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32X

"■«'■

•

.J^^-^

*^.

* #

ELINOR PRESTON:

«»»

Sctnts at %rM ani Jbroab.

. MRS. J. SADLIEE,

«tt<|8t of
BLAKM AMD VLAHIOAXB,* ** OOMnDBUlB 0HIXVTAIH8,** ** HBIf XJOHn,*

NEW YORK:
D. & J. SADLIER & CO., 81 BARCLAY STREET,

OF NOTBS pAMM * Wt. nUUKHB XATSB

^•v.

Altered aeeor<Bng t: Act ojT OongreM, in the jear 1881,

By D. A J. Sadlibr ft Co.,

la the Clerk*! Office of the DtotrtOb ^ourt of the United SUtes for tk*
Southern Distnot of New York.

f ms ixm)i$ in €,nuH<

To tho friends of other dsya, hr away In that N^orthem dime where
hearts are warm and skies are oold, where so many of my years were spent,
that it stands in memory side by side with the land of my nativity.

To the many all over Canada whom I saw, soma hnt seldom, some not at
til, yet whoso sympathy was with me as mine was with them.

To the few whose society made life sweet— with whom I had so mnoh in
common— whose friendship I so highly prize, whose kladneas I cannot forget
Over some the grave has already dosed, I shall see them no more this side
^ eternity; bat their memory is nnforgotten.

To mjjbrst flriends and my Uui friends, beyond the St Lawrenoe, I dedi*
eate Eldtob Puraron. I know they,^||ff|l pr&t* the book tot my sake^ cs I d«
the nsQie of Canada for thelnk . T

Haw YoBX,^i>ra,18a.

• «

ELINOR PRESTON;

OB,

$ttuB St $0mt ui ^\ixni.

•••

CHAPTER I.

(iTcn u Elinor Preston*! manoscript fell Into the handi of the anonymooi
gentleman who wrote the following Introduction, so did his manuscript fall
Into mine, hy an equally fortunate chance ; and, such being the caae, I
iMTe great pleasure in giving it to the public Just as I found it.]

,^^f^i^8s!)C-

UCH has been siud and written of the
pleasure and the profit to be derived from a
stroll through a country churchyard, always
providing, I should suppose, that the per-
son so strolling be capable of enjoying
such pleasure, for assuredly to the average
run of mortals it is anything but agreeable
to come in contact with the dead. ''The
dead of other years ! '' solemn and mast
beautiful words, little regarded by the chiU

dren of the world, the living occupants of this our planet.

Much, as I said, has been written on the solemn lessons

XLINOR PRESTON.

Inculcated by the grassy heaps and neglected monuments
of the* graveyard, and this applies to all, for in all does
the progress of man^s return to dust go on from day to
day in fulfilment of the divine behest. But it is only
in Catholic graveyards that real consolation is to bu
found, for there we feel that the dead are not wholly sep-
arated from those left behind. There the gulf of
death is bridged across by the hand of faith. We
read the pious inscriptions : " In your charity pray for
the soul of ," and though the name on the head-
stone or head-board is strange to us, yet we do pray for
that soul with a heart full of tender, Christian charity.
Over the next grave we read : " Erected to the memory
of and by their sorrowing and affection-
ate children. They were, indeed. Christian parents.
May they rest in peace ! " Does not the " Amen "
which one's lips utter, ascend to heaven on the wings of
faith and charity ? Over many of the graves is placed
only a simple cross of wood or stone, sublimely attest-
ing the faith and hope of the Christian who sleeps be-
neath its sacred shadow. What monument ever raised
by wealth and pride could equal that In grandeur ! " In
this sign we conquer ! " whispers the interior voice —
the voice of faith.

I was forcibly struck with these truths, while ram-
bling one summer afternoon through the neatly-kept en-
closure of a parish cemetery in Lower Canada, within
sight of the blue waters of the St. Lawrence. The
names on the simple monuments were nearly all French ;
they were Breton and Norman names, transmitted froii:

ELINOR PRB8T0V.

one generation to another by the brave and hardy col-
onists, who also gave intact to their children *' the faith,
pure and undefilcd,'* which, in later times, animated
the bold peasants of that same Bretagne and that same
Normandy to fight as men hardly ever fought in de-
fence of their religion.

The declining sun shed his slanting beams on the
grass-grown graves, flinging the shadow of cross and
headstone in broken lines over each ** narrow house of
death," and I was thinking of the light of immortality
with which those Christian sleepers had been long since
vested as with a garment, when my eye chanced to fall
on a small headstone, apparently of white marble, stand-
ing in a corner close by the little parish church, in the
shade of an ancient elm. Attracted from a distance by
the picturesque appearance of this little monument, I
approached, and, to my surprise, found on it no inscrip-
tion — ^nothing but a cross, and a miniature figure of the
Blessed Virgin, with her hands outstretched as we see
her on the medals of the Immaculate Conception. I
looked at the grave : it was that of an adult, judging by
its length ; and involuntarily I stopped, and began to
think why it was that there was no name on the stone.
Many efforts did I make to solve the enigma, but hav-
ing no clue to guide me, I was of course lost in the
labyrinth of my own thoughts, — and roused myself, after
half an hour^s musing, to discover that th# nameless
grave, its sheltering elm, and myself, were alike envel-
oped in the deep shade of the sacred building, behind
which the sun was now setting.

XLIKOR PRESTON.

•' Finding that I had lingered in the cemetery much
longer than I had intended, I entered the church to say
a prayer for the faithful departed, especially those
amongst whose mortal remains I had been so long
musing, and then hurried to "mine inn" to procure
some of those creature-comforts, for which, after all,
intellectual or sentimental pleasures are but a sorry
substitute. After supper J walked out on the little
gallery, or verandah, which ran along the front of the
house, and was well pleased to find mine host there be-
fore me, in his shirt-sleeves, enjoying his pipe and the
delicious coolness of the summer eve, — his dark. Indian-
like features shaded by a straw hat of the coarsest tex-
ture, plaited by the nut-brown hands of wife or daughter.
I was fortunately able to converse with Monsieur
Jean Baptiste in his own liquid tongue, on which account
he had the greatest possible pleasure in answering any
questions I might choose to put.

" You have quite a pretty village here," said I, cast-
ing my eyes over the picturesque group of quaint, old-
fashioned, gaudily-painted houses, shaded here and there
with the luxuriant foliage of the maple and the tamarac.
" The place is well enough," said mine host, with the
careless air of one who was himself perfectly satisfied
with his location, and cared little whether others ad-
mired it or not.

" And ^wr church and presbytery," I said, pointing
to the buildings in question, where they stood side by
side, their white walls reflecting the rays of the sum-
mer moon, as she rose from behind the dark rim of the

%• V

' , tr

t.# •

*#v

ELINOR PRESTON.

-, v

adjacent forest. " How graceful does the pretty cot-
, tage nestle close by the church ! — surely, if peace is to
be had on earth, it must be in this secluded spot ! "

"That is just what Ma'amselle nsed to say when
she came first," observed the landlord.

" Mademoiselle ! who is she 1 "

"Why, Ma'amselle TAnglaise, to be sure," he re-
turned, as though I should have known all about her as
well as himself. • n ,

" L' Anglaise ! " I repeated. " So you have a young
English lady here 1 "
f " No, sir, she is not here now — she is gone to a bet
ter place," and he reverently touched his straw hat, and
glanced upward to the dark blue sky spangled with its
myriad orbs.

"Oh! she is dead, then!" Jean Baptiste nodded in
in the affirmative, and I involuntarily thought of the
nameless grave under the churchyard elm.

" Is your demoiselle Anglaise buried below in the
churchyard, close by the wall under a large tree ? "

Mine host looked surprised ! " Monsieur has seen
her grave, then ? " I nodded in my turn. " Yes," he
said, " that is where she lies — may she rest in peace ! "
I *" What was her name 1 " I asked.

" I am sorry I cannot tell you, sir," said the urbane
^^landlord, as he shook the ashes from his pipe, and leis-
urely put it in his pocket ; " we always call her Ma'am-
selle, because she was a lady, and the only one in the
village. I heard Monsieur le Cure sometimes mention
her name, for he speaks English as well as can be ^ but

\ !

ELIKOR PBBSTON.

poor people like us, that don't speak English, can't well
remember English names. As I was saying, we always ^!
call her Ma'amselle, and she didn't want any other
name given her. You see there is none on her head-
stone. Well, that was her own wish."

" Strange," I said musingly ; " but had she no fHends ? "
" Not a soul — at least here. I don't know if she ever
had any. I suppose she had in her own country, but
she came here all alone, for all the world as though she^
dropped down from heaven to teach our little ones.
Where she came from, or who she was, we never knew,
because, as Monsieur knows, we couldn't be putting ques-
tions to a lady like her. She might have told Monsieur ,
le Cure something, but if she did he kept it all to him*
self" t

"So she taught school here?'* *f

*' Yee, sir, she taught both French and English. Mon-
sieur le Cure said she was very well instructed, and she
looked like it. She was pale, and had a spiritual sort
of look about her that nobody ever had, I think, but
herself — at least there was nobody in these parts a bit
like her, not even in Quebec, or Montreal itself, — ^and I
have been in both, sir, many a time. I never saw a face
like hers — so sad, and yet so sweet. Every body loved
her, sir," and the worthy habitan cleared his throat vo-
ciferously ; " there's my wife Adele, and I do believe *
she could have worked day and night for her, and for th«
matter of that, she often did too, after she got sick, for
Adele has an excellent heart, sir, and the good Grod
gives her the best of health."

% ^

XUNOR PRXSTOK.

».. « *

•i

tv«*

%-■

-#^*

** I rejoice to hear it," I said, with becoming gravity,
'* but, pray, where did Mademoiselle reside 1 "

" Oh I in the school-house yonder," pointing to a long,
low, steep-roofed house, with even more than the usual
number of Canadian windows, opening on hinges almost
to the floor. " She would have been heartily welcome
to live with us here, but she thought she'd rather be to
herself — so she told my woman; and she took old
Mother Longpre and her daughter Laure, to keep her
company and mind the house, for it seems she did not
know any thing. Pjoor Ma'amselle!" and again the
good man cleared his throat, and wiped away a starting
tear ! — " Pm sure we'll all pray for her the longest day
we have to live ! " ^

^^ I should like to ask the priest," I said, " whether he
knew any thing of her history."

" Perhaps Monsieur is from the same country ? "

" I hardly think so, friend, as you say the young lady
was English. I shall, however, pay a visit to the priest
to-morrow, and — ^"

" Excuse me, sir," interrupted Jean Baptiste, " but I
forgot to tell you that after Ma'amselle's death, old
Mother Longpre gave Monsieur le Cure a great bundle
of papers that she found in a desk in her own Toom.
*You may find some thing in them?'*

This made me still more anxious to visit the priest,
and so taking my hat I walked down the street in the
direction of the presbytery, hoping that some lucky
chance would give me an opportunity of gratifying my
curiosity. And so, indeed, it happened, for, as I drew

'¥:

XLIKOR PRESTON.

near his house, I perceived the good pastor seated under
the portico, in a large arm-chair, with his clasped hands
resting on his knees, and his eyes fixed with a thoughtful,
dreamy look on the silvery track of the moonlight stretch-
ing far and away over the broad river. Unwilling to
disturb such tranquil repose, I made a turn or two up
and down the street in front of the house, making a
short pause each time as I passed, and succeeded at last
in catching the good priest's eye. He immediately left
his seat, and bowed with the easy grace so characteristic
of the genuine French Canadian. Having made our-
selves mutually acquainted, we were soon engaged in a
familiar chat, cosily seated at an open window of the
priest's little parlor. Our conversation was in English,
which Mr. Lacroix seemed to know very well in theory,
though his tongue made sad work of some of its pecu-
liar sounds. Still he would persist in speaking it, be-
ing glad, as he told me, of the opportunity, " for," said
he, '^ English is to me as much a dead language, at the
present time, as either Greek or Hebrew. I am glad
to speak it with you, sir, for I fear to forget it altogether.
I think I could not speak it now, were it not for a young
lady who taught my school. She was from Ireland — I
suppose Monsieur knows Ireland ? " He paused, and I
replied with a smile :

*' I should, I think I ought to know it^ inasmuch as it
is my own country."

" Ah, indeed ! then Monsieur is a compatriot — ^I mean
a countryman of my good young friend. Her name
was Preston — ^Mademoiselle Elinor Preston."

BLINOR PRESTON.

