do it. God 
 grant it may be a type of the purification 
 of the country from the old evil ! " 
 
 Miss Martha looked at him with great 
 approval. 
 
 "The same idea has been in my own 
 mind," she said. 
 
 " One could imagine," said May, " that 
 all the evil that has haunted the place had 
 concentrated itself in the heart of the 
 woods, and burnt itself to death out of the 
 heat of its own passion. And with it ends 
 the legend of the curse of Tobereevil." 
 
 Miss Martha said nothing, but looked 
 into her teapot. She had always denied 
 that there was any meaning, however shad- 
 owy, in the story of the curse. She had 
 just made an admission which seemed 
 inconsisteiit with her belief, and felt a littie 
 confused as to her own position. 
 
 The body of Simon Finiston had been 
 carried to the barn of a neighboring 
 farmer. 
 
 " He niver did me a good turn in his life," 
 said the farmer ; " but I'm not goiu' to refuse 
 to accommodate him now ? " 
 
 So Simon was laid in the barn, where 
 the inquest was to be held. 
 
 The mansion of Tobereevil was not long 
 in burning to the ground. The woodwork 
 was rotten, the place was full of draughts, 
 and by noon that day it was a lieap of 
 smoking ruins. Then it was that the rain 
 began to fall, heavily, like arrows 'let loose 
 from the clouds, and, after it had descended 
 for some hours, the fire in the woods began 
 to slacken. The mansion was a great 
 mouthful, which seemed to have at last ap- 
 peased its hunger. The rain fell and fell, 
 and the fire hissed and slackened ; it had 
 raged long enough, and now it should rage 
 no more. The flames struggled and writhed 
 in their effort to devour every branch that 
 waved on Tobereevil ground ; but the rain 
 said no, and had its way, for a whole sea 
 of water seemed let loose out of the heavens 
 upon the trees. The fire was over-mastered, 
 and sank dying in the thickets. Then, for 
 two miles, the land was a charred and 
 desolate waste, with here and there a 
 ghastly trunk standing erect, — a black and 
 dismal remnant of the splendors that had 
 been. The densest and grandest, the dark- 
 est and most mysterious, half of the miser's 
 kingdom of trees was swept as with a breath 
 out of the world. The very heart of the 
 Wicked Woods was burnt to a cinder. 
 
 It was hard for ]\Iay and Paul to live 
 through that day. ' Paul did not liide him- 
 self, being abroad among the people ; but 
 May had to sit still, and hear her aunt's oil- 
 repeated wonders and speculations as to 
 who could have committed the murder, and 
 who should be suspected of it. " Depend 
 on it," said Miss Martha, " it lias been done 
 by some of those poor wretches whom he 
 rooted out of their homes. The murderer 
 is by this time on board ship ibr America, 
 and will never be heard of m6re." 
 
136 
 
 THE WICKED WOODS OP TOBBRBBVIL. 
 
 May shivered, as she could not but 
 acknowledge to herself that might very 
 possibly be true. Then, how was a foul 
 suspicion to be taken from Paul's name and 
 her own ? Must they die for this deed, or 
 live out their lives under a shadow whose 
 gloom could never be lightened ? She had 
 also to observe the people passing and 
 repassing, in spite of the rain, and see their 
 furtive looks of awe cast towards the cot- 
 tage. To avoid seeing this, she turned her 
 back upon the window. « 
 
 At last she succeeded in escaping from 
 her aunt. ; and, hiding in her room, she con- 
 centrated all the powers of her soul in 
 prayer. When unable to kneel from wea- 
 riness, she sat on the side of her bed, with 
 clasped h.mds, still praying. God must 
 send her aid. God would send her aid. 
 She turned her eyes away from her tribu- 
 lation, finding it impossible to look it in the 
 face, and remain calm. She gazed over it, 
 and past it, at the One to whom good and 
 evil are known. God must see her appeal- 
 ing eyes looking constantly to him for help. 
 
 A knock came to the door, and old Bid 
 presented herself. May shrank from her a 
 little, knowing the thought that had hold 
 of the people's minds ; but the faithful old 
 woman saw the anguish in her eyes, and, 
 creefring to her side, knelt down at her feet, 
 and kis^ed the hein of her dress. 
 
 " Honey, honey I " she whispered, " don't 
 you sit; there wid that look upon yer face I 
 I'd rather they said 1 did it mysel'. If you 
 an' him h,id a hand in it, then 'twas me 
 that did the deed for ye ! " 
 
 " God is going to see to it," said May. 
 
 " Throlh, an' so is Bid I Somebody be 
 to done the thing. We haven't foun' yet 
 whnt's gone wid Tibbie." 
 
 " Tibbie I " May started. " Oh, don't 
 let us do a wrong to any one." 
 
 " No more we won't," said Bid ; " but Tib- 
 bie's nut to be seen. Some says she was 
 forgot about, and burnt up in the house. I 
 don't think she's burned, an' 1 won't close 
 my eyes till they ha' seen her. I'm off 
 now to look fur her, an' don't you go fret. 
 The people's only dazed like, and can't see 
 whore they're goin'. It's the Divil's partin' 
 fling has threwn a fistful o' dust in their 
 eyes." 
 
 Bid shook her cloak straight, tied her 
 kerchief tiglrt on her head, and grasped her 
 stall' in preparation for a ramble. May felt 
 the- old creature's sympathy very precious ; 
 and Providence might work through Bid as 
 well as through any other. She pressed 
 the brown and withered hand in both her 
 own ; and then Bid went away, and May 
 tried to be patient. 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 THE LAST TROUBLE. 
 
