Page:Once a Week Jun to Dec 1864.pdf/539

524 friendly and familiar terms with anyone who is unpopular with his tenantry, which I hope is not the case with Sir Denis Barnett. I wish, my dear son, you were safe out of Tipperary. I shall never have a moment’s peace till I hear of your being ordered elsewhere. “Your most anxious and

Affectionate mother, “.”

“Heigh-ho, my mother!” said I, as I finished reading this epistle. “I have been done for in Tipperary already—shot regularly through the heart with a deadly aim, and no hope of recovery. Better, perhaps, to have been assassinated in the usual Tipperary form, than lingering and suffering as I am now!”

Wednesday ended; then came Thursday, a wet day, with no stirring abroad, and much billiard playing in the afternoon, and loitering in and out of the rooms, looking at the sky, snatching up a book in the library and vainly trying to read it, or going through the conservatory and overlooking the exotics there. Had I been able to go out and walk I might not have been so utterly wretched; but that was impossible. It was one of those heavy-rainy days of the full summer time—warm, fragrant, and hopeless as to clearing up. Miss Barnett was hid away all the afternoon, invisible to the eyes of mortal men, and I felt undeniably miserable. Is there anything much more dreary than a wet day in the country, when you are cooped up in a large house, watching the rain-streams as they fall from the leaden sky, deluging grass and foliage, and especially if you happen to be out of spirits?

“If to-morrow is fine, we might ride to see Athassel Abbey,” said Sir Denis, as he and I stood looking out of the window. “I shall have some business to do at Golden, and must start early, as the distance is considerable.”

“Then the ruin of Athassel will be on the way?” said I, caring very little, if the truth is told, where I rode to.

“Yes, we shall pass it going to Golden; and the country along that direction is worth seeing, being well cultivated and really picturesque. You should not leave Tipperary without admiring our ‘Golden Vale’ that we are so proud of.”

“Leave Tipperary!” I mentally repeated, while my heart sank. “Would to Heaven I had never beheld a spot of its ground!”

That evening at dinner I found it hard to support any conversation. Miss Barnett was placid, stately, and calm as usual, often seeming absorbed in reflection. I knew that she was thinking of her brother. I did not presume to imagine that my approaching departure would give her an hour’s regret. Once or twice when I alluded to the subject of my leaving Knockgriffin, and subsequent removal from Tipperary altogether, she betrayed no sign of feeling, that I could see, even had I been the veriest coxcomb in the kingdom. It was terrible to think that I had only one other day to live before my fate must, perhaps, be sealed for ever!

Were I inclined to moralise I might here remark that what really did occur the next day seemed very like as though ordained to point out to me how little any mortal could dare to reckon upon what a day might bring forth. Miss Barnett complained of having caught cold that evening, from going out in the damp to look after some favourite flowers, and she certainly appeared very ill.

The next morning was brilliantly fine, the sun shining, the birds singing gladly. We were all apparently in better spirits than the day before; yet Miss Barnett was still suffering from severe headache, though she made her appearance at breakfast and looked even worse than on the last evening. Mr. Nugent was to go away from Knockgriffin that day, and could not accompany us in our ride to Golden; and as Sir Percy was not willing to go with us either, it was unlikely that Barnett and I would have anyone to break our tête-à-tête all the way, for Miss Barnett’s headache rendered her quite unable to be of the party. We were discussing the subject of the ride when the post-bag was brought in. It contained a few papers and only one solitary letter to Sir Denis, who read it, while his face flushed the least shade deeper in colour than before.

“What is it, Denis?” asked his sister, whose eyes had intently watched the epistle from the first moment it had been drawn from. the bag. It was a dirty-looking, vulgar letter, evidently from some one of humble rank.

“The first of its kind I have ever received,” said Barnett. “Listen to the contents, my friends.” And he read out:—

“,—You had best keep at home on to-morrow, Friday, for it is intended to shoot you dead when you appear; and you certainly deserve death, as a reward for what you are about to inflict on innocent, unoffending beings, who will be in wait for you, ''no matter where you go. Remember your father'', and repent, or else fly the land as secretly as you can. I wish you well; but I love my comrades, and myself better. Mind, you can’t say you wern’t warned in time, by “”

Pale as ashes Miss Barnett grew while her