" Preston ! " I repeated ; " why, there is a noble family
of that name in Ireland — and I have never known any
of the name who were not of good stan<^ing."

" Standing 1 " inquired the priest.

" I mean," said I, in explanation, " that it is what we
call a respectable name."

" Ah ! I understand ; and this young lady — Miss
Preston — was most respectable — every way respect-
able," pronouncing the adjective with marked emphasis,
and in the purest French ; for words like this, which are
the same in both languages, are invariably spoken in
the mother tongue. " She was an honor to her coun-
try, sir ; and her death, which toolc place a year ago, was
a great loss to us — a very great loss, I assure you."

T then expressed my desire to know something about
the young lady, and how it was that she came to settle
down in a place so remote, where even her own Ian-
guage was not spoken.

** Ah ! " said the good priest, " that is what I hardly
know myself: some things she told me, but they are
too long to tell, and Monsieur can have the story in her
own words. I think it was a childish fancy made her
settle here, but I don't know. It is all here, I sup-
pose ! " and going to a venerable-looking escrutoire, in a
comer of the room, he drew forth a roll of papers al-
ready somewhat discolored by the hand of time. This
he gave to me, saying : " I have looked them over, and
I know there is no family or personal secret in question
—60 you may have them to read,"

ELINOR PRESTON.

Thanking the good priest, I asked : " Was the lady
young?" ^>

*' Not very : she might have been thirty or there-
abouts when she came to us, and she was here five years.
She looked even older, because of her grave and pensive
aspect."

Declining the refreshments offered by the priest, not-
withstanding the tempting neatness of the aged house-
keeper who brought in the tray, I bade good-night to my
new acquaintance, and, leaving him to read his Ofiice,
hastened to the privacy of my chamber in the little hos-
telrie, there to learn the story of the dead from her own
simple words, written in that small running hand, easy,
light, and graceful, which we somehow connect in oup
minds with white taper fingers.

€lmx |nst0n*

V '-^

" What a strange, weird thing is life ! " began the
manuscript ; " who can penetrate its secrets, who unravel
its tangled web 1 A solemn fact it is, with the past and
the future ever mingling, yet never mingled, and the
frail creature suspended by that filmy thread above the
unfathomable ocean of eternity !" It has been said that
" there is a tide in the affairs of men," and who can doubt
it 1 The Christian and the unbeliever are alike hurried
on by this resistless tide, towards the goal of death, the
only difference being that the latter struggles and plun*
ges, and grasps at every twig that may retard his prog-

SLINOR PRESTON.

»•■%•

ress, while the former floats calmly on towards the eter-
nal bourne beyond which lies his home in the everlasting
mansions.

Yet, even to the calm, unworldly Christian nothing
fearing, nothing doubting, but leaving all in the hands
of divine Providence, this life is full of mystery. Who
can account for the train of circumstances that brought
me here ? — here, " in the forests of the West," where but
few generations have passed away since the Indian built
his wigwam and launched his bark canoe, sole master
of the land and the mighty river 1 Yet here I am. I —
the daughter of a race who were knights and nobles in
the Old World, before the veil was uplifted from the
New ! Truly the tide aforesaid has been playing strange
pranks with Elinor Preston, but it certainly has not led
her on to fortune. Fortune, indeed ! — what care I for
fortune ? I flung it from me when I had it within my
grasp, nor do I now regret it. Much have I lost that I
do regret, and shall ever regret while life is left me. A
golden circle of loving hearts have I seen shattered*and
melted down in the crucible of time. I myself am
the only link remaining in this nether world, and my
heart is the sole earthly repository of the loves and
hopes and fears that made up the lives of all.

Here I am, alone : alone in the midst of my fellow-
creatures — a mystery to all around me. Lonely I am,
but not desolate, for my heart is full of faith in the di-
vine promises, and the villagers, among whom my way-
ward fate has cast me, are guileless as our first parents
in their pristine state, and kind as love and pity could

v*e'

EUNOR PRBSTOK.

make them. They do not treat me as a stranger, and
/ their artless confidence wins my heart. Although dif-
fering in almost every thing from my own people, there
is still one sacred bond of union between us — one broad
platform on which we stand side by side ; it is the bond of
&ith, the platform of Catholicity. So I am not a stranger
here — be still, sad, yearning heart ! — ^I am not a stranger
where I can pray with all the people, and be nourished
with the sacraments, whose fruits are visible in the calm
bright current of their peaceful life. I, too, have found
peace in this secluded spot, peace which I had sought in
vain amid the glare and glitter of more polished society.
Hiere are moments when I can smile at the contrast be-
tween the gay and perhaps brilliant Elinor Preston, a
few years since

-the fayor'd guest

In many a lighted hall/' w * .

the dispenser of fashion to an admiring circle — and not
small — of country elegants, the sun of a nice little solar
system. The metamorphosis is complete. The flight of
years — few but heavy-laden with sorrow and reverse —
has crushed the buoyant spirit and withered the roseate
dieek, and dimmed the sparkling eye of the ball-room
belle ; and I sit as demurely, day after day, hammering
the alphabet into thick little skulls, as though I had been
all my life a " school-ma'am," as a female teacher is,
oddly-enough, called in the neighboring Republic.

But why all this ? why do I find myself, pen in hand,
putting my retrospective fancies on paper ? Who shall

ELINOR PRESTON.

»%>

read then, 'l who, in all this vast region, will ever be in-
terested in the reminiscences of a being so utterly iso-
lated — a branch lopped off from the parent tree, or
rather left to mourn its fall, and flung by the capricious
wind of fate to the opposite side of the globe 1 No
matter, though there be none to read ; it will fill* up
many an hour that would hang heavy on my hands, and
if, as I sometimes think, the disease that carried off my
mother in the bloom of life has already commenced its
ravages on my attenuated frame, then this scroll shall
remain — sole relic of my thirty years' sojourn in this
vale of tejirs. Some wanderer from my own loved land
may chance to stumble on my papers when I have passed
from this w^orld, even some one who knew me in those
early years, now clear and bright before my mental
vision as the mountains of green Erin in the morning
sun. So with this will-6*'the'Wisp to guide me, I will
glance briefly over the past.

I am the last of all my family. Parents, and broth-
ers, and sisters, nay, even uncles and aunts, have all dis-
appeared in the waves of time, — Heaven rest their souls
in mercy ! And yet I am not old, that is, not very old,
although 1 used to think thirty a good round age, and
perhaps it is, too, in the present curtailed duration of
human life*. My father was a member of the Irish bar,
and, though by no means distinguished in his profession,
was, nevertheless, universally respected for honesty and
integrity. Strictly honorable in his dealings with all
men, and quite willing to assist the needy when he had
it in hi* power, he had many friends, and few or no ene-

«^^.

BLXirOR PBXSTOir.

mies. He was, indeed, one of those good, easy men who
seem to glide as smoothly through the world as thjugh it
had neither roclcs nor shoals. My mother was of a dif-
ferent temperament Endowed with very uncommon
powers of mind, her sensibility was most acute, and the
trials and troubles which passed so lightly over my fa-
ther's head, fell on her heart with crushing weight. Her
mind was too highly- wrought, her aspirations too lofly,
and her standard of excellence too high, for the average
run of society, and the consequence was that she invol-
untarily shrank from the world,-— and the world soon
found that out, and set my dear mother down as a very
unsocial sort of person, because, forsooth ! she could not
bring herself down to its level, and do and say just what
it bade her. There were among our visitors — chiefly
my father's professional friends — ^some few who could
and did appreciate my mother, and were in turn rever-
enced and esteemed by her. One of these was an el-
derly gentleman, of large and massive frame, finely-
formed head, and a countenance at once expressive of
piercing intellect, and keen, shrewd, caustic humor. He
had a voice like a stentor, and an eye like a hawk. There
was another — the direct opposite of the gentleman just
described — who was, like him, a fast and firm friend of
my mother's. He was a small man, a very small man,
indeed, with a head so much too large for his body that
it gave him a dwarfish look. Yet his countenance was
one that attracted the beholder, hot from the beauty of
feature or color, but because of the fire which darted
from his eye, — the fire of genius aM of inspiration. In

XLINOR PRK8T09.

just
id of
man,
that
was
by of
irted

my earlier days these two individuals were on the most
friendly terms, but there came a time when they were
worse than strangers, so that no one thought of inviting
them to the same table. Years and years had they la-
bored together in a great work — a work of more than
national importance ; but the strife of politics grew up
between them, and they were totally estranged. Through
all the storm of contention, both the Titans kept up their
friendly intercourse with my parents, for my father,
though a warm adherent of our large friend, took no
prominent part in politico. Our domicile was situated
in a professional street, adjoining Rutland Square. We
had also a country-house near the Curragh of Kildare,
where my father had a small property. Whether in
town or country, we were surrounded by every thing
gay and cheerful ; and when we had no visitors, which,
to say the truth, seldom happened, our own family was
in itself a circle large enough for social enjoyment. I
had two brothers and two sisters, all older than myself,
with the exception of little Carry, my pet sister, the pet
of the whole family, the spoiled darling who ruled us
all. We had also an ancient aunt, who lived with us, a
spinster of much energy and determination of character.
And a character she was too, my poor Aunt Kate ! with
her tall, stiff, angular form, her long, thin, and very
marked features, and her precise, formal manner. She
had a vast opinion of her own consequence, together
with no small share of family pride, and looked 'do^
from a dignified elevation on my dear mother, whose
birth was a shade or two lower than her own ; for she

ELINOR PBESTON.

was my father's sister, and both were come c what is
called a good family. They were, indeed, collateral
descendants of that Lord Gormanstown who took so
prominent a part in the troubles of 1641. Not a soul
belonging to them had ever been in business, as far as
Aunt Kate's recollection went, and it went back very
far, a great way beyond the loyal old Lord of the Pale,
the defender of king and country, while my mother\i
progenitors were, on the contrary, all business people.
** Shopkeepers, my dear ! " as my Aunt Kate used to say
to some confidential friend, with a face expressive of the
most sovereign contempt. Yet the dear old lady had
her good points, and was, on the whole, any thing but a
bad sister-in-law to my poor mother. She had been
somewhat of a belle — at least she said so— in her early
days, and prided herself still on what she called the gen-
tility of her carriage. She was fond of dress, but un-
luckily she always managed to wear the most fantastic
costume that ever woman wore, at least in this exquisite
nineteenth century. Yet, dear Aunt Kate was a special
favorite with our most distinguished visitors, to whom
her little odd ways were worth gold, while the sterling
value of her character commanded their esteem. The
barrister to whom I first alluded took special pleasure
in practising on my good aunt's simple vanity, and even
now, when time and death ha\e made their memories
solemn, I can hardly refrain from smiling as I sit in my
lonely room and summon from the storehouse of the
past the Hogarth-like pictures of many a humorous

KLIIfOR PRSSTOK.

■cene wherein my ancient relative and the great lawyer
were the principal actors. » '

It 80 happened that our friend had a friend who was
famous for having the tenderc.sf and most inflammable
of hearts where our sex was concerned. To borrow the
words of a song more popular than elegant ;

, " Red-hot as a ball from a canuon ' '

Waa thk IrishmaD's heart for the ladies."

He was a man of some genius, too, having attained some
distinction in the world of science — a gentleman by
birth and by education ; yet, strange to say, his years
were " in the sere and yellow leaf," and he still pining
in singled—shall I say blessedness? — ^not so, for honest
Tom was not blessed in his singleness, and would hrfve
made himself cfo?/i/c if he could. In fact, he was known
to have made several fruitless attempts, and had lat-
terly desisted in very hopelessness. And yet, he was
neither old nor ugly, but somehow that capricious deity
Hymen seem to have declared against him. It was,
however, well understood among his friends — and, to
say the truth, he had very many — that the wearing of
petticoats was 7iot the sole qualification he required in
the favored she. The possession of youth and beauty
was said to be indispaisably necessary. Now all this
was well known to the arch wag who was, in fact, Tom's
great patron, model, and it might be, master, and good
capital he made use of it for the amusement of himself
and others. One of these frolics I am tempted to tell,
as one of our own family was a party concerned^

SLIKOR PRESTON.

"Tom," said he one day to his devoted follower,
" how stands your heart just now ? Engaged, or not
engaged, that is the question 1 **

" Disengaged, I pledge you my honor.'*

" Well," said the counsellor, assuming a confidential
air, and lowering his voice to almost a whisper, " I have
a young lady in perspecto^ who will suit you to a T : a
bewitching creature, Tom, highly accomplished, and all
the rest, every thing, in fact, that a reasonable man
could desire. I hope she may not think you too old —
that's all."