 The rain ceased early next morning, and 
 the day proved as lovely a day as ever mid- 
 summer brought to the world. As May 
 walked down the garden, the roses that 
 brushed her gown were all fresh and laden 
 with dew. Birds were singing blithely, the 
 sun shining goldenly, the world was beau- 
 tiful, and seemed to call on human nature 
 to rejoice ; yet the shadow of a great crime 
 was lying upon it, and the black charred 
 trees away to westward were the witnesses 
 that bore testimony to its reality. May 
 was going to the inquest. Could it be that 
 God had willed that she should never more 
 be glad while she lived in this beautiful 
 woild. This was a wicked and horrible 
 fear that arose in her mind as she breathed 
 the happy air, and felt h.er youth leaping 
 within her ; but she banished it on the 
 instant. 
 
 Aiint Martha could not understand why 
 May should want to be present at such a 
 very painful scene. 
 
 " It is every way unseemly," she said. 
 " Paul, do not let her go." 
 
 But May said, " Give me my own way. 
 I have a reason, which I shall tell you by 
 and by." 
 
 Of all that might have to be told, she did 
 not dare to think. , 
 
 As May and Paul walked across the 
 fields between the blooming dykes and sing- 
 ing hedges, they wore overtaken by Sir 
 John Archbold and his daughter, who were 
 riding to make part of a crowd which was 
 assembling at the farmer's house. Kathe- 
 rine bowed hau.'htily ; Sir John was more 
 courteous, yet there was something in his 
 manner which gave Paul to understand 
 that here was no all-trusting friend. Paul 
 let the riders pass, and walked on with his 
 head high. Many people had assembled 
 at the barn. There were two other ma- 
 gistrates besides Sir John Archbold, who 
 were come from a distance, full of curiosity 
 about Paul Finiston and his story, and who 
 had quite made up their minds as to the 
 likelihood of his guilt. The whole history 
 of the family, as they knew it, was a 
 romance ; and this murder made the culmi- 
 nating incident of the tale. For an excita- 
 ble and whimsical young man, come of a 
 bad race, tried beyond endurance by one 
 so intolerable as the miser, nothint>- could 
 be more natural than that he should end 
 a violent quarrel by a crime like this. 
 They pitied him a good deal, and hoped 
 
THE LAST TEOtJBLB. 
 
 137 
 
 that, at Ms trial, the jury who should find 
 Lim guilty would also reoommend him to 
 mevcy. As to May, they simply wondered 
 and could guess nothing. 
 
 Tlie people divided, and stood back 
 respectfully to let her pass, and the women 
 began to weep when they looked in her 
 face. 
 
 " She niver had act nor part in it " said 
 one ; " I wouldn't believe it if her ban's 
 was covered wid blood." 
 
 " Whist, whist," said another, " sure tlie 
 angels is takin' care o' her. " 
 
 They stood together within the doorway 
 with all eyes fixed on them ; looking grave 
 but fearless, so that their accusers found 
 themselves silent and ashamed. Katherine 
 had not dismounted from her horse, but was 
 only a few yards distant from them, and 
 could have touched them with her whip. 
 All the way as she rode down from Cam- 
 lough the thought had been present to her 
 mind, thai it was she who must save these 
 lovers, and bestow on them perfect joy ; 
 must give them eacli other, an unsullied 
 name, the world's sympathy, and boundless 
 wealth. She had thought she would try 
 and do it, after she had first seen their pain, 
 beheld them crushed -and terrified, and 
 humbled to the dust ; butphere she saw no 
 terror nor any anguish of shame. They 
 faced their fiillow-creatures serene, and 
 almost happy. From time to time they 
 . looked in each other's eyes ; and Katherine 
 shut her lips, and the day's business began. 
 
 Witness after witness came up and told 
 his story. It appeared, from the evidence, 
 that one of Simon's well-known pistols was 
 missing ; and it was believed that, with this 
 weapon, the murder had been done. Paul 
 was about to be questioned, when Sir John 
 took liiin aside, and spoke.to him, — 
 
 " Finiston I " he said, " I am deeply sorry 
 for you. Things are telling very plainly 
 against you in this matter. I must say I 
 perceive that you are now acting and speak- 
 ing like a reasonable m:in, but quite lately 
 I saw you otherwise. Take my advice, and 
 plead insanity." 
 
 " I will plead nothing but the truth," said 
 Paul ; "and on the night of the murder I 
 .was in possession of all my senses." 
 
 Sir John was puzzle<J, and said no more, 
 believing that ]?aul had committed the 
 crime while his mind was astray, and tliat 
 the shock of all its consequences had re- 
 stored bim to his senses. Paul was now 
 allowed to tell his story. He gave a sketch 
 of his whole life, conlessing his horror of 
 the miser, and of the curse which was at- 
 tached to the family inheritance. He had 
 felt an especial dread of being driven to 
 
 commit that crime with which he stood 
 charged to-day. He had struggled against 
 the feeling, which was simply a nervous 
 horror, had despised it, and wondered at its 
 hold upon his mind. In the early part of 
 the last six months a fitful gloom had taken 
 possession of him, and since then he had 
 suflTered from a mysterious disorder of the 
 mind, which deprived bim of his memory, 
 and deadened all his faculties. From this 
 afiJiction he had been set free in a strange 
 and sudden manner ; and he did not attempt 
 to account for either the disorder or the 
 cure. Had the crime been committed while 
 he was in a state which rendered him not 
 accountable for his acts, then would he not 
 have presumed to declare that he was inno- 
 cent of the deed. Of much that liad hap- 
 pened to him during the months lately 
 past, of much that he had said and done, he 
 was utterly forgetful ; but, oil the night of 
 Simon's murder, he had been in possession 
 of his reason. He described his waking 
 in Miss Martha's parlor, his going out to 
 walk, and to think over matters wliicli 
 pressed into his mind, liis first pi;^ht of the 
 woods on fire, and meeting with May, wlio 
 told him about the murder. He was 
 listened to attentively ; but his story 
 sounded improbable, and he know it. 
 
