Page:Once a Week Jun to Dec 1864.pdf/508

Oct. 22, 1864.] not go on farther than to say that, in my own estimation at least, I was a very fair specimen of humanity, and quite on a par as to looks with my rival Sir Percy, besides being about twelve years junior,—a great advantage in my opinion at that time. We have never such a respect for youth, perhaps, as when we are young ourselves. In going to the dining-room that evening Sir Denis escorted one of the elderly ladies I have mentioned, while Sir Percy was deputed to take charge of the other; and of the six other men present it fell to my happy lot to become the guardian of the young lady of the house. I can scarcely account for how this occurred, but I think it was owing to my own superior courage. Our host had left the room followed by Sir Percy and his companion, and there stood Miss Barnett, who had directed the proceedings so far, unable to appoint an escort for herself, and of course unwilling to leave the room against rule without one, albeit in her own house. A glance from her eye falling in my direction determined me in an instant. I approached and offered my arm while the other guests were looking at each other in mute indecision, and so won the prize. Never had I talked so much as that day at dinner, not having yet arrived at that stage of love when all animation is suppressed, all conversational powers put to flight. I felt in high spirits, and Miss Barnett seemed to enjoy my company. The dinner was unexceptionable, the appointments all proper, and the servants thoroughly well trained. Two or three times I wondered during the evening as I recollected that this was an Irish dinner-party in the proverbially wild uncivilized Tipperary county. We had a good deal of sporting talk, seasoned by a little sprinkling of general gossip, but few allusions to the propensity for shooting landlords which distinguished the peasantry of the locale, I would never have discovered by anything said or done around me that I was not in a hospitable English mansion, excepting perhaps the peculiar but not unpleasant accent of the three Tipperary guests assembled at the board.

Once or twice I was conscious that Sir Percy Stedmole was eyeing me pretty sharply across the table as I talked to Miss Barnett; but the more he looked the more animated I became, being determined to hold my ground bravely.

When the ladies retired from the dining-room, I was one of the first to rejoin them, and as Miss Barnett was intimate enough with her lady guests—to both of whom indeed she was nearly related—to take the liberty of leaving them together in the companionship of a somewhat elderly bachelor, named Nugent, she invited me to look over the conservatory opening from the drawing-room, accompanying me herself through long aisles of rare shrubs and exotics, all in full bloom.

“Are you learning to become reconciled to Tipperary, Captain Stapleton?” she asked, as we paused to admire an exquisite Grandiflorus.

“Oh, I like the country greatly,” I replied quickly; “the scenery is charming, and the people excessively pleasant. I am afraid we hear sad untruths about Ireland altogether across the Channel, Miss Barnett.”

She smiled a little sadly, I thought, and uttered a half-suppressed sigh.

“I wish we lived anywhere else,” she said, after a pause.

“Indeed! Then you fear the lawlessness of Tipperary tenants, perhaps.”

“And not without cause,” she added, fixing her eyes full on my face. “Our family have long been obnoxious to the people about here. You know already, perhaps, how my father fell a victim to the barbarous system of revenge which has become almost a religion of its followers. Of the three country gentlemen who dined with us to-day, there is not one who has not had a near relative murdered in this county—one a father, another a brother, a third an uncle. Is it any wonder I shudder as I think of such things?”

“The ladies at least, it is to be hoped, are deemed sacred from such assaults,” said I.

“Oh, they only murder women through their feelings,” she replied. “They never care how many widows’ and orphans’ hearts are broken. Revenge is their sole thought and aim.”

“It is a pity Sir Denis does not sell his property in Tipperary and reside elsewhere.”

“He can never do that,” she answered resolutely, “and even if he could he would not. Nothing would induce him to part with the home of his ancestors. I only wish most ardently that it lay in any other part of Ireland—anywhere else in the world!”

“I trust you have no reason to entertain fears about your brother’s safety.”

“Every day of my life I have fears; I can scarcely say I feel a moment’s peace, and now especially, as there is some difficulty in getting one or two tenants to move out of their houses on the estate, I am doubly anxious. My brother wishes to extend the plantations and take in part of the Cappamoyne lands that have always been previously let to tenants, and this must undoubtedly cause ill-feeling, though he has promised every compensation in his power.”

My companion spoke with great earnestness, and I saw tears standing in her eyes, though the evening light had now grown faint. My