" Me too old ! " cried Tom with a start ; " why surely
you jest ! It is not come to that with me yet, I think.
But? who is the lady, my dear sir 1 — do I know her ? "

***You shall know her, and that before long. But
mind, I manage this 'matter myself. I must manoeuvre
a little to bring you together, for the lady has quite a
distrust of strangers, especially if they be unmarried
gentlemen. You understand 1 " ^ '

** Oh ! yes, perfectly," said Tom, looking all the time
very much puzzled ; " but, I say, my good sir, where's
the use in my trying any more ? the fates are against
me, I see that clearly."

" Pooh ! pooh ! nonsense, man ! Your hour has not
come yet. Mi/ lady will, I hope, be the star of your
fortune ; so mind you be all ready, * puffed, powdered,
and shaved,' when I call for you on Thursday next. We
dine at Harry Preston's, and so does your pole-star that
is to be. I am anxious to see you settled, Tom ! I am,
upon my honor . and will depend on you to turn this

SLINOR PRBSTON.

opportunity to account. You may never have such
another, mind, I tell you."

Tom was profuse in his thanks for such fatherly kind*
ness, and promised to be very punctual on Thursday :
indeed, that was not any great stretch for him, for ho
was at all times remarkably punctual to his appoint-
ments.

This arranged to his satisfaction, as regarded the gen-
tleman, he next made it his business to see my aunt, to
whom he slily insinuated that a certain friend of his was
most anxious to make her acquaintance. '^What his
motives are, Miss Preston, it is not for me to say,
neither would it be decorous if I did, inasmuch as young
gentlemen who desire to make the acquaintance of young
ladies, are apt to have peculiar notions of their own."

" Oh ! certainly. Counsellor ! certainly," said my aunt,
trying hard to bring up a blush, and affecting to be very
intent on the workbox, whose contents she was arrang-
ing at the moment. " I shall be most happy to meet
the gentleman, as you say he is a friend of yours."

" A very particular friend, indeed ! ^ Good-morning,
Miss Preston, you must excuse the shortness of my
visit. I am just on my way to that meeting at the Ro-
tunda. I hope you will pay a little extra attention to
your toilet on Thursday, for even you, my dear Miss
Preston, cannot afford to dispense with the aid of orna-
ment. I never could agree with him who said that
' Beauty unadorned is adorned the most.' I know Mrs.
Preston is invisible at this hour, but you will have the
goodness to tell her that I bring an extra guest on Thur*

t
•

ELINOR PRESTON.

day. Good-morning once again ! — ^how well that blush
becomes you ! "

With a hasty shake-hands he slipped through the
door, fearful of laughing in the face of the simpering old
lady, whose face had no fresher color at the moment
than the drab silk dress she wore. *

Great and very pleasurable was the excitement of
my dear good aimt all that afternoon, and all next day,
which was the eve of the great day. It is true she kept
the secret to herself, at least she thought so, never once
intimating, even to my mother, that she had any particular
interest in the expected stranger. To us girls, however,
(we were none of us of age yet to be brought into com-
pany,) she was a little more communicative, givmg us
divers hints of the great conquest she had in view.
After a careful and very close examination of her ward-
robe, she sallied out on Wednesday morning, alone and
on foot, leaving a message for my mother that she was
going a-shopping. Shortly after her return, arrived a
porter with a rather large parcel ; and my aunt, who was
evidently on th% watch, called to the servant from the
staircase to bring it at once to her room. ''

After tea, we all went to Portobello Gardens to wit-
nelfe an exhibition of fire-works, and, on returning home,
my parents found some friends who had dropped in to
spend the evening. The visitors being very intimate
with the family, my sister Emily and I were permitted
to remain in the drawing-room, and a merry evening
we all had of it. I remember particularly one gentle-
man giving us an account of a scene which he had that

♦ !i

ELINOR FRSSTOir.

nt blush

ugh the
>ring old
moment

(lent of
ixt day,
he kept
er once
rticular
)wever,
io com-
bing us
L view,
ward-
lie and
le was
ved a
10 was
m the

) wit-

lome,

in to

mate

itted

suing

ntle-

that

day witnessed at the steps of the Bank of Ireland, in
which Blind Ousely, the famous fanatic and street-
preacher was the principal actor. The story was told
with infinite humor. The narrator was gifted with rare
imitative powers, did ample justice to the whiping cant
of the would-be apostle, and the rich, liquid tones of the
Dublin " Jackeens," who cracked their jokes at his ex-
pense, and paid back his unctuous exhortations word
for word with their local slang. We youngsters en-
joyed this amazingly, and even my grave aunt unbent
sufficiently to honor the narrator with a patronizing
smile.

The evening wore on, and one by one our visitors
dropped off, when, after sitting a while, talking over the
exhibition, and other matters of equal interest to our-
selves, Emily and myself were gently reminded by my
mother, that late hours were any thing but good cos-
mestics for young girls, whereupon we instantly retired, ^
for that dear parent's word was ever law to us. It
might have been an hour after, and the house was silent
as death, when a wild shriek roused us from our beds.
Hurrying out into the lobby, my sister and I were met
by my father and mother, who had but lately come up
stairs.

" What on earth can that be 1" exclaimed my mother,
pale as a ghost ; *' one would think the sound came from
the drawing-room."

"That is impossible, my dear," observed my. father,
** for you know we left it so lately, and Fm positive there
wasn't a creature in it then."

ELINOR PRESTON.

■ "Whether or no, father, it's from there the sound
comes," said George, my eldest brother, popping out
of his room half dressed.

" Well ! well ! let us go down at all events," said my
mother — so down we all went. Carry clinging to my
mother's skirts in mortal terror. On reaching the
drawing-room, there was a slight hesitation visible in
my father's manner, but unwilling to let it appear, he
hastily opened the door, and in we all went with a rush.
What a sight met our eyes ! O, for your pencil, Hogarth !
to do justice to the inimitable picture. A bedroom candle
flickered on a table, its faint light hardly dispelling the
gloom of the spacious apartment, and we had to look very
closely before we perceived that any living soul was pres-
ent. But sure enough there was, for in a large arm-chair,
near the fireplace sat, or rather reclined, my Aunt Kate,
# looking more like a spectre than a thing of flesh and
blood. She had evidently changed her dress since we
saw her an hour or so before, and such a dress as that
in which she now appeared no sane mortal ever wore in
our generation, at least off the stage. The robe was of
some dark, heavy material, literally covered with
spangles, especially about the bosom, and the head-
dress consisted of a turban-like roll of scarlet gauze,
ornamented with short marabout feathers, presenting a
woful contrast to the corpse-like countenance of my
poor aunt.

" Ho ! ho ! Kate, I see how it is," said my father,
well pleased to find Ihat nothing serious was the maV>
ter. *' You came dow n tc make your toilet at the pier*

SUNOR PRESTON.

g]ass : eh, Kate 1 I suppose you meant to dress over
night, when you had the room to yourself. "

" Be still now, Harry," said my gentle mother, see-
ing the real blush that mounted to her sister-in-law's
face. " Poor Kate has been taken suddenly ill," at the
same time she made a sign to us youngsters to restrain
our mirth, for we were actually in fits of laughter.

*' I'll tell you all about it another time," whispered my
aunt, eagerly laying hold of the smelling-bottle offered
by my mother.

" What brought you here at all, Kate 1 " persisted my
father, in his blunt, good-natured way. " One would think
you were playing la sonnambula, and had w^alked forth
in the body in a costume from the land of dreams."

" You will oblige me, Harry Preston," said my aunt,
stiffly rising from her '^.hair, to our increased amuse-
ment — " you will obligtj me by keeping such remarks to
yourself. I desire that you should remember who I am.
I should think a fine dress, even a fancy dress, is nothing
new in our family. I am grieved to see you so forget-
ful of what is due to your sister, and your children, of
course, follow suit. Teresa ! " to my mother, " I'll
trouble you to help me up stairs. Thank you," she
said, in her most dignified tone to my father, who had
offered his arm, and she swept past him with the air of
an empress. When my mother had assisted her to re-
gain her chamber, she confessed to her that she had been
trying on a new purchase, (in what costume-shop she
had procured it we never knew,) which she meant to
wear at dinner on the following day, and being anxious to
see exactly how it fitted, she had, as my father guessed.

SLINOB PRESTOlf.

gone down to view herself and it in the pier-glass in the
drawing-room ; — " but, my dear ! " said she, " the light
was so dim, and the room so vast and gloomy reflected in
the glass, that when I got a peep at myself I was fright-
ened at first, for the figure looked for all the world like
the ghost that appears in Trimbleton House. I really
was frightened for the moment, and my nerves got such
a shock that I couldn't get over it, do as I would. But,
Teresa, my dear, not a word of this to any one. Mind,
I'll depend on you ! "

My mother would only promise to keep the secret on
condition that Aunt Kate should give up the notion of
appearing next day in her new costume. To this she wil-
lingly acceded, " for to tell you the truth, my dear," said
she, " I've got a horror of it — I have indeed."

So the luckless costume disappeared forever from our
gaze, turban and all, and what became of it was for
many a day a subject of speculation among us. My
father used, once in a while, to give a sly hint con-
cerning it, just enough to excite my poor aunt's nervous
fears, but a look from my mother would always call
him to order just in time to save the delicate secret from
vulgar ken. Carry was a much more dangerous indi-
vidual, for she would persist in talking, at least in the
family circle of Aunt Kate's shining dress, and wonder-
ing why she never wore it. Threatening Carry was of
no manner of use, but my good aunt tried various other
means, chiefly of the appetizing sort. Many a package
of choice sugar-plums went to stop her mouth, ^id a
rose-bud of a mouth Carry had. But, let us on to the
meeting of my aunt and her supposed inamorata.

ELINOR PRESTON.

CHAPTER II.

IHB DISCOVERT, AND OTHER MATTERS OF FAMILY HISTORY

^''

N the following day my aunt was dressed
for dinner and seated in the drawing-room
a full hour before the time. My mother
sat near her on the sofa, turning over the
pages of Fisher's " Book of Beauty," in real
or assumed unconsciousness of the nervous
agitation of her sister-in-law. My father
was seated in the identical chair which had
received Aunt Kate's fainting bulk on the
previous evening. His attention was so en-
grossed by a parliamentary debate, that he took but
little notice at the moment of Kate or any one else.
Exactly a quarter before five, a footman's knock echoed
through the house. My aunt half started from her seat,
sat down again, spread out her garter-blue satin to the
best advantage, ran a finger through each of her barrel
curls to give it the proper set, and had just completed
her preparations by drawing in her lips to smaller di-
mensions — for they were rather of the thickest— when

XLnVOR PRE8T0V.

♦ -

bang open went the door, and in came Mr. — , followed
closely by his faithful friend Tom. My aunt received
both with a gracious smile, and Tom shook hands all
round with a more confident air than usual, but it waa
easy to see that both kept watching the door ; each ex-
pecting the advent of the promised beau or belle. And
the counsellor, though engaged in conversation with my
&ther and mother, kept an eye on the pair from under
his projecting brows, his face all the time brimful of
humor. One or two other guests having arrived, and
the hand of the time-piece on the mantel pointing to five
o'clock, dinner was announced, and the gentlemen offered
their arms to the ladies.

" Tom ! " cried his friend, " we leave Miss Preston
for you. Being the only young lady present she is
yours by right."

" Thank you," said Tom, offering his arm to the lady
with anything but alacrity. "I am much obliged to
you — will you allow me. Miss Preston ? "

Miss Preston did allow him, but there was nothing
very cordial in the acceptance cf his arm.

" You expected some others, did you not ? " said Tom,
feeling it necessary to say something, as they followed
their leaders down stairs. He also hoped to draw out
the name of his expected fair one by this indirect means.

"Yes, I believe so," replied the lady rather curtly,

thinking of the enamored swain who was to have come

but did net. " The counsellor was to have brought a

friend of his."

*' " Strange," thought Tom, " he must have paired off

V. ,

SLIKOR PREBT09.

with my young lady. It is very provoking — very ! "
They were just entering the dining-room, and Tom had
to seat Miss Preston, though, as he doubtless said ^
himself, he could have seen her at Jericho. During din-
ner nothing occurred to enlighten either of the expect-
ants. Once my father made my aunt change color by
asking my mother, with a sly glance at his sister, " What
has become of the lady whom we saw in ethereal gfifiaents
last night 1 I thought we should have met her at dinner."