 ^Vllen May's turn came she spoke brave- 
 ly, feeling as if Paul's credit depended on 
 lier courage. She was obliged to confess 
 the reason of her anxiety when she found 
 that he bad left the house, and the terror 
 that had urged her to follow him to Tobe- 
 reevil in the night. She described her find- 
 ing the murdered man, and lier swoon on 
 the floor of the blood-stained chamber, her 
 amazement at the fire, and entire satis- 
 faction when she met Paul coming to look 
 for her in perfect possession of his senses. 
 " And I know that he did not do it," she 
 said, " and that the murderer will be 
 found." There was deep pity for her in 
 every face, but her story told terribly 
 against PauL 
 
 Sir John bore witness to the young 
 man's strange state while staying at his 
 house. Two days ago he should have de- 
 scribed him as a person utterly unaccount- 
 able for his actions. Katherine was also 
 called upon to give evidence, and looked 
 white and sullen as she made her state- 
 ment. One might have supposed from her 
 face, that she was the pereun who had been 
 accused of the murder, as she glanced to- 
 wards May and Paul, who stood together,, 
 nsithcr stricken nor overwhelmed, but only 
 grave and very quiet, as if they, waited 
 breathlessly for the word of truth that 
 should turn their sorrow into joy. She 
 
138 
 
 THE ■VTICKED WOODS OF TOBEEEEVIL. 
 
 ■was not going to speak it for them. Let 
 things take their course 1 She stated that 
 Paul had been an insane man during the 
 whole time of his visit at Camlough, and 
 that he had left that place strangely, on the 
 night of the entertainment. All evidence 
 having been taken, the coroner addressed 
 the jury. He spoke pityingly of the young 
 man who had been afflicted as described 
 by so many witnesses ; but it was plain 
 that he had no doubt as to Paul's having 
 committed the crime. The jury were 
 quite of his way of thinking; men who 
 had suffered bitterly under the dead man's 
 rule, and believed nothing could be more 
 natural than the impulse that should lead 
 a man to shoot such a wretch when pro- 
 voked, in the heat of quarrel. Neverthe- 
 les.', they considered the matter for fully 
 half an hour, during which time May sat 
 on a heap of straw, gazing out of the 
 barn, past the people, with still that stead- 
 fast expectant look in her eye which had 
 scarcely left it since this sore trouble be- 
 gan. Paul stood beside her with folded 
 arms, looking destruction in the face, like 
 a brave but condemned soldier waiting 
 the signal that shall send his comrade's 
 bullet through his heOirt. 
 
 The crowd had been very quiet within 
 and without the barn, but suddenly there 
 was a movement ; and Katherine, who was 
 on horseback, uttered a cry, and reeled in 
 her saddle as if she would fall. Some men 
 were approaching, followed by a little 
 crowd of women and children. The men 
 carried a bier ! As the procession came 
 nearer and crossed the fields, it was seen 
 that a cart followed the bier, and that 
 somebody was lying on the cart. There 
 was great excitement immediately ; peo- 
 ple ran out to meet the unexpected new- 
 comers, and a little storm of cries and 
 groans arose upon the air when the two 
 crowds met, and explanations had been 
 made. Then there was a great tumult in 
 the barn, so that when the jurors appeared 
 to give their verdict they were not at- 
 tended to "and the words, " Wilful murder 
 against Paul Fiiiiston," were only heard 
 by a few. As the words were spoken, the 
 crowd burst up to the door of the barn, 
 swayed, di\ided, and fell back, and the 
 bier which the men had carried was laid 
 on the floor, bearing the wounded body of 
 Con the fool. 
 
 " AJy God, another ! " said the coroner ; 
 and the noise of the crowd cea^d, and the 
 silence of hon-or fell upon the place. Two 
 or three women broke out; crying, and 
 were hustled away into a corner ; while 
 all eyes were turned to the door again, as 
 
 the cart stood before it, and another sur- 
 prise was expected. The men were lifting 
 some one out of the cart, — a living body, 
 wrapped in blankets ; and this they also 
 carried into the barn, and placed on a heap 
 of straw. Bid was beside them, and di- 
 rected them where to lay their burden ; 
 and when the creature who had been tlius 
 carried was placed lying in the straw, 
 there was seen the weird and ugly face of 
 Tibbie, the miser's housekeeper, pinched 
 and drawn with agony, and wet with -the 
 dews of approaching death. She opened 
 her dim eyes, and gazed around her, then 
 closed them again, and groaned dismally. 
 
 " Aisy, woman, aisy ! " said Bid sooth- 
 ingly, as she settled her head more com- 
 fortably in the straw. "Don't be unpatient. 
 Spake up like a Christian, an' the pain'll ' 
 soon be done.'' 
 
 Then Bid turned to Paul : " Would yer 
 honor step to wan side a little bit ? " she 
 said, courtseying with deep respect, " so as 
 how Tibbie don't see you where you 
 Stan'." 
 
 Paul moved away, and then the deep 
 breathless silence of expectation reigned 
 in the barn. 
 
 " What does all this mean ? " asked the 
 coroner, looking from one to another of 
 the new-comers. A stout man, from a dis- 
 tant part of the mountains, answered him, — 
 
 "It's wan Tibbie, — this poor woman ye 
 see, sir, that has to make some kind o' a 
 statement afore she goes. This other ould 
 woman. Bid the Thraveller, yer honor, — a 
 decent sowl, — she foun' Tibbie lying her 
 lone upon the mountain, an' the body o' 
 this poor fool-boy at her side. So we 
 brought them all down here, yer honor ; 
 for there's a long story to toll." 
 
