Page:Once a Week Jun to Dec 1864.pdf/479

 464 “Yes, that is my regiment.”

“Is Colonel Fulham at Cashel?”

“No; our head-quarters are at Templemore; my company is detached at Cashel.”

“Take down the large portmanteau,” said Sir Denis, now giving orders for the removal of a part of his ponderous supply of luggage from the coach roof.

“And the largest bandbox, Denis, if you like,” I heard a sweet voice say in a low tone; “we can manage with it inside the carriage very well.”

A sharp-faced abigail who had all along eyed me with ferocity here interposed about the young lady’s part of the luggage, declaring that there would be no room on or in the chaise for more packages than were already stowed in it; but the lady, who I concluded was Sir Denis’s wife, held out to support me, and I had the felicity of seeing the most necessary portion of my traps hoisted at length to the roof of the lumbering coach. Somehow I had by this time got into such good humour that I would scarcely have grumbled had I been obliged to mount the coach minus even my dressing-case; and though still under the necessity of leaving behind a considerable portion of my effects, I did not give way to any further outburst of impatience. Sir Denis, whose surname was still a mystery to me, chatted a little while before his carriage was in readiness, and then left me, murmuring something about hoping to have the pleasure of calling on me at Cashel, which lay within eight miles of his residence.

As soon as I was fairly mounted beside the coachman and had beheld the private travelling chaise of my new friend winding along before the more heavily laden and less aristocratic conveyance on which I was seated, I began of course to question those around me as to who Sir Denis was, where he lived, and what the amount of his property was.

“He’s Sir Denis Barnett, of Knockgriffin House,” replied the coachman.

“Is he married?”

“No, sir.”

“And who is the lady with him now?” I asked, after a pause.

“His sister, sir. They live together at Knockgriffin.”

“Alone?”

“There’s only themselves—two in family—now. Old Sir Denis was shot five years ago, and Lady Barnett died shortly after that.”

“Was he shot by accident or in a duel?”

“Oh! no. It isn’t known who shot him; it was one day he was riding towards Golden, and he was killed on the road.”

“That wasn’t Sir Denis—that was Mr. Scully, of Ardfinn,” corrected a passenger sitting near. “Sir Denis was fired at coming home from a ball at Clonmel.”

“Ay, so he was; I confounded the two.”

“Wasn’t it just before that old Jemmy Armstrong was shot in the arm, and had the wonderful escape of his life?”

“I don’t recollect; maybe it was; he’ll be popped some day outright.”

“Oh, no doubt; he can’t expect a second escape.”

I wondered considerably while listening to this kind of conversation, which was carried on in a sleepy, indifferent manner, as though the speakers were discussing some sport that they had no inclination to take part in, though slightly interested in it.

“Tom Brennan got a notice yesterday, I hear, threatening him with certain death if he’d attempt to ask for the arrears that’s due these three years on the Moyglish lands,” was the next observation I heard.

“Ay, I always knew the Ryans was plucky,” answered somebody, taking a pipe out of his mouth. “It was they put the last agent out o’ the way undoubtedly.”

“Brennan had better leave them alone, that’s all.”

“You don’t seem to think much of human life here,” I remarked at length.

“Why, sir?” asked the coachman.

“You don’t appear to mind how many people are shot by assassins. I have heard you mention half a dozen murders almost in a breath.”

“They weren’t what you call murders, captain,” said the speaker who seemed to know so much about the particulars of the different threats and assassinations that had come off lately. “They were lives destroyed for revenge—nothing more. We have very few downright regular murders about here.”

“And you don’t call it murder to shoot a man from behind a hedge while he is passing over a lonely road unsuspectingly.”

“There isn’t many a one goes unsuspecting over the roads in Tipperary,” said the fellow, with a chuckle. “Every landlord that acts contrary to justice generally knows beforehand what he’s to expect; but we don’t meddle with the soldier officers, except when they come down for ejectments or the like, and then we fight them openly. We’re fond of the regular built military; it’s only the peelers we can’t bear.”

This was consolatory as far as I was concerned myself, but already I had learned enough to believe fully that the blood-stained reputation of Tipperary was but too well earned. As the day passed I listened to many a thrilling story