Tom looked eager and excited — my aunt nervous and
agitated, and the Counsellor (as my aunt called him)
eyed the tremor of both with intense satisfaction. My
mother looked reproachfully at my father, but her voice
when she spoke was calm and soil as usual. ^^ The lady
you mean," said she, " left town this morning, and will
not return for some time." Tom's countenance fell, and
my aunt's rose.

At the close of the desert, when my aunt and the
other ladies rose from the table, the Counsellor said to
aunt as she passed him : " I owe you an apology, Miss
Preston, for not having fulfilled my promise — at least
to your expectations. I will tell you another time why
the gentleman disappointed us, but, you see, I brought a
substitute."

" Stick to your claret. Counsellor, and don't mind
me ! " was my aunt's tart reply as she left the room.
The merry laugh that echoed through the dining-room,
would have given her mortal offence, but happily the
door was closed behind her, and her vanity escaped that
severe wound.

ELINOR PRESTOir,

Emily and I were permitted, as a special favor, to
■ appear in the drawing-room that evening, and having
} got from my mother a hint of what was going on, we
were looking anxiously for the entrance of the gentlemen.
They came at last — it was rather early, too, for Mr. —
never stayed very long at the dinner-table after the ladies
retired ; my aunt was sitting alone on a cushioned seat
in one^ the window recesses, when the Counsellor, tuck-
ing Tom's arm under his, led him up to her. « •

" Miss Preston ! " said he, " I have spared your blushes
quite long enough, I think. This is the gentleman to
whom I referred in a late conversation. Tom, my good
fellow, I think you are already acquainted with Miss
Preston !— eh, Tom 1 "

" I should think I was," said Tom bluntly, at the
same time averting his eyes from the lady's face.

" Well, Tom," quoth his friend, with tormenting cool-
ness, " I have done my share : I leave you to do the
rest." ■" '■• '^ - ■' ' - -^ ■'

" I — T beg your pardon, sir ! I fear there is some
mistake," stammered Tom. " I — I — I wasn't aware —
upon my honor, I wasn't."

" Oh ! of course not— -certainly — I understand your
feelings — ^but don't be ashamed, man ! it is nothing more
than I did myself! I wooed and won a Kate, too ! "
he added, witli an almost imperceptible sigh, for he had
lost but a few vears before the best and most cherished
of wives ; and, as he often said, he was never the same
man after.

" I should think there is a mistake," said my aunt,

VLINOR Pll^8TOlr. Vf

standing up to the fUll height of her commanding fig ^e,
[till she absolutely looked down upon poor Tom, who
seemed to cower and wither away beneath her cold,
proud glance — " and a very serious mistake, too. One
of you, gentlemen, or perhaps both, have forgotten who /
am. The descendant of such a house as ours is not to
be treated like some silly chit on whom any jackeen
may play off his pranks. Have the goodness to let me
pass ! "

Both gentlemen would have apologized, and my father
came forward as a peacemaker, but on him my aunt was
doubly severe : " Go, unworthy descendant of a noble
line ! " said she, in a theatrical tone ; " if you were what
you ought to be, no man would dare to make me a butt
for ridicule in your house. I wash my hands of you
all ! " So saying, she swam out of the room with the
solemn dignity of a tragedy queen. My father burst into
a loud laugh, in which the others soon joined ; but my
mother, excusing herself for a few moments, hurried up
stairs after my aunt in»order to reason her out of her in-
dignation. Tom felt anything but comfortable, and
told his friend more than once that he didn't expect such
treatment from him.

" Pd just as soon think of making love to my grand-
mother," said he, " if she were still in the land of the
living. Now, my dear sir, that wasn't generous — upon
my honor it was not ! — what say you, Mr. Preston ? "

" Pooh, pooh, man ! what about it 1 — why, it was all
a joke. If my sister, old maid like, is a little touchy or
so, that's no reason why you should be,"
4

XLINOR PRXBTOV.

Tea was now brought in, and my mother in a ftw min-
utes returned alone, announcing that Miss Preston had
lain down, "just to quiet her nerves," she added with a
smile.

Man^ a long day passed before my poor aunt could
get over the effects of that shock. Encased in the armor
of family pride, she had deemed herself invulnerable to
the attacks of ridicule or sarcasm ; and now, when she
found herself reduced to the level of ordinary mortals, and
actually made the subject of a practical joke, her morti-
fication was extreme, and her resentment almost as great.
That the Counsellor should be a party to the hoax, if not
its originator, made the matter tenfold worse. As for
Tom, he was too insignificant for any other feeling than
contempt. So said Aunt Kate. " I wouldn't feel half
so bad about it, my dear," said she to my mother, " only
for that Miss Del any, the grocer's daughter, being pres-
ent." Now this young lady was the daughter of one
of the most eminent merchants in Dublin ; an heiress,
too, with a fortune that would buy all our property three
times over. My mother smiled, for her father had been
a grocer, and a retail grocer, too, at one time. But my
aunt had no intention of wounding her at the time, and
so she perceived ; she therefore only smiled, and said
it was really too bad that any one had been present,
" though, after all," said she, " I can't see the matter as
you do. What was it but a joke 1 "

** Joke, indeed ! " said my aunt with a toss of her head \
** they ought to know who they'd joke with."

The conversatii n was here interrupted by the entrance

•

■•- • It-

SLINOR PRESTON.

ftw milt.
;ston had
)d with a

Lint could
he armor
erable to
when she
rtaLs, and
Br morti-
as great,
ax, if not

As for
ling than
'eel half
r, " only
ng pres-

of one
heiress,
ty three
ad been
But my
ne, and
id said
jresent,
atter as

r head j

itrance

of my father with a gentleman well known in the l?gal
profession. He was a sort of a character in his way,
too, and rejoiced in the title of attorncy-at-law, which
figured in large roman capitals on his door-plate, a little
way from us in Dominick street.

The compliments of the day being exchanged, my
father said, "Teresa, my love, I have been speaking
with Mr. O'Shaughnessy here, about taking George. He
is now old enough to study for a profession, and the
sooner he begins, it is all the better."
• " As you please, my dear ! " said my mother in her
quiet way ; and before she could say any more, Aunt
Kate broke in with —

" Harry Preston ! Pm astonished at you."

" Indeed, Kate ! — and why, may I ask ? "

" Why, surely you wouldn't think of making an at-
torney of George ? If you will have him a lawyer, why
not make a counsellor of him ? "

" Because changes are lightsome, my good sister, and
because attorneys now-a-days make rapid fortunes if
they only have their wits about them — as I think George
has — and a tolerable knowledge of their business."

" I'd as soon make him a scavenger ! " said my aunt
in her most contemptuous tone, " Who ever heard of a
Preston with aitorney-at'law after his name ! Tell me
that, now 1"

" Why, Kate," said my father, " you surely forget.
Don't you know that our great-uncle, Dick Preston, who
was land-steward to the Marquis of Wiltshire, was an
attorney by profession ? "

ELINOR PRESTON.

" Fie ! fie ! Harry ! why will you talk so ? " cried my
aunt, actually red with vexation ; " were it after dinner
now, I should say you had taken too much wine. Mr.
O'Shauglmessy," turning to the amused lawyer of that
name, " my brother talks so fast at times, that he hardly
takes time to think what he says. Allow me to cor-
rect his statement : the respected relative, to whom he
has just referred, was not a land-steward to Lord Wilt-
shire (low days with him when he had any thing to do
with the descendant of a Cromwellian trooper ! ) — He
was his agent, not his land-steward, or any other stew-
ard ! "

" Land-steward, I maintain ! " said my father posi-
tively, whereupon my aunt's color rose, and she was
preparing an angry retort, when Mr. O'Shaughnessy, on
a signal from my mother, interfered with —

• " Well ! well ! Miss Preston, let it pass ! Ladies are
always right. Fine blood the Preston's ! remarkably
fine ! — we'll make you a present of the honorable gen-
tleman, the agent that was. Ahem ! no need to quarrel
about him, ahem ! — Mr. Preston ! I've got an appoint-
ment at the courts at twelve precisely — another time
will do for Master George's aflTair. Ahem ! good-morn-

ng, ladies. Business is business, you know ! Coming
my way, Preston, eh 1 "

" Yes, yes," said my father, with a significant glancG
at my mother, " I'll be with you as far as the quay."

" How insufferably familiar ! " said my aunt, as tht^y
left the room together. " Preston, indeed ! I wonder how
Harry can make himself jack-fellow like with such people !

ELINOR PRESTON.

ried my
r dinner
e. Mr.

• of that
e hardly

to COi'.

k'hom he
•d Wilt-
ig to do
! )— He
ler stew-

ler posi-
she was

essy, on

dies are
arkably
ble gen-
quarrel
appoint-
ler time
d-morn-
Coming

glancG
ay."
as thk^y
ier how
people !

But he never had proper spirit, and never m ill now, I'm
afraid."

" I fear not, indeed," said my mother, with her win-
ning smije ; and then she changed the conversation.
That very day George was articled, as the lawyers say,
to Mr. O'Shaughnessy, and my poor aunt had to get over
her disappointment the best way she could.

The next point at issue among the elders of our house
was the sending of my younger brother Alfred to col-
lege. My father was half inclined to send him to old
Trinity, the local Alma Mater ^ as being the craole of
Dublin genius. But this was positively objected to by
my dear mother, and to do her justice, my aunt, too,
declared strenuously against it.

"A fig for your Dublin genius," said she, taking the
word out of my mother's mouth, " Old Trinity, as vou
call it, is no place for Catholics. Unless you want to
make a Protestant of Alfred, (as you're making an
attorney of poor George,) don't send him there."

" Kate is right, Harry," put in my mother. " If he
did not come back to us a thorough-going Protestant,
you would find him a very bad Catholic, and that, in
my opinion, is still worse. Why not send him to
Clongowes ? "

"Pshaw '."said my father,"! d >n't much like the
Jesuits — that's the truth ! "

" More shame for you ! " my mother answered, with
more asperity than she almost ever showed : " if you
were a more practical Catholic, my dear Harry, you
would never say so. It is always a bad sign to hear

iTT

.« ii

t:l ■'

!.< t

ELINOR PRESTON. .

Catholics saying they don't like Jesuits ; for, after all,
what order h^s done more for the advancement of re-
ligion ? what order has waged a more vigorous war-
Hire against the powers of darkness ? You yere quite
willing to send George there, and I should like to know
what the Jesuits have done since ? "

To this my father could only answer that George had
n'»t made such progress as he expected under the fathers
ofClongowes.

"That was his own fault, not theirs," said my mother,
quickly ; " you know — we all know that George is not
over studious or attentive. But, to cut the matter short,
my dear, I will never give my consent to send Alfred to
any Protestant institution while there are others to be had.
I should fear the responsibility attached to such a step."

" Certainly, Teresa, certainly," put in my aunt again,
" it would be a very shocking thing, indeed, if a Preston
fell awav from the true faith."

" Well, well, ladies ! have it your own way," said my
father, in his cheerful, off-hand way ; " I have too much of
the old family spirit, Kate, to wage war on the weaker sex.
I was only breaking a lance for the sake of amusement :
I am quite willing to take Alfred to Clongowes to-mor-
row, by way of making amends."

My mother said " Not q!'ite so soon," but it was
agreed upon that we should make a party on the follow-
ing Monday to escort Alfred to Clongowes. The in-
tervening days were days of bliss to us youngsters.
We had a regular succession of amusements in the
» shape <lf juvenile parties, visits to the Strawberry Beds,

ifter all,
it of re-
»us war-
re quite
bo know

rge had
fathers

mother,
e is not
r short,
Ifred to
be had.
. step."
again,
Veston

id my

|uch of

jr sex.

lent;

)-mor-

was
)llow-
le in-
[sters.
the
Jeds,

ELINOR PRESTON.

the Botanic Gardens, the Zoological Gardens in the
Park, and lastly, a pic-nic excursion to the Glen of the
Downs, one of the far-famed beauties of beautiful Wick-
low. Many a lovely spot is hidden among the wild
mountains of that region, from the romantic coast of
Bray to the enchanted solitudes of Glendalough, from
Powerscourt Waterfall to the world-renowned Meeting
of the Waters in the exquisite Vale of Avoca, where we
spent one of the last days that Alfred was with us. We
had lunch in the valley at a cottage belonging to a pro-
fessional friend of my father's. In the pleasant parlor
where we sat there was a bay-window draped with cle-
matis and woodbine and overlooking the famous conflu-
ence of the three rivers. As w^e sat there admiring the
prospect, and often again during that evening's ramble
through the Vale, how often did I murmur to myself in
the fullness of enjoyment —

"Sweet Vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest
In thy bosom of shade with the friends I love best,
When the storms which we feel in this cold world should cease.
And our hearts, like thy waters, might mingle in peace."