 " The statement had better be madp,'.'' 
 said the coroner ; " for the woman has not 
 many hours to live." 
 
 A groan from Tibbie followed his words. 
 " I will not die bad," she whispered : " I 
 will not go to the Divil. He niver did 
 nothin' for me, an' I won't Stan' to him now. 
 I always said I would turn to good in the 
 latther end." 
 
 Then she began her confession. It was 
 rambling and disjointed,' and spoken be- 
 tween gasps and moans, while Bid support- 
 ed her head, and comforted her with little 
 words of sympathy as she went on. By 
 dint of patience and questioning, her story 
 was at last clearly put upon paper. 
 
 On the evening before the discovery of 
 the murder she had heard a noise in her 
 master's sitting-room, and reached the door 
 just in time to hear the report of fire-arms, 
 and to see Con the fool rush past her flour- 
 
THE LAST TROUBLE. 
 
 139 
 
 ishing one of her master's pistols in his 
 liand. He fled shrielcing out of the open 
 liall-door. Finding her master dead, slie 
 became terrilied lest people should think 
 that she had done the deed, and fled after 
 Con, Iioping to overtake him, and hide him 
 ■wish hersulf in some of the caves in the 
 hills. After long toiling and running, she 
 came upon him in the mountains, dancing 
 and singing as ho went along, and waving 
 the pistol above his head. As soon as he 
 saw her, he uttered a cry, and dashed on 
 without looking where he was going. Fol- 
 lowing as well as she was able, she saw 
 him suddenly disappear over a ridge of 
 cliffs ; and when she came up to these, and 
 looked down a steep precipice, she beheld 
 him lying, as he now lay, on the grass far 
 beneath her. Slie made her way to his 
 side, and remained there till the lady from 
 Camlough found her. " Her that has the 
 fine goold hair," said Tibbie, " an' give me 
 the mandhrako." The lady found her 
 first and talked to her, but she frightened 
 her away. Afterwards Bid came to her ; 
 and then she was very ill, and glad enough 
 to be looked after. The running had been 
 too much for her, and then the rain, she 
 thought, had killed her. Cramps had got 
 hold of her, and a terrible illness. She had 
 sworn to Bid to tell the truth if she would 
 promise to get Con decently buried. 
 
 When Katherine was mentioned, all 
 eyes were turned on the proud lady who 
 had known somewhat of all this, and had 
 been silent. Katherine's face was not 
 pleasant to look at, but she sat calmly on 
 her horse without wincing. 
 
 After this the Kearneys made their 
 appearance, and told of the fool's grief at 
 parting with them, and his rage at the 
 , miser when the j people were turned from 
 their houses. Next came the little girl 
 who had given him a drink out of her pail, 
 and had been terrified at his fit of frenzy 
 when she told him that Simon had sent 
 Nan out of the country. Many testrs were 
 shed for Con as these simple facts were 
 stated, — for the poor loving fool who had 
 been so harmless and so kind. When all 
 had at last been told, the sick woman was 
 carried to a neighboring cabin, and the 
 jury put their heads together, and returned 
 another verdict. 
 
 Then there broke out a buzz of joyous 
 excitement in the barn. The magistrates 
 and the coroner stopped forward to sliake 
 Paul by the hand. Farmers and mountain 
 men, cotters and laborers, cheered him, and 
 looked in his face, halt-laughing and half- 
 sobbing. The women wept wildly, and 
 struggled to kiss his hand. As their suaer- 
 
 ing had been deep, while forced to believe 
 him guilty, just so was their joy extrava- 
 gant at being able to make hira a hero. 
 He was their master, their landlord, — the 
 man who had banished the curse forever 
 from their land, and who was now going to 
 rule over them in peace and kindness. 
 
 May had laid her head against some 
 friendly sheaves of straw, and was not seen 
 or heard of till the first tumult had subsid- 
 ed. Then she whispered to Paul, " Let me 
 rest a little ; " and Paul and the farmer's 
 wife carried her into the farmhouse, where 
 she lay on a homely bed in a little shaded 
 bedroom, and rested perfectly, knowing 
 that now her troubles were at an end. 
 Afterwards, when the crowd had gone, 
 Paul and she walked home together. 
 
 No one had congratulated Paul more 
 heartily than Sir John Archbold. He now 
 remembered that the young man was a 
 millionnaire, and that he had looked upon 
 him as his future son-in-law. He would 
 fain have viewed him again in that light, 
 but did not quite see how that might be, 
 since he had heard May spoken of as his 
 promised wife. Katherine only could 
 enlighten him as to this mystery. 
 
 " My dear," he said to her, " you are, no 
 doubt, delighted to find our friend so fully 
 acquitted. We may now look on him with 
 favor. It remains for .you to tell me — 
 shall I ask him to come to Camlough V " 
 
 " No," said Katherine angrily, and rode 
 on with her dark face turned away from 
 the people. 
 
 Sir John insisted on stopping at Monas- 
 terlea to announce to Miss Martha the 
 happy acquittal of Paul. Much against 
 his daughter's wish, he reined in at the 
 gate ; an,d the old lady came fluttering 
 down the garden-path, in her cap-ribbons, 
 to meet him. 
 
 " Well, madam ! " he said, " this day has 
 ended better than it began. I suppose 
 you have heard that the mystery is cleared 
 up, and the young man acquitted." 
 
 Miss Martha started ; but she was a 
 little in awe of Sir John, and did not like 
 to question him. She concluded that she 
 had misunderstood him, and answered, — 
 
 " Ah, I am sorry for the poor fool, but 
 God has great mercy for such as he." 
 
 Sir John thought she took the matter 
 coolly, but that was not his aifair. 
 
 Miss Martha could not let these friends 
 pass her door without inviting them to 
 partake of some refresliment. Sir John 
 agreed readily to her wishes in this re- 
 spect, but Katherine sullenly declined the 
 proffered kindness. 
 
