Page:Once a Week Jun to Dec 1864.pdf/66

2, 1864.] father poisoned the draught that night, when you know he did not? When you know it, I say!”

Mr. Carlton lifted his cane menacingly. “But for the respect I bear your uncle, as my brother practitioner, and your father also, in spite of the fatal error he committed, I would lay this about your shoulders, young gentleman, and teach you better manners.”

Master Frederick’s passion was not calmed by the threat, and it may be questioned if he even knew in that wild moment the danger of the words he was about to utter.

“You know, I say, that Mr. Stephen Grey did not commit the error. You know that it was you who dropped the poison into the draught when you were alone with it after it was delivered. Keep your cane off me, Mr. Carlton; blows will not mend murder. If it was not you, it was that villain you saw on the stairs, and you, perhaps by bribery, undertook to keep his counsel and turn suspicion off him. You saw that I suspected you the very night it was done, you saw that I suspected you when you were giving your plausible evidence at the inquest. What the poor young lady had done to you, you best know, but I believe in my true heart, and I tell it you with God hearing me, that you were guilty either of killing her, or of helping that man to do it, though by concealment. Now, go and talk about my father, Mr. Carlton.”

It was only by dint of the most ingenious dodging that Frederick Grey had been able to accomplish his say, but Mr. Carlton caught him now. The cane came down on his shoulders; and Frederick, passion giving him the strength of a young lion, seized it and broke it. Mr. Carlton walked away, leaving a careless and scornful epithet behind him; and the boy leaned against the gate to recover breath and equanimity.

A tap on the shoulder, and Frederick turned. There stood Lady Jane Chesney. He raised his hat, and she could not help being struck with the nobility of the glowing countenance, the fearless truth of the large grey eyes.

“Master Grey, do you know that I have heard every syllable you said to Mr. Carlton? Surely you do not believe in your own accusation? It must have had its rise only in the heat of passion?”

“Lady Jane—I beg your pardon—I am sorry you heard this—I hope you do not think me capable of making such an accusation not believing it. I do believe it; I have believed it ever since the night. Not that I have any grounds, or what might be called reason for believing it,” he hastily added. “It is but an instinct within that tells me so.”

“Do you remember that—although we are at variance and I do not like him—he is my brother-in-law?”

“Yes. I am very sorry that you heard what passed,” he repeated. “Perhaps, Lady Jane, you will be kind enough to let it be as though you had not heard it?”

“I will,” said Lady Jane: “and in return allow me to recommend you not to give utterance to sentiments so dangerous. My opinion is that you are totally wrong in your fancy, and that prejudice against Mr. Carlton has led you into the error. It is impossible to believe otherwise. Some men—I do not know that Mr. Carlton is one—would bring you before the law for this, and make you prove your words, or punish you if you could not. Be more discreet in future.”

“Thank you,” he answered, his sunny smile returning to him; “it is a bargain, Lady Jane. I was in a dreadful passion, there’s no denying it, and I did say more than I ought. Thank you very much.”

And replacing his hat, for he had stood bareheaded during the interview, Frederick Grey vaulted away, flinging the pieces of cane from him as he ran. Lady Jane stood looking after him.

A“A [sic] noble spirit, I am sure,” she murmured, “in spite of his hairbrained words. I wonder if Mr. Carlton will bring him to punishment for them? I should, were so unjustifiable an accusation made against me. Boys will be boys.”

, with all that forethought and consideration for the pure Celtic inhabitants of Ireland for which he was distinguished, gave to all whom he had not disposed of—to use his own expression—“in the usual way”— that is, in war—the alternative of "Hell or Connaught.” This practice in Cromwell’s time became so common, that Hell and Connaught began to be looked upon as synonyms.

Now Connemara, until very lately—until its wild scenery and wilder inhabitants excited the interest of tourists who had “done” the continent—was esteemed the very hottest part of Connaught, and as far as anti-English feeling was concerned, it bore off the palm from any other part of Ireland. Every Protestant, or indeed any one of English descent who entered the country, was looked upon as an interloper or a spy by the inhabitants of Connemara. They imagined that the stranger came to deprive