The appointed Monday came at last, and off we all
sallied to convey Alfred to his new destination. We
were accompanied by Miss Delany and a dandified
young gentleman who aspired to the possession of her
hand and fortune. Unluckily for himself he was much
given to the wearing of jewelry, affected a lisping accent,
and prafessed a great admiration of every thing foreign,
wiih a corresponding contempt of every thing Irish. He

ELINOR PRESTON.

was fain to pass for a travelled beau, anc talked in eo-
stacies of Rhineland and Alpine scenery, although he
had never set foot on the continental soil of Europe,
Now Miss Delany, notwithstanding her plebeian origin,
was a girl of fine taste and cultivated mind, and loved
her country as only an Irish girl can. If there was any-
thing in the world she hated it was foppery and affec-
tation, and she never spared either one or the other when
it fell under the lash of her caustic humor. She was,
however, a good natured, lively, off-handed girl, and her
reputed fortune more than made up for her want of per-
sonal attractions. With all our family she was an es-
special favorite, although Aunt Kate did, at times, "give
her a cut," as she said herself," about sugar casks and tea
canisters." Her mother was devoted to her housekeep-
ing, and seldom left the house, except to go to church,
which she did every morning of her life, for they lived
in Marlborough street, quite near the Church of the Con-
ception, the Metropolitan Church of Dublin. The father
was too much engrossed with business to visit much on
week days, so what time Maria could spare from her
mother she usually spent with us.

The fifteen miles from Dublin to Clongowes were
whirled over in less than two hours by the wheels of our
family carriage, a spacious, and rather old-fashioned ba-
rouche, drawn by a pair of handsome bays, (of whose
speed and other perfections my father was reasonably
proud,) and at four o'clock on that cloudless summer
afternoon we came in sight of the venerable looking pile,
once a baronial castle, now the chief Cbtablishment of

SLINOR PRESTON.

the Jesuits in Ireland. We young people being all tol-
erably well read in the history of medieval times, were
quite struck with the sight of the fine old building, its
noble p"^')ortions, massive towers, and battlemented
walls.

" Now, that is what I call an appropriate dwelling for
the sons of the martial Loyola, the most warlike of mod-
ern saints." This exclamation of Miss Dehiny made us
all smile. But she heeded us not, for her eyes were
fixed on the imposing edifice before us.

" Yes," said my mother, catching her thought, " those
strong towers are certainly emblematic of the hereditary
virtues which form the strength of the Society of Jesus,
and enable it to resist from age to age the unceasing
attacks of the enemy of souls. The ancient fortalice of
the Brownes has but changed masters — its destiny is still
the same. It is now the stronghold of faith, held for
Christ, by the valiant brethren of Xavier and Loyola."

" I shouldn't like to be a Jesuit," lisped young Dillon,
with a deprecating look at the heiress,

" I should think not, indeed," said Maria, pointedly ;
" pray, Mr. Dillon ! were you educated here 1 " And
she glanced furtively at my mother.

" Here ! — at Clongowes ! " he repeated in horror,
" why, no, Miss Delany ! I belong to Trinity— I
graduated there."

"Ah, indeed ! " said the sly Sultana, " I might have
known that without asking. Such good Catholics and
patriotic Irishmen can only come forth from Trinity
College, Dublin."

I:.'

ELINOR PRE8T0W.

The cool sarcasm of her tone staggered even Dillon^s
thick-skinned self-sufficiency. We all tried hard to keep
from laughing, while th(i beau answered, pulling up his
shirt-collar at the same time : " No Catholic, or Irish-
man, need be ashamed of an Alma Mater that gave
birth — literary birth — to Thomas Moore."

** Assuredly not ! " said the incorrigible Maria, in the
same cool, easy tone ; " Thomas Moore is a bright ex-
ample — he wrote Lalla Rookh and the Irish Melodies,
and many other fine things, no doubt, and left off going
to confession, or hearing Mass, or any other such old-
fashioned Catholic customs, soon after he entered the
halls of Trinity. I wouldn't give one farthing for the
Catholicity of young men brought up in any such insti-
tution. It is no longer the seamless robe — the livery
of our Lord's servants — but a tattered, filthy garment,
whose original color is no longer to be distinguished.
Faugh ! I can smell such creatures a hundred yards off,
and if I had my will they would be banished from civ-
ilized society. A man or a woman who, baptized a
Christian, can lose sight of his immortal destiny, and
rest his hopes on the pitiful vanities of this world, — its
glittering tinsel and its delusive promises, — is, in my
mind, only fit to associate with apes and monkeys."

" Glittering tinsel ! " cried Carry, aloud ; " what is
that ? Is it like Aunt Kate's dress, or what % "

Fortunately, Aunt Kate was not present, having ac-
cepted Alfred's offer to drive her out in the gig. As it
was. Carry's question served as a timely diversion for
poor Dillon, who, under cover of the laugh which fol-

\ -

ELINOR PRESTON.

lowed, managed to regain his self-confidence, terribly
shaken by Maria's caustic applications.

We had now reached the college gates, and my father,
who had all the way been unusually silent, roused him-
self from a profound reverie to hand out the ladies,
Dillon extended his hand with a gracious smile to Miss
Delanw, but the light-hearted girl bounded past him with
a merry laugh, and the discomfited youth stood looking
after her with a comical expression of blank amazement
depicted on his countenance. My father laughed heart-
ily, and tapping Dillon on the shoulder, said gayly :
"Never mind, Authur, never mind; *the worse luck
now, the better again,' you know. Come along, and see
Alfred made over to the Jesuits."

" May I have the honor. Miss Elinor ? " said the
dandy, presenting his elbow with a low bow — so very
low that I could not bring myself to refuse. So I took
his arm as my mother did my father's, and into the hall
we all went, and thence were shown into the reception-
room, — a noble apartment, ornamented with portraits of
the principal saints of the Society of Jesus. We were
very soon joined by the Superior, — a tall, dignified per-
sonage, rather in the decline of life, with a grave and
placid countenance, and a smile of winning sweetness.
He was already well acquainted with my father and
mother, and received us all with the simple, unaffected
urbanity which ever distinguishes the truly religious. He
inquired kindly for George, and seemed pleased to hear
that he was becoming rather more studious than usual.
In a few moments we were all quite at our ease ; and

ELINOR PRESTON.

Dillon so far forgot his professed dislike of the Jesuits,
as to partake with evident good will of the refreshmenta
offered by the good father.

Alfred was rather in low spirits at first, and the sight
of my niother's dejected countenance made him feel none
the bettor ; but the Superior managed to give the conver-
sation so cheerful a turn that the dullest of us caught its
genial influence, and when we came to bid good-bye to
Alfred, after a ramble through the college grounds, he
seemed perfectly satisfied to be left behind.

" You will find Alfred rather piously inclined, Father,"
said my dear mother, retaining the hand of her favorite
son yet another moment. " I have some hopes that he
may prove to have a vocation for your order."

" Indeed ! " said the Superior, with a smile ; " then,
if it be the will of God, we shall have in him a second
Stanislaus Kotska. A decided n^ aiifestation of piety ia
one so young — especially of our own sex — is very un-
common in this age of the world. George was not over-
burdened with piety. We have always considered that
his tastes and propensities were decidedly of a martial
character. He may make a good lawyer, but I am
rather inclined to doubt it, inasmuch as he has not pa-
tience enough to carry him through the earlier drudgery
of that profession."

My father expressed himself of a contrary opinion.
" Well, well ! " said the courtly priest, with his bland
smile, '* I dare say you know him best, Mr. Preston.
However, madam," to my mother, " we shall try hard
to make a Jesuit of your Alfred." , *

ELINOR PREflTOir.

He then bowetl us out, with many kind wishos f^r our
health and happiness. '* Of course they will," said my
aunt, as she took her seat in the carriage, my fither and
Carry being tc) return in the gig, with the stipulation, on
Carry's part, that she was to drive.

** What do you mean, my dear Kate 1 " inquired my
mother.

" Why, that they will be very sure to try hard to keep
Alfred in their order. It is not every day they happen
on a Preston. Well ! God grant him grace any how,
to have a true vocation — we can wish nothing better
for him ! "

It was now the cool of evening, and nothing could be
more reviving to mind or body than the balmy fresh-
ness of the air, richly laden, as it was, with the delicious
perfume of the hawthorn blossoms wafted from the
hedges on either side. Here and there from about the
stems of the bushes peeped out the blushing wild-rose,
its thin frail petals already moist with dew. The yel-
low primrose and the pale blue-bell enamelled tha green
sloping banks beneath the hedges ; an^ Dillon, as the
only gentleman in the carriage, had to get out more
than once to " make up a nosegay " for our petted Carry.

We were whirling along at a rapid rate towards one
of the outlets of the metropolis, when Carry clapped hep
hands joyfully and cried, " Stop, stop, I tell you ! — don't
you see Susy Broadigan there under the tree ? "

And sure enough, there sat Susy the apple-woman, by
the side of a large basket heaped with currants and
gooseberries, her staple article being not yet in market.

i \

ELINOR PRESTON.

She had overheard Carry *s exclamation, and her broad
red facii was radiant with smiles as she called out, "Ah !
then, God's blessin' be about you, Miss Carry dear !
sure it's yourself that's always glad to see poor Susy ! "
— rising, and making at the same time a low curtsey to
my mother ; " an' the rest o' the quality, long life to
them ! "

" Why, Susy," said my mother, " what biings you
out here 1 "

" Well, ma'am, to tell you the truth, I found business
a little slack the day in the city within, so I thought I'd
try my luck a little further, afore the fruit would begin
to spoil on my hands."

" Were you at the house to-day 1 " my mother asked.

"Oh ! yis, ma'am, I paid the cook a visit as usual this
mornin' early — ^bedad, it wouldn't do to neglect that,
for many a good bit an' sup I get there that the childrea
wouldn't have any other way ! The Lord reward you
an' yours, ma'am, an' may ye never want a friend when
ye need one ! I hope the master and the young gentle-
men are all well ! "

•* Very well indeed, thank you ! "

" The Lord keep them so," said Susy fervently, as she
popped herself down again on the stone which served
her for a seat.

All this time Dillon had been eying the fruit-vender
with a contemptuous, quizzical look, as though he con-
sidered her quite a curiosity, and, finding the carriage
about to move on. he thought he ought to raise a laugh
at her expense.

ELINOR PRESTON.

** I sny, Susanna ! " said he, " where do yt u buy your
paint? I do admire the color of your cheeks — it's lovely
— it's divine ! "

" What's that you say ? " cried Susy, in a raised voice ;
" is it axin' me whore I buy my paint — I'll soon tell you
that. Mister Arthur Dillon — I buy it where your ould
father bought his, when he used to be hawkin' knives
an' scissors an' things round the city, an* keepin' a stand
on Carlisle Bridge. Not but what he was a daeinter
man than ever t/oiCU be. D'ye hear that, sir 1 Sure
it's full of your fun your are this fine summer's evening ;
but that'll taehe you not to be makin' your game of
God's poor ! "

** Fie, fie, Susy," said my mother, '* why do you speak
so to the young gentleman 1 "

" Gentleman, indeed ! " cried Susy, disdainfully ; " he's
no more a gentleman, ma'am, than your coachman there.
I ax your pardon, ma'am, for makin' y^u such an an-
swer. Gentleman, indeed ! " she repeated, and we could
hear her grumbling and talking to herself as the carriage
drove off.

" Well, Mr. Dillon ! what do you think of Susy's
tongue ? " said Maria, with more than her wonted arch-
ness; "don't you think there is something in the old
proverb, that Ws ill meddling with edged tools ? " '

" What an excessively vulgar creature ! '* replied the
dandy, still laboring under the effects of his well-merited
castigation. ■'

" For whom do you intend that compliment 1 " said
Maria, laughing. • " For Susy or myself, which ? "

ELINOR PRESTON.