 "'Well then, my dear," said Sir John, " I 
 
140 
 
 THE WICKED "WOODS OF TOBEREEVIL. 
 
 must allow you to wait for me wliere you 
 are ; for I feel utterly famished, and we are 
 a long way from home." And he followed 
 Miss Martha, and left Katherine sitting 
 disconsolate on her horse near the gate. 
 She was very angry at this treatment ; but 
 her father had lately shown her that if she 
 would liave her will on all occasions so 
 also would he. So she had to wait under 
 the shelter of a bush of honeysuckle, and 
 her reflections were not pleasant as she 
 did so. 
 
 Meantime Paul and May quitted the 
 farm-house, and were walking slowly across 
 the fiel Js, as exquisitely happy as two peo- 
 ple could be, in spite of all the shocks 
 which had lately tried their courage. It 
 could not be a laughing, gleeful happiness 
 to-day ; but that also would doubtless 
 come by and by. There was plenty of 
 time for mirth : life was sunny before 
 them. 
 
 Just as they left the last field-gate, and 
 came on the road, their eyes were attracted 
 by the sight of a heavy vehicle rolling to 
 meet them from the distance, preceded by 
 a cloud of dust. They stood by the dyke 
 to wait till it should pass; lor it was thun- 
 dering along at such a pace that it seemed 
 likely to overrun them. As it came nearer, 
 they saw that it was a four-in-hand coach, 
 and that a gentleman was driving with a 
 lady by his side. The gentleman took off' 
 his hat, and waved it high above his head. 
 He waved it to May and Paul. Who 
 could the gentleman be ? ' 
 
 " It is Chriitopher Lee ! " cried Miy in 
 astonishment. The next moment the coach 
 was pulled up before them, and there sat 
 Christopher, bare-headed and smiling at 
 them, as if this meeting was the happiest 
 thing in the world. Another moment, and 
 he leaped to the ground, and was shak- 
 ing May and Paul each by a hand, and 
 introilacing them to the lady who sat aloft 
 on the coach. 
 
 " My wife, Miss Mourne. Mr. Finiston, 
 my wife." The lady was a pretty, bright 
 creature, who leaned down from her high 
 place, and squeezed May's hands, and looked 
 ■wiih eager gaze into the faces of her hus- 
 band's friends. She. was an artless, fresh, 
 young thing, all glittering in pretty clothes, 
 which were rich enough for a duchess. 
 There had scarcely been time to say " Wel- 
 coaie" and "How do you do?" before a 
 large face was thrust out of the interior of 
 the coach; and a voice of complacent mel- 
 ancholy was heard expostulating with 
 them all : — 
 
 " Lot me out, I say, Christopher, my 
 son I Am I already forgotten in my old 
 
 age. A-a-ah I the young will ever push the 
 old people aside. My dear Miss May 1 I 
 am waiting to embrace you. You were 
 always as a daughter to me. Lucy will 
 not be jealous — I told her so long ago." 
 
 As it was known to be a work of some 
 difficulty to get Mrs. Lee out of the coach, 
 May stood upon the steps, and allowed 
 herself to be kissed. Afterwards, that the 
 servants on the back seat might not be too 
 much entertained by Mrs. Lee's fond ex- 
 pressions, Christopher handed his wife and 
 May into the coach to bear her company, 
 while Paul mounted beside him on the 
 box, and the party moved slowly onward. 
 
 " You wonder at all this, eh V " asked 
 Christopher, unable to withhold his news 
 from a sympathizing friend. "There was 
 nothing about it in my last letter." 
 
 " No," said Paul, " but it is a long time 
 since you wrote to us." 
 
 " Yes," said Christopher : " I have been 
 very much occupied, and, besides, I wanted 
 to give you a surprise. To tell the truth 
 at once, I am in possession of that property 
 which I once lost by my folly. My wife — 
 bless her I — is the person who was enriched 
 by my misfortune. I could not rest a mo- 
 ment till I confessed this to you. I have 
 much more to tell you when there is time. 
 It is a very odd story ; but don't think 
 badly of'me." 
 
 " I know you too well for that," said 
 Paul kindly, for Christopher looked em- 
 barrassed. " I congratulate you warmly 
 — with all my heart." 
 
 The ladies were not losing their time 
 inside the coach. Little Mrs. Christopher 
 was chattering gleefully about the good- 
 ness of her husband, his gratitude to his 
 friends, and her own intense desire to be 
 May's dearest friend for life ; and what 
 with her pretty, rapid speeches, interrupted 
 by Mrs. Lee's long, complacent sighs and 
 explanatory remarks, May had scarcely to 
 do more than smile in the two faces that 
 were beaming at her. 
 
 So this coachful of very happy people 
 dashed up to the gate at Monasterlea ; and 
 there sat Katherine on her horse, waiting 
 for her father under the honeysuckle bush. 
 Nobody noticed her at first ;, for the sun was 
 in the eyes of the two young men, and she 
 wa^ in the shade. As for her, she was 
 taken by surprise ; had been gazing in 
 another direction from that by which they 
 had come, and was in too bad a humor to 
 turn her head for a moment to glance at 
 passing travellers. The sudden stopping 
 of the vehicle made her first start and look 
 at it. Her amazement was extreme, as she 
 saluted the two young men with a haughty 
 
THE LAST TEOUBLB. 
 
 141 
 
 bow, and all her old triumphant spirit 
 flashed from her eyes as she beheld Chris- 
 topher. What could bring him back to 
 these wilds where he had suffered, if not to 
 look again upon her face ? 
 