"*0h ! for Susy, of course," he replied with unusual
energy ; " could you for a moment suppose, my dear
Miss Delany, that any man could be found to speak to
y^^ in such terms ? " • •

" Can't say ! " replied the provoking fair one, with a
doubtful shake of the head, " tastes are different, you
know. I wonder now," she added, assuming a thought-
ful air, " how it would work were Susy and I to change
places. Were I selling gooseberries by the quart, and
Susy riding in a carriage in such good company, the real
or supposed inheritor of the goods and chattels of Miles
Delany, Esquire, of Marlborough street, in this city ; —
query : would not my elegance, etc., and her excessive vul-
garity, change sides 1 Ah, flattery ! your name is man ! "

Poor Arthur was so overpowered by the crushing
weight of Maria's sarcasm, following so quick on Susy's
fierce rebuke, that he kept silence the remainder of the
way, notwithstanding the good-natured exertions of my
mother and aunt.

But why indulge in these minute details of scenes so
long past — scenes which can now have little interest for
any, since most of the actors have passed from this
world. Still, these detached and fragmentary reminis-
cences have an indescribable charm for myself in the
loneliness and isolation of my present lot. I love to
people my solitude with forms from the past, from the
warm, sunny, well-remembered days of early youth,
when associates were all friends, loving and beloved, and
the veiled fu'iure shone with transcendent brightness in
the warm gl< w of young imagination. -Ah, futurity! fu*

ELINOR PRESTON.

turity ! how seldom do you pay back the golden prom-
ises of the youthful heart ! how seldom do you improve
on acquaintance ! Phantom ! — shadow ! what are you ?
You, whom we are always pursuing, but never overtake !
You, who promise so much, and do so little ! You,
who steal our life away moment after moment, with
your illusive hopes, till the gates of death bring us to a
sudden stand, and opening before us, reveal you to us,
real and substantial, in all the splendor of celestial bliss,
or the hideous misery of the infernal world. Futurity,
you delude me no longer — here, your power is at end—
the fever'sh dream is past, and I can look you in the face
without fear or hope, as regards this world.

From this time forward our family began to drop
off. About *a week after our visit to Clongowes, my
poor mother caught cold one evening, during a moon-
light stroll on the beach at Blaekrock, where we had
gone to spend a few days. Her constitution had never
been to say strong, and she had been visibly declining
since a few months after Carry's birth. This cold,
though at first considered of trifling importance, in the
end cost us that most precious life, for it ended at last
in rapid consumption, which in six weeks carried her to
the grave, and left us all desolate. It was nigl't, and a
sorrowful night to us. Alfred had been summoned from
college, and he and George hung over my mother's bed
with the still, mute sorrow of those who were about to
lose their h<^)pe, their pride — for my mother's rare ex-
cellence, her tender, loving heart, and her exquisite sym-
pathy 1)T our childish troubles, endeared her to us all,

ELINOR PRESTON.

while her lalents and accomplishments made us proud
of her. Her sons, especially, valued her worth ; and I
do not believe they, either of them, ever forgot the unut-
terable sorrow of that night, when, after receiving the
last rites with the beautiful dispositions of the true
Christian, she calmly breathed her last, having pre-
viously obtained a pronrise from my aunt that she would
never leave us. The final parting was much softened
to my dear mothor by Alfred's voluntary assurance that
he would, with God's assistance, join the Society of Jesus.

" Heaven bless you, my son ! " murmured the dying
parent — " Heaven bless you for that word. I am so
glad — so thankful ! "

" Well, mamma ! " said Emily, in her soft, sweet
voice, "if that makes you glad, I, too, can give you
pleasure. I will be a nun."

"A nun ! my beloved Emily ! — and w here ? "

" In Cabra Convent, mamma ! I have had it in my
mind ever since we were present at Helen Mooney's
reception."

My mother raised her feeble hands and eyes to
heaven in pious fervor ; then turning to me, she said,
with something like her wonted smile, "And what of
my Elinor 1 "

My heart was too full to answer, and I turned away
to hide my tears ; but Carry threw herself down beside
my mother, and whispered in her ear, "Mamma! I
won't stay here after you go. If God takes you, he
may just take me, too, and I want you to ask him, when
you go to heaven, if hw won't let me go,"

ELINOR PRESTON.

This touched my mother's heart more than all the
rest, for Carry was her youngest and best-beloved. So
great was her agitation, that my father was forced to
tear Carry away ; and he had barely time to return to
the bed-side, when the priest who had just entered made
a sign for us all to kneel, and to hush our wailing. He
at once commenced the prayers for the dying, and before
he had read them through, the sudden cessation of my
mother's laboring breath made him pause and look to-
wards her. She was dead ! and without giving us time
to discover our loss, he passed on to the prayers for the
the dead. Dreary transition ! who has not felt its awful
import ; what Christian has not shuddered at the thought
that the soul, which but a moment before animated that
lump of clay, is already before its Judge receiving its
eternal senter,v ? But how much more terrific is the
sudden cessat^ f the life-pulse, when the heart thus
stilled for ever was the heart that loved us best — when
the eye that has but now looked its last on this world,
was a lamp of light, a fount of love to us — when the in-
animate body before us is that of a beloved parent, the
head and heart of an entire family ! — ah ! it is then
indeed that death has a sting !

The hushed stillness of our sorrowing household
during many weeks of mourning was strangely con-
trasted with the whirl of wild excitement going on in
the W)rld without. It was the memorable year of *43,
whei the country was agitated ^

" From the centre all round to the sea," ^

Bi^INOR PRESTON.

with the outbursts of popular feeling on the great Repeal
question. The genius of O'Connell had evoked the full
measure of enthusiasm latent in the crushed heart of
Ireland, and the people arose the island over in the new-
born consciousness of numerical strength, determined to
have their rights — if they could be obtained without
bloodshed. Some there were who prognosticated that
■;he people, once thoroughly aroused and made sensible
of their own strength, would eventually cast off all re-
straint, break from their moorings, and launch out on
the broad sea of revolutionary excess. But these people
reasoned from analogy. They knew not the elements
of which Irish nationality is composed, or rather the
foundations on which it rests ; they knew not the deep
heart of Ireland, nor the hold which religion has on all
the feelings and faculties of the people. It was the year
of the monster meetings, perhaps the greatest moral
phenomena \his age of ours has witnessed. The voice
of the great liberator reechoed through the island, as
he called on the people to come forth in their might to
strengthen his arm in the great moral-force war he was
waging against the colossal power of England. And
the people obeyed his call, and, like Lazarus of old, they
came forth from the grave of sluggish despondency, alive
to their rights as men, and prepared to do the bidding
of the mighty master who held the fulcrum of the national
lever. Truly that was, as O'Connell himself wrote,
an unparalleled state of things, " with the people boiling
up at every side, \ ut still obedient, as if they were under
militiirv command. Not the least shadow of danger of

ELINOR PRESTON.

an outbreak, or of any violence — tranquillity the most
perfect." *

Our family, being in deep mourning, went but little
into public, so that we missed seeing many of the popu-
lar gatherings. My father, however, managed to see a
few of them, and even he, with his rather phlegmatic
temperament, contrived to catch a portion of the enthu-
siasm which pervaded all classes. He had gone in
O'ConnelFs train to MuUaghmast, and there witnessed
the first appearance of the great Repeal Cap^ with its
wreath of golden shamrocks. The all but military uni-
form of the Repeal leaders quite took his fancy, and
he could talk of nothing else for some days after. It
was nothing but how this one looked, and how that one
looked in " the uniform."

"And I'll tell you what it is, Kate," said he to my
aunt, who sat opposite in my mother's place, " if you
had seen Tom as he stood there on the hill by the side of
his chief, you wouldn't turn up your nose at him if he
came a-wooing again."

My aunt half-smothered a rising sigh. Perhaps she
did begin to repent of her cavalier treatment of Tom,
but it would never do to say so, and she cut my father
very short with an exclamation which was anything but
complimentary to the absent swain.

" Well, more fool you ! " said my father with assumed
seriousness ; " you'll never get such another chance while
your name is Kate Preston. Mind my words ! '*

• Priv \te lettef to Richard Lalor Shell, written in Richmond prison.

ELINOR PRESTON.

Aunt Kate smiled scornfully, and her barrel-curls lit-
erally rose on end in- a paroxysm of family pride. "For
a Preston," said she, *'wo marriage at all is better than
a low one. But I forgot," observing that he changed
color, " that cap fits too well — it is rather tight, I see."

" Well ! well ! Kate, for God's sake, let us not quar-
rel — there are but two of us in it now. Are you going
to Cabra to-day with the girls? Emily, my love,"
drawing her to him, " why are you in such a hurry to
leave us ? You will have all your life to spend in the
convent ; then why not give us a reprieve of some days
before you shut yourself up forever 1 "

" My dear papa," Emily replied, " life is short at the
best, and I have as yet done little for eternity. Every
day I spend here is so much more time given to the
gratification of self. In affiiirs of this kind, delays are
dangerous. Do not ask me to stay longer ! — do not,
papa — my own dear papa ! — if mamma were alive, you
know she would be glad to see me going for such a
purpose."

" She would be glad, and yet sorry, child," said my
father, in a tremulous tone, and pushing back his chair,
he walked to the window, leaving the chop which he had
taken on his fJlate, untasted. Two or three times he
cleared his throat, looked out into the street as though
much interested in something he saw there, then walked
back to where Emily sat, and laid his hand on her head :

^^ She would not have prevented you from going—
neither will I, Emily. I feel it is the will of God, and
I know it is all for the better. I'll be home about three

ELINOR PRESTOir.

i^-fio mind, and be all ready for the start." He wai
going, but my aunt called after him :

" Why, Harry, you have eaten nothing. Come back
and finish your breakfast ! "

But my father only smiled and shook his head as he
vanished through the doorway. For myself, I had not
been able to say a word, for somehow my heart was
heavy — very heavy, as though with a sad presentiment
of evil.

George had had an early breakfast, ana ' . as gone to
his office, and Carry was staying with a friend at Rath-
mines ; so our family-party was small that morning. It
was " growing small by degrees," as we sensibly felt,
at times.

As soon as breakfast was over, Emily said to me, in a
low voice, that she would like to see mamma's grave once
more — "just to take a last look," she added with a smile
that was painfully sad and tender.

" What's that she says ? " inquired my aunt, whose
hearing was rather impaired of late. I repeated Emily's
words.

" Poor child ! poor child ! " murmured the soft-hearted
old maid, " it's only right she should have her wish.
Run, Elinor dejir, and tell Larry to get out the carriage.
But stay ! stay ! — I'll ring ! — it is not the thing for
young ladies to give such messages to servants — that is,
men-servants."

She rang accordingly, and imperative commands were

transmitted to Larry to lose no time in getting out the

carriage.

6 \

I ':,

ELINOR PRESTON.

" Lord bless my sowl ! " said Larry, from the foot of
the kitchen stairs, " isn't the ould madam in the d — 1 of
a hurry this morning ! — I hope she'll wait till we feed
the horses anyhow ! — I suppose they want a bite as well
as their neighbors ! "

We were passing through the hall at the time and the
sound of Larry's grumbling voice reached my aunt's ear,
** What is the fellow talking about 1 " olie said, raising
her own voice at the same time.

" Oh ! nothing in the world, Miss," replied the sup-
ple-tongued groom still from below, " only about the
horses, the cratures ! — I'm goin' to give them a bite of
oats, an' after that, Miss, we'll be ready in no time."

We drove to Glassnevin, and each of us, not except-
ing Aunt Kate, had " a good cry " over my dear mother's
grave. Emily, in particular, remained long kneeling
with her face bowed down over the monumental stone
which recorded the name and age of the deceased, with
the customary prayer for the repose of her soul. Having
indulged our grief for some time beside the narrow house
wherein the dearest of parents awaits the resurrection,
we paid a short visit of charity to the grave of Mrs.
Delany, who had gone the way of all flesh some few
weeks before.

Shall any one ever read this story who has \isited
Cabra Convent in the summer time ? Does that vision
of perfect beauty (the still, calm beauty of a convent)
and of exquisite neatness rise before the reader's mem-
ory, as he or she looks through blinding tears, as I do
jftow, on the page of my simple story ? Did any one

•!* - -»

I
\

ELINOR PRESTCr.

ever see a richer profusion of flowers, and especially
roses — red, blushing roses of every species ! — than the
good nuns of Cabra have trained around their home 1
Even the far-foined roses of the vale of Cashmere, albeit
that our national poet describes them as

«.

roses the brightest that earth ever gave/'

could hardly exceed the roses of Cabra as I now see
them bloom through the softening haze of memory.
The house itself, the little chapel, the dormitories, the
well-kept grounds and nicely-pebbled walks, are all in
perfect keeping, making up a scene

" Where holy contemplation loves to dwell."

And the gentle, graceful inmates, with their bland at-
tention to visitors, their soft, low voices all attuned to
harmony — what wonder is it that so many of their pupils
return, after a few years experience of the bustling, noisy,
frothy world, to seek peace and happiness in that earthly-
paradise. Sweet Cabra ! — home of my infant years-
home of my sister's heart — how often do I think of your
" hush'd repose," and ask within myself,

Are the thrush and the linnet a-singing there jet,
Are the roses still bright over Emily's grave ?

But where was T ? somewhere about our starting for
the convent. Well! we left Emily thee that same af-
ternoon, and on the following morning we drove out
again to see her received j a ceremony which is one of

ELINOR PRESTON.

the most touching within the whole range of the Catholic
ritual. Never had our Emily looked so beautiful as she
did when, having exchanged her rich, light-colored satin,
(worn that day especially for contrast,) she returned up
the aisle habited as a novice of the Presentation Order,
and bearing a lighted taper, her small, chiselled features
shaded by a close cap, and her dark, lustrous eyes hidden
beneath thnir long drooping lashes. My father wept as
his eye followed her, and George had enough to do " to
keep in," as he told us after. My aunt put her handker-
chief to her eyes more than once with that graceful deli-
cacy of touch on which she prided herself not a little.
When all was over, and we on our way home, (Carry
having gone back some half dozen times, to snatch a
last kiss from Emily,) Aunt Kate said that Emily looked
every inch a Preston — " she really did ! " said she ; " and
somehow she reminded me all the time of my cousin
Maude Preston, who was afterwards abbess of an
English convent."

" Was that the steward's daughter, Kate 1 " said my
father, somewhat maliciously. *

"She was the daughter of Lord Wiltshire's agent,
Harry," said my aunt very stiffly, as she bent over to
arrange Carry's wayward curls, the glossiest and fairest
of ringlets. 1 should say in parenthesis, that Carry had
been sent for on the previous evening in order to witness
Emily's reception.

" Well, whatever she was," said my father, with some-
thing like his old smile, *'she was no disgrace to the
family if she 1 »oked like my Emily. ^ And again the

ELINOR PRESTON.

tears filled his eyes and chuked his \\ ice. Ilis paternal
heart was full.

To this proposition my aunt eheerfiilly assented, and
then a loiig pause ensued, — and before any of us was
aware that we were so near the city, the carriage rattled
over the rough, antique pavement of Stoney-batter, and
on through the rather stylish thoroughfares of Queen
street and Blackhall place. Poor Dublin ! dear Dub-
lin ! how familiarly do your streets and squares rise be-
fore me, though years have passed — long, changeful
years — since I trod them last. But who that knew you
as I knew you has ever forgotten you or yours, beloved
metropolis of my own dear land ! — who that has known
them can ever forget the warm, loving hearts, and buoy-
ant spirits, and cultivated taste, that made your sons
and daughters the best, and kindest, and mcst fascinatir^
of companions !

!^ *.

KLINOR PRESTON.

CHAPTER III,

f..

■Ill

HAT very evening my poor aunt
complained of a bad headache, to
k which she was by no means subject.
The usual simple remedies were ap-
plied, but without success. All the night she kept
moaning and turning from side to side ; and as soon as
my father saw her in the morning, he went off himself
for the family doctor. The good old gentleman was
indeed like one of the family, having been for some
twenty years prescribing for its members, young and
old, big and little. "When he looked at my aunt he
shook his head, whereat she was alarmed, and asked if
he thought there was any danger.

" Why, not exactly danger, my dear Miss Preston,
but there's nothing like taking things in time. A stitch
in time, you know, saves nine. Please to hand me a
basin, Miss Elinor, and an old ribbon ? "

" Why, surely, doctor, you're not going to bleed me—
why, I never was bled ! "

" The more reason why you must be bled now. I
Buppose it's a bad lave-fit we have, Miss Preston, and

t ■

ELINOR PRESTON.

there's nothing better for that than to draw a little Mood.
ft cools the system, you see. Tliank you, Miss Elinor!
— take care of this love, my dear! — it's a terril»Ie thing
indeed, very ! There, now. Miss Preston — hold out your
arm ! Preston, my dear fallow ! hold this hasiii, will
you 1 Young ladies, go into the next room a minute —
we'll call when we want you. Don't look so frightened,
Carry, my pet! I'm not going to kill your aunt! I'm
not, indeed ! — When Tom the Great failed to finish her
— though between him and his leader they did make a
murderous attiiek on Iut nerves ! — but when they failed,
an old fogy like myself needn't try. Go i long, now,
like good girls ! Now, Miss Preston, senio,; — ahem —
ahem! — Miss Kate Preston, let us see what a i>oldi'.r
you'll be. Keep still for one moment, and that's all
we'll ask !"

" One moment, doctor ! " said my aunt, "just .a©
moment, if you please ! — I fear there is no use in breed-
ing, or anything else — Jenny, the housemaid, saw my
fetch after dark last night ! "

"And what if she did 1 "

"And we have had sheets on the candles every .jght
this month past."

" Come, come, now ! Miss Preston, I'll hear no more
of this nonsense — 1 hope to dance at your ; Iding yet ;
80, in order that I mayn't be disappointed, nuld out your
arm, I command you ! "

When Carry and I were summon d back into the
room, we found my aunt pale as a ghost, with her arm
tightlv bandaged, and the doctor preparing a sedative at
a table near the window.

I I

{

ELINOR PRESTON.

" What's your opinion, doctor *? " said my /ather, as he
accompanied tho doctor down stairs.

" Not the shadow of a chance, my dear sir. At least,
I fear so. She has a complication of disorders which
can hardly fail at her time of life to prove fatal. Still,
we must try to keep up her spirits — she may linger for
some weeks to come." ^

"And that's all 1 "

"All ! my good friend ! — all we can expect. Good-
morning ! But that's true, — did you hear that the
meeting at Clontarf was prevented by a proclamation % "

" No, indeed ! I've heard nothing — haven't seen a
paper to-day yet. But is that a fact % '*

" Fact, my dear sir ! positive fact ! Here's the
Nation^'' taki'^g it from his pocket. " Good-bye ! good-
bye ! I have an urgent case in Fitzwilliam square ! "

Just two weeks from that day, my poor aunt was
carried to Glassnevin Cemetery, and laid beside my
mother. During her illness a remarkable change had
taken place in her habits of thought. The ruling passion
was not (in her) strong in death. Her pride of ancestry
was no longer the same, and even the glory of that
idolized progenitor who figure^ in the grand Catholic
Confederation of 1641, had waxed dim and hazy in the
far regions of memory — albeit that it was wont to stand
in the foreground of my poor aunt's mind, full in the
light of her vivid imagination. For several days we
had carefully avoided any allusions to the possibility of
her approaching death, believing her in blissful ignorance
of her danger. But such was not the case. In the deep

ELINOR PRESTON.

stillness of one dreary night, when she opened her eyes
after a heavy slumber and saw my father dozing in a
neighboring /ffw^C'MiV — he had pertinaciously insisted on
" sitting up " that particular night with me, while the
nurse slept — she beckoned me to approach, and said in
her hollow, husky voice :

" You shouldn't; have let your father sit np, my dear
— poor Harry ! he has his business to attend to to-mor-
row. Didn't I hear him telling the doctor this evening
that the place at the Curragh was to be sold ofl'some of
these days 1 "

" 1 — I think so, aunt — but don't — pray don't — fret
about such things."

My aunt smiled sadly. " No, no, my dear ! I'm be-
yond fretting now. Time was when I'd have worn my-
self off my feet about such a thing, but I have other
matters to think of now. I'm going fast, my dear ! "

" Where to, Kate ? " cried my father, waking up with
a start.

" To the other world, Harry," my aunt replied, with
solenm earnestness.

" Nonsense, Kate ! don't talk so wildly — you are
worth two gone people yet."

My aunt shook her head. "It's truth I tell you,
Harry — like it or not. Now listen to me, both of you.
You know that miniature of my father, set with jewels —
Elinor, my child ! you know the little drawer where it
is, in ray bureau ] "

" Yes, aunt—"

" But what on earth do you mean, Kate," exclaimed
my father.

ELINOR PRESTON.

" I'll tell you that. You will take it to-morrow to
Bomc respectable jeweller — mind, I say respectable, so
that he'll not choiit you — and get the setting taken off."

"And what for, pray ? "

"Why, I want you to have a decent month's mind —
as many priests as you can get together — and you must
make each of them a handsome offering."

My father cleared his voice before he ventured to ask,
" Do you think I'd have neglected that, Kate 1 Or do
you suppose I can't afford it without defacing a Preston
relic? Why, only think," — he endeavored to disguise
his real feelings beneath an appearance of levity, — " such
an insult offered to the fiimily would be quite enough to
make every soul of them start from their graves.
What ! sell the jewels off a Preston's portrait — and that
Preston our own fiither! Are you in your senses,
Kate?"

" I am, Harry, perfectly sane, I assure you. It is now
that I am in my senses. Within sight of the gates of
death, all worldly distinctions fade away and are no
more seen. Standing before the judgment-seat, what is
a Preston more than any one else ? " She paused, raised
her eyes to heaven, and her lips moved as in inward
prayer. !My father and I were both awed by the so-
lemnity of her tone, and the sudden change effected in
her mind. Neither of us could utter a word. My aunt
went on : " Faith, not family, will avail before God, and
good works he will demand froi.i us, not honors or titles.
Brother, and you, my precious Elinor ! I have scanda-
lized you, it may be, by my foolish pride of family, and

ELINOR PRESTON.

many a cut I have given to her who is now, I trust, in
the glory of hcfiven, — for all that, I ask your pardon,
and hope you'll remember me in your prayers ; indeed,
my heart was never hard or cruel, though I did some-
times act as if it was. 'lay the Lord forgive me my
sins ! "

By this time we were both in tears, my father cover-
ing his face with his hands, and weeping like a very child.
My aunt endeavored to console us with many kind
words, but firmly insisted on having my father's prom-
ise to dispose of the setting of the miniature next day,
according to her desire. The promise was reluctantly
given.

"And now, Elinor," said my aunt, turning with a
pleased smile to me, " you must take the world on your
shoulders when I'm gone. You're very young, my
child, to be tied down to the care of a house, but you
must do your duty — there's no one else for it."

My answer was prevented by the entrance of the
nurse, and my father soon after left the room. That
was our last conversation with poor Aunt Kate. In the
course of the following day she became delirious, and
so continued until within a few hours of her death, when
she had barely strength to take leave of us all. One
of her last acts was to have all the servants brouiiht into
the room, and, although she could hardly speak, she held
out her hand to each, and requested them one and all to
pray for her.

*' I ask your pardon," she said, or rather tried to say,
"if I ever h« rt your feelings in any way."

ELINOR PRESTON.

A chorus of lamentation was the answer. "Oh! oh!
oh ! Miss Preston, dear, sure you never did ! God
knows you were always good and kind to us — ^barrin*
the bit of pride, an' sure that was only natural."

" May the Lord receive you in glory, Miss ! " sobbed
Larry the groom ; " sure it's lonesome we'll be without
you. An' that's jist what I was sayin' to your old fa-
vorite, brown Paudeen, abroad this mornin'. 'Paudeen,'
says I to him, * the ould mistress — Lord bless me ! what
am I savin' at all — the mistress — Miss Kate, I mane —
is goin' to leave us ; you'll have nobody now, Paudeen,'
says I, * except poor Larry Monaghan to praise your fine
paces. Ah then, Miss, dear ! " — he was suddenly inter-
rupted by my father, who, placing his hand on his mouth,
pointed towards the door. My aunt had swooned away,
and we all thought her dead. We could hear the other
servants administering verbal correction to poor Larry
in subdued whispers as they descended the back stairs,
but we were all too desolate at the moment to relish or
even notice anything ludicrous.