 Truly, the infatuation of man was a very 
 curious thing. With an effort she prepared 
 to be more gracious, seeing that Christo- 
 pher rapidly descended from his seat as if 
 to approach. He first turned to the car- 
 riage door, however, and handed out a lady 
 whom Kaiherine had never seen ; -a lovely 
 and dainty lady, as she saw at a glance. 
 
 There was mischief in Christopher's eye 
 as he drew his wife's arm through his own, 
 and led her a few steps, so that she stood 
 with him by the side of Katherine's horse. 
 
 "Miss Archbold, allow me to present to 
 you my wife. Lucy, you have heard me 
 speak of Miss Archbold, a lady who did 
 me a service for which I can never be suffi- 
 ciently grateful." 
 
 Katherine gazed down at them both, 
 with astonishment and chagrin both visible 
 in her face. The young wile gazed at her 
 with eyes that were trying to express noth- 
 ing but polite interest ; yet betrayed fear, 
 and a little disgust, and, worse than all, pity. 
 The two ladies exchanged a bow, and then 
 May and Paul joined the group. So happy 
 were both, that they could afford to be kind 
 to Katherine. They begged her to dis- 
 mount, and accompany them indoors : but, 
 at every smile and gracious word, Kather- 
 ine's fac.e became darker, till pt last she 
 turned on them and said abruptly, " I wish 
 you a good-morning ; " plucked her horse's 
 mouth, and rode away. Her father joined 
 her soon afterwards, and the Archbolds 
 were forgotten at Monasterlea. 
 
 A very happy party met now within 
 Miss Miirtha's walls. The Lee family were 
 so full of their own delight with the world 
 that they did not notice any shadow upon 
 their friends ; and so catching was this 
 mirth, that, under its influence, all remains 
 of that shadow melted away. Of course 
 they had heard nothing of the terrible 
 events, so closely_ affecting their friends, 
 which had lately happened in the neigh- 
 borhood ; and May, and Paul felt this igno- 
 rance a relief, and were not at all easer to 
 drag painful news under the notice of their 
 guests. When, in the evening, the whole 
 group, including the two old ladies, went 
 out to sit in the open air, and enjoy the 
 sunset under the shelter of the ruin, 
 something of the story was told in order to 
 account for a change in the landscape. 
 The woods had been burned, and the miser 
 was dead. This news did not, tend to make 
 the guests at all less merry. They only 
 
 found that Paul must now be rich, which 
 pleased them greatly, seeing that they had 
 found their own wealth to be rather con- 
 venient. 
 
 Mrs. Lee had been overflowing all day 
 with certain intelligence of her own, which 
 only a sense of propriety had restrained 
 her from pouring forth long ago. She 
 waited a propitious moment, however, when 
 the men were conversing together about 
 mannish things, and Miss Martha was 
 fully occupied with the bride ; and then 
 did Mrs. Lee withdraw May under cover 
 of her own umbrella, and tell her the sequel 
 of her son's harrowing love-story. 
 
 " A-a-ah, my dear I " she said, " who 
 could have imagined it would all end so 
 happily ? The world was very dark to me 
 and Christopher on that day when we last 
 took leave of this hospitable dwelling. 
 My poor boy was not used to work, and, 
 though he did his best, I feared that he 
 would be disappointed and broken down 
 all bis life. You know he went to work in 
 an attorney's office, and looked forward to 
 earning a maintenance for himself." 
 
 Mrs. Lee sighed heavilj', as if the earn- 
 ing of his maintenance were the greatest 
 affliction that could be laid upon a man. 
 She dwelt on the memory of this calamity 
 with a blissful sadness, as if making a 
 luxury out of past trouble. Finally, she 
 nodded her head, once, twice, thrice ; a dif- 
 ferent nod every time : the first express- 
 ing resignation, the second contentment, 
 and the third delight of the most trium- 
 phant character. 
 
 " Now, I can tell you," she said, " there 
 is nothing more to fret about. My sou has 
 got his property." 
 
 " Indeed ! " said May. " The property 
 we thought he had lost ? " 
 
 " My dear ma'am ! we must allow that 
 he did lose it, through the wickedness of a 
 woman ; but it has been restored to him 
 by the conscientiousness of another — as I 
 may say — of the same sex. And, my 
 dear, there never was such a love-match in 
 the world I " 
 
 " Then the property belongs to his 
 wife ? " 
 
 " Did belong, my dear, till she made a 
 present of it to her husband. The sweet- 
 est little creature ! I will tell you about 
 her. She is a Canadian, a distant con- 
 nection of our own ; but we never had seen 
 and knew nothing about her. The prop- 
 erty went to her when Christopher failed 
 to fulfil his conditions. Her parents were 
 Irish ; and when fate made her wealthy she 
 persuaded her guardian to bring her across 
 the ocean to visit her ' native country,' as 
 
142 
 
 THE WICKED WOODS OF TOBEEEEVlti. 
 
 she calls it. We met her in Dublin at the 
 house of a friend, who had told me of the 
 dear child's pity for the poor gentleman 
 who had been so robbed and maltreated. 
 His loss did not trouble her the less be- 
 cause the gain had been all her own. She 
 made me such a pretty speech that night, 
 that I took her to my heart at once, and 
 invited her .to visit rae. We became the 
 best of friends ; and, you may imagine, that 
 through the feelings of a mother I mixed 
 up a good deal of my son with my conver- 
 sation, especially as she was such a sym- 
 pathetic creature. It seemed she never 
 could hear enough about his troubles and 
 misfortunes. 
 
 " ' Oh, Mrs. Lee ! ' she said one day, ' if I 
 had been in her place I'd have given him 
 all the fortune, and gone without myself, 
 sooner than have played him such a 
 wretched trick 1 ' 
 
 " ' My dear,' said I, ' she could not have 
 done that; but she could have given hira 
 the fortune along with herself, and she 
 would not do it. There is no generosity 
 left in the world.' 
 
 " ' Oh, yes, there is ! ' she said, and looked 
 as if she were going to cry. ' The worst is 
 that the people who would have the will to 
 be generous are not those that get the op- 
 portunity.' 
 
 " Another time she said she hoped she 
 might die young in order to leave the for- 
 tune to Christopher in her will. ' For,' 
 she declared, ' I feel like a robber ; and yet, 
 I suppose, he would not take it if I were to 
 make him a present of it.' 
 
 " ' Indeed I think not, my dear, except 
 under certain conditions,' I said. 
 
 " She hung her head, and would talk no 
 more on that occasion ; but I soon saw 
 that the little good-hearted, creature could 
 think of nothing but Christopher and his 
 beggary from morning till night. I did 
 not neglect to point it out to my son — 
 indeed, when have I ever failed in ray duty 
 to him V but he only got cross about it, and 
 asked me did I want him to cap his former 
 (bllies by turning fortune-hunter. ' The 
 girl is a charming girl,' he said, ' and many 
 will love her. She shall not be made a 
 victim to her own kindness of heart. She 
 will be wiser by and by, and choose a hus- 
 band for herself.' 
 
 " ' I believe she would choose nobody 
 but you, if the truth were known,' I said. 
 
 " My dear ma'am, he flew in a passion, 
 and I got nothing but ill-usage for my 
 pains ; but, when that had cooled down a 
 little, I persuaded the sweet creature to 
 come on a visit to our humble dwelling, 
 where she made herself as happy as a bird, 
 
 just attending on an old woman, and get- 
 ting little enough attention from a very sul- 
 len host. At last, however, she lost her 
 spirits and got pale ; and then she told me 
 , ishe must leave us, as she had outstayed 
 her welcome, and was giving annoyance to 
 Christopher. He had taken a dislike to 
 her, she said, and nothing would induce 
 her to remain longer in the house. Of 
 course I had to give in ; and angry enough 
 I was, to be sure, when I saw her go down 
 the staii;s with her bonnet on, and her 
 trunks waiting in the hall. Christopher 
 was in his study ; and she turned to go in 
 and bid him gpod-by, not wisliing, as she 
 said, to part in anger. She put her hand 
 on the door, and took it away again, — she 
 would and she wouldn't, — but at last went 
 in, in earnest, and did not come out again 
 in a hurry. How it happened, and what 
 they suddenly found out to say to each 
 other at the last moment, I never could 
 make out; but tiiey met as ill-humored 
 with one another as two people could be, 
 and they came out ot the room — I was 
 going to say man and wife — but, my dear 
 ma'am ! it's the same thing, I believe, when 
 people are true." 
 
 " And now they have the property be- 
 tween them," said May. "Nothing could 
 be fairer, and it's a very pretty story ! " 
 
 " I consider it is, my dear ; though some 
 people are so ill-minded as to think difier- 
 eatly." 
 
 " If we fret for what people will think," 
 said May, " we might never lift a finger 
 either for our own happiness or for that of 
 another. Purity and honesty of intention 
 ought to need no applause from the world." 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 The woods having been destroyed, and 
 the miser murdered by a kinsman of his 
 own, it was proved beyond doubt that the 
 curse must be removed from the race of 
 Finiston forevermore. In order to make 
 sure of this fact, some people took the trou- 
 ble to inquire into the parentage of Con 
 the fool, and ascertained, that, in truth, he 
 had been the son of Simon's brother. 
 
 The trees were not all destroyed, only 
 the thickest and most sombre part of them ; 
 but they were known no longer as the 
 Wicked Woods. The charred trunks and 
 ashes of once-spreading boughs were clear- 
 ed away, and the plough went over the 
 
CONCLUSION. 
 
 143 
 
 earth that had borne them. The black- 
 ened walls of the old mansion were taken 
 down, a careful search being made the 
 while for the miser's strong'box, which did 
 not appear among the rubbish. This box 
 contained his gold, — the accumulated gold 
 of generations. It was well known to have 
 existed ; but no trace of any such treasure 
 has as yet been found. 
 
 There was great consternation in the 
 country when it became known as a cer- 
 tainty that the much-talkcd-of treasure of 
 the misers of Tobereevil had vanished out 
 of the world, and was never more to be 
 seen. The wonder-loving had food for a 
 year's gossip, and many curious stories 
 were long in circulation as to tlie mysteri- 
 ous disappearance of the fortune. Some 
 averred that the Evil One himself had 
 carried it off, with the miser's soul, as part 
 of his booty ; while others, less uncharita- 
 ble, suggested that the good angel who 
 keeps watch over even the reprobate had 
 bartered It with Satan for leave to retain 
 possession of his immortal charge, and had 
 borne away the sin-oppressed and long- 
 suffering spirit to regenerate it in the 
 cleansing waters that wash the shores of 
 eternity. According to this fancy, the 
 treasure had been given over as a kind of 
 hostage to the powers of evil, securing 
 peace to the happy descendants of a race 
 no longer accursed. The natural idea that 
 the strong box had been buried in the 
 earth ibr perfect safety was accepted by a 
 few, and many searches were made with 
 spade and pickaxe, to end invariably in 
 disappointment. Long alter Paul had 
 given up the quest, little bands of sponta- 
 neous seekers would spring up from time to 
 tinle, and be seen digging about the roots 
 of trees and burrowing under stones, still 
 dreaming of the reward that success must 
 bring them. Even to this day a treasure- 
 seeker occasionally appears in the neigh- 
 borhood, possessed by a sort of madness, 
 which is the hope of finding the forgotten 
 gold of the Finistons ; but the earth ob- 
 stinately refuses to give up its golden secret. 
 
 So Paul was heir to an' impoverished 
 estate, and a tenantry, the most of whom 
 were little better than paupers. He was 
 disappointed at first, thinking that, had the 
 money come into his hands, he might have 
 purified it by using the greater part of it 
 for the good of the poor ; but, when time 
 proved that the treasure liad been mysteri- 
 ously removed out of reach of his hand, 'he 
 allowed May to persuade him that this dep- 
 rivation was a blessing. 
 
 " I cannot tell you how glad I am of it ! " 
 said May. " 1 suppose we could not have 
 
 been exactly justified in burying the money 
 ourselves ; yet it would have been a load 
 about our necks so long as we lived." 
 
 " Perhaps so," said Paul ; " but I could 
 have been glad to build a handsome house 
 for my wife, to dress her like a lady, and 
 give her the good things of the world, after 
 the trouble she has had with me." 
 
 "I foretell about that lady she won't 
 care for handsome houses. Now, just tell 
 me, sir! how could I love any damp, cold, 
 new-built mansion, all smelling of paint 
 and mortar, as well as I do this dear old 
 shanty, where we have been so happy 
 among the owls and ivy ? As to clothes, 
 I expect you will be able to aflbrd me a 
 clean calico gown in, the summer, and a 
 warmer one in the winter, and for food — 
 why therfe's the potato-field I " 
 
 " And the pigs ! " said Paul, laughing, 
 " and the cabbaie garden ! We shall have 
 to be content with these for many years, as 
 most of the income must go to set the poor 
 people right upon their feet at last." 
 
 " I declare," said May, " what with hams 
 and vegetables, to say nothing of fowls and 
 fresh eggs, which I foresee will be always 
 coming to table, we are likely to have a 
 very hard time of it." 
 
 " I warn you that my appetite will be 
 dreadful," said Paul. " It has increased 
 alarmingly since I took my first ^tep to- 
 wards restoring happiness to Tobereevil. 
 Let all our ill-luck go with the money ; and 
 if an honest man's effort can make the w-il- > 
 derness flourish around us, and put crooked 
 ways straight, that effort shall not be want- 
 ing. And who knows but after all we may 
 have riches yet." 
 
 " And have them without a curse. At 
 present, we have got our poverty with a 
 blessing." 
 
 In this spirit Paul and May began their 
 married lite, working together throucrh sun- 
 shine and gloom, through hard times and 
 good times, till, after a few years, the face 
 of the country became changed, and pros- 
 perity began to shine upon the little world 
 of Tobereevil. Land had been reclaimed, 
 houses built, and gardens cultivated. The 
 Kearneys' little farm was one of the best 
 managed in the neighborhood ; and Bid had 
 a home of her own under the hed<'e of her 
 friends' potato-field. A village sprang up 
 with its small shops and trades ; and the 
 spire of its pretty church made a pleasant 
 feature in the landscape. On the river- 
 side a mill hummed its thrifty song, and 
 corn waved on the site of the ancient man- 
 sion. Enough of the woods remained to 
 beautify the country ; but the noxious weeds 
 and evil spirits had vanished with Tibbie 
 
144 
 
 THE WICKED 'WOODS OF TOBEEEEVIL. 
 
 and her haunts. No one now feared the 
 neighborhood of the trees since the burial- 
 place of the famished had been enclosed as 
 holy ground marked by a cross. 
 
 People visited the spot on Sunday 
 evenings, and the children decked it with 
 flowers : the legend lost its ghastliness, and 
 took new and tender outlines. The coun- 
 try had been chastened, may be, for its sins ; 
 but God had changed his hand. The dead 
 had got their rest, and the living were 
 happy and at peace. 
 
 Paul's unexpected poverty revived Kalh- 
 erine Arehbold's spirits, and caused her to 
 think that she had had a lucky e'scape. 
 This young lady lived to enjoy the triumph 
 of marrying a duke, and becoming a leader 
 of the fashionable world ; but a sketch of 
 her after-life would not make pleasant 
 reading. Sir John, like many otlier men, 
 paid tlie penalty of pride and extravagance, 
 and the castle of Caralough passed into new 
 hands. His wife did not live to see this 
 change. 
 
 In due time Miss Martha, having gone to 
 her rest beside Father Felix, the cottage in 
 the ruins was given over to the parish priest, 
 who, being a, scholar and an antiquarian, 
 knew how to prize the quaint abode ; and 
 who, being likewise tender-hearted, kept 
 the graves in his care, scattering prayers 
 over the sod thick as the dew or the daisies. 
 
 By this time the master of Tobereevil had 
 built a dwelling of his own, on a sheltered 
 bit of the land, not grand nor ostentatious, 
 but a nest of prettiness and comfort. 
 There he lived with his wife May, as long 
 as it is good for a man to live, and as 
 happy as it is allotted to most men to be. 
 No trace of the cloud that had rested on 
 him ever appeared to trouble him again. 
 So brave and wise and genial was his 
 nature in its maturity, that his children 
 would laugh when " father " assured them 
 that in his youth he had been a coward 
 and a fool. 
 
 Yet when Paul Finiston, a man of weight 
 in the country, a member of parliament — 
 " a little odd in his notions ; a bit of a 
 philanthropist you know, but as honest a 
 man as ever lived " — when this Paul 
 Finiston and his faithful wife sat hand-in- 
 hand at their fireside, in their old age, and 
 looked back oyer the years they had spent 
 together, they always lowered their voices, 
 and looked wistfully in each other's eyes, 
 when they spoke of one year in their lives 
 when the man had been attacked by the 
 evil that had destroyed his forefathers, and 
 the woman had done battle for him because 
 his hands were tied ; but they are now both 
 fast asleep under the roses at Monasterlea, 
 and few remember vividly the story of the 
 Wicked Woods op Tobereevil. 
 
 THE END