My aunt was not dead, but she died that evening, and
her death was, as it were, a renewal of our still greater
loss. No one ever dreamed that poor Aunt Kate would
be so mis5iHi as she somehow was. The very eccen-
tricities, or. as it were, singularities of her character,
which had, in life, knocked against every one, were now
only rememVK?red as so many agreeable traits in a di«»-
position oth'Twise warm and genial, and every body
seemed tacitly to acknowledge that the good old ladjr
was all the more loveable for her quaint, old-fashioned

ELINOR PRESTON.

ways, and little harmless foibles. Peace be to her !—
^she was herself most exemplary in her charitable re-
membrance of the dead, and many a fervent prayer was
offered up for herself when it came to her turn to dis-
appear from mortal eye. During the three nights of
the wake, the house was crowded with friends and well
wishers of almost every class. Up stairs, my father and
George presided over the hospitable arrangements, aided
by Maria Delany and one or two other friends of the
family, while the world below, consisting of former ser-
vants, male and female, the various tradesmen and work-
ing-people, together with beggars not a few, were duly
entertained by Larry and his wife Nancy, who had been
our cook for more years than she cared to own now
that she found herself in the decline of life. The Rosary
was said both above and below about the middle of each
night, and 'it was a thing to be remembered, the sudden
cessation of laugh and jest, and all the varied sounds of
promiscuous conversation, followed instantly by the
deep, full, measured tones of those who answered the
Rosary. Above and below, the whole house was simul-
taneously filled with the voice of prayer — prayer oftered
up to the throne of grace on behalf of her who slept so
tranquilly on her snowy couch, looking fairer and much
younger than we had seen her for years and years.

" By the hokey," said Larry, when, the long prayers
being ended, he rose and rubbed his stiffened knees, — '* By
the hokey, Nancy, we're all in need of a drop after that.
It was as much as ever myself could do to keep my eyes
open. Sure enough there's a temptation on people when
7

ELINOR FRESTOir.

I
I

they're at their prayers. I think the ould gentleman below
puts lead on our eyelids — bad scran to him for a
schemer ! — well ! here's confusion to hira at any rate,
and may he never get a claw on any one we wish well !
Come now, all of you, drink that toast — don't be mouthin'
at it. Bedad ! " he added, smacking his lips, as he set
down his own empty glassy-emptied, as he 'said, " for
the sake of example " — " bedad, now, that's what I call
real good : don't be afeared of it, ladies, it's Kinahan'i
malt, you know. Mild as new milk."

Just then Larry was called on for a song, and he
executed, accordingly, with much good will, if not with
much voice or skill, one of the stirring ballads of the
O'Connell era, then in its last and most gloomy days.
The song, though lively and patriotic in itself, struck a
plaintive chord in the hearts of all within hearing, for
times had changed, and the great chief who had so long
wielded the nation's energies was now the occupant of a
prison — the victim of English jealousy. Before Larry
had finished the last stanza, lying back in his chair with
legs outstretched and eyes upraised towards the ceiling,
he was interrupted by several voices : " Hut, tut, Larry !
what sort of a song is that you're givin' us 1 " " Sure
people's hearts are heavy enough and black enough too,
without you remindin' us of days that'll may-be never
come again.'* " Can't you give us a touch of love or
murder, Larry?" "Something sorrowful in honor of
the ould madam ! " This last call was from Susy, the
apple- woman, who was thire in her glory.

All this and more was heard distinctly up stairs, the

ELINOR PRESTON.

doors being all open on such an occasion f,s that and
many a smile was exchanged, and many a curt, sly re-
mark, apropos to what Wiis passing in the kitchen.
Various little by -plays were also going on among " the
quality," not the least amusing being Arthur Dillon's
persevering attentions to Miss Delany, who still "gave
him the cold shoulder," as some of the company whis-
pered to each other.

Thus did the three nights pass away, the three long
nights that would have been so dismal, the loneliness of
death half removed by the cheerful presence of so many
cordial, sympathizing friends. On the morning of the
funeral, a temporary altar w^as fitted up in the front
parlor, and my aunt's spiritual Director offlred up the
Holy Sacrifice for the repose of her soul, in presence
of the crowd who had come to attend the funeral.

That was the last great funeral that ever took place
in our family. From that time the st\r of our fortune
was on the wane, and the number of our friends began
to diminish wonderfully. Carry was sent to Cabra for
her education, and what little housekeeping was to be
done, devolved on my inexperienced self. The common
herd of visitors had deserted us, and so ne of our best
and truest friends were scattered hither and thither by
the wayward course of human affairs. Oiio was sent as
consul to the south of Europe, others v/ere attending
parliamentary duties in London, and one or two were,
like ourselves, gradually sinking in the social scale.
For them the care of their own broken fortunes was
more than suiHcient. Many an ancient and honored

ELINOR PRESTON.

fiimily fell from its high estate in Ireland, during those
years of commercial depression — that dismal lull which
followed the extinction of the great Repeal movement,
and ushered in the Famine. It was a time of hopeless,
joyless, public despondency ; and every family in the
kingdom, from high to low, shared more or less in the
general depression.

It was just about the time when the greatest of living
Irishmen — the mighty enchanter whose wand had waked
all Ireland from the sleep of ages, set out, — a frail and
drooping and broken-hearted old man, — on a pilgrimage
of love to the City of the Apostles. The metropolitan
city w as overshadowed with gloom, and the hearts of its
usually gay inhabitants were chilled and heavy. Few
there were who escaped the contagion, but of that num-
ber was our lively friend Maria Delany. Her father
had died the year before, and it was found, contrary to
all expectation, that his affairs were in anything but a
prosperous condition. Maria, so far from being an
heiress, was found almost penniless when the estate was
wound up ; and yet the light-hearted girl was as gay and
mercurial as ever, saving the natural sorrow for her
father's death. And, peace be to his ashes! worthy
Mr. Delany was no better than he should* be to his wife
and daughter. He w^as a hard, shrewd man — a regular
skinflint, who had loved money "not wisely, but too
well " — a fact which made the final announcement as lo
the state of his affairs one of the greatest enigmas that
had f<»r years come before the Dublin public. Poor
Maria los. ground amazingly in the world of fashioa

ELINOR PRBSTOir.

It is true she kept herself aloof from it ^together, oat
of respect to the memory of her parents ; but under other
circumstances, it would have pursued her into any re-
tirement she might have chosen. Ilud she still been an
heiress, even though Mahomet did not go to the moun-
tain, the mountain would have gone to Mahomet ; but
the attraction no longer existed, and, for all her fashion-
able friends and quondam admirers cared, " that dear,
sweet, lively creature. Miss Delany," might have bo-
taken herself to Jericho, or any other out-of-the-way
place where her deep mourning would notciist a spectral
shade on their worldly pleasures. She had gijnc to
board in a private family out at Rathmines, and report
said that she was actually teaching for her living. Poor
Maria ! That report set the seal on her reprobation,
and she was consigned to the region of utter darkness,
where the smiles of fashion never penetrated. There
were still one or two families of her former friends with
whom Maria kept up an intimacy, and ours was one of
these.

The year of Maria's mourning had just expired, when
who should pop into our drawing-room one fine sum-
mer's day but my lady herself, and who, of all others,
should she have with her, but Arthur Dillon, who, to do
him justice, looked more the man than wc had ever
seen him. The moustache had disappeared fiom his
smooth upper lip, and his features seemed actually to
have attained fuller and more masculine dinuiisions.
We could hardly believe our eyes, and Maria laughed
at our visible bewilderment till the tears ran down her

ELINOR PRESTON.

cheeks Dillon, too, smiled in a way that neither Carry
nor I could understind.

*' Do you know what brought us here this morning ? "
said Maria, at length, when she had succeeded in com-
posing her features.

**1 really can't tell," I replied, "but I should think it
was something very funny."
/ * *' So it is, child — isn't it, Arthur ? — now open your

* Y ®*rs wide, Elinor, and you, ma petite Carry ! — we've
* come to ask you to our wedding ! "

" To your wedding ! "

" Just so : we're to be married next week— on
Tuesday, I believe. Why do you stare so, you strange
girl ? don't you think I have kept this poor youth long
en«nigh in suspense 1 There's no knowing what he
might do if I tampered longer with his feelings — eh,
Arthur ? "

" Well, but Maria — I never thought "

"Of course you didn't — who asked you to think any-
thing about it ? Now listen to me, girls ! — we're going
to have the affair very private — very private, indeed.
There will be none invited but your family — and old
O'Shaughnessy of course, on George's account — the Dil
Ions — and that's all — isn't it, Arthur ? "

" Just as you like, my dear Maria ! — I have told you
80 repeatedly."

There was an unnatural tremor in poor Arthur's voice,
and a flush on his cheek that showed his inward
agitation. The fact is, he seemed as one in a pleasing
dream, and ei dentlj' feared to speak or move lest the

ELIKOR PREBTOK.

Dlissful illusion should vanish; that !Maria should ever
8pcak rationally or condescendingly to him — to him who
had so long been the butt of her koen sarcasm and
laughtir-loving propensity; above all, that she should
smile graciously on his year-long suit, and actually per-
mit him to hope, was something so very unexpected
that steadier minds tbm Dillon's might have been
staggered. And Maria lorded it over him with a ven-
geance, but still in that easy, good-natured way that no
one could resent, and he least of all. The best of it
was, that she drew very freely on Arthur's purse while
making her preparations. It is true he gave her in the
first place a check for a considerable sum, but she
managed to dispose of it with so much ease that even 1
could not help expressing my surprise, when, taking
me into another room on that particular morning, she
told me of it.

"Why, Maria, you have not spent all that^ surely?"

"Bless )'our heart, my dear! to be sure I have.

Arthur can well afford it. Now, aren't you dying to

know how all this came to pass in so short a time ? " I

ackn(»\vl(^dgcd my curiosity.

"Well ! you know, or must know, that of all the can-
didates who sought my hand before the time of my
father's death — may the Lord have mercy on him !
Arthur Dillon was the only one that persevered through
thick and thin. All the others fairly deserted—yes,
©very soul of them ; and what am I to do ? Unless I make
up my mind ' to die an old maid,' as the song says, why,
I must e'en take what I can get. Besides," she added.

ILINOR IREBTOir.

^ 1.

lit '**

■till in the same bantering tone, " I have been so long
teasing the poor fellow who clung to mo so pertina-
ciously, that it hcciiine a second nature to me, and I reully
never could get along without him. Poor Arthur ! " shu
looked at him as she said this, and her eyes, moist with
tears, told of a much deeper feeling in his regard than
the levity of her speech denoted. I could not then un-
derstimd all this, but I have often thought of it sinco-^
and little wonder it was that the poor fellow's devotion,
surviving fortune, position, nay ! youth itself, should
touch a heart so warm and generous as Maria's. She
had learned, by dear-bought experience, that his foppery
and apparent egotism went no further than the surface,
and that there were qualities rare and precious hidden
far down in the depths of his heart, which few gave him
credit for possessing at all.

My father was both amused and pleased when ho
heard the news. " Well ! " said he, " if that isn't a
strange fancy of Maria's she never had one, and we have
seen her have a reasonable number of odd fancies. Still
I think she might do worse. The Dillons arc well off,
and poor Arthur may get to to more of a man when ho
has a sensible wife. That shaving of his upper lip is a
good sign. He'll come to his senses, never fear."

On the following Tuesday Maria Dclany 1: ecame tho
wife of Arthur Dillon, and Carry and I were bridesmaids.
The wedding was held at the Dillon mansion, and to do
the old couple justice, they were as cordially attentive to
the bride as though she could have brought thousands to
the family coffers. The wedding-party was small but

ILINOR PRlSTOir.

we I chosen, and we had n right merry day of it. We
all drovo out to Bray, and lunched d la champetre with
in sight of the blue sea-wave. Ileturning to town for a
six oVlock dinner, we found Mr. O'Shaughncssy in luxu-
rious possession of an arm-chair near one of the windows,
and the old gentleman was apparently in excellent
humor. According as the dinner-hour approached his
hilarity seemed to increase, until it actually reached a
state of effiTvesccnce. It seemed strange to us that he
kept watching the entrance of the few additional guests
with almost feverish impatience, and when at last Mrs.
Dillon, senior, said, ** Well, now ! I believe that's all ! "
Shaugh (as he wjis technically called) started up and
thrust his right hand into his vest pocket with a very
oratorical air. . -t^ ▼"

" Are you sure you expect no one else, Mrs. Dillon ? "
he asked, abruptly.

" Quite sure, Mr. O'Shaughnessy."

" Well ! in that case," said the man of law, " we have
a little business to transact."

"But bless my soul, Shaugh ! " put in my father, "is
this a proper time for business 1 why, man, dinner will
be on the t'tble — I hope — in five minutes."

"Even so — business can*t wait, as the saving is.
Arthur Dillon ! you are aware that I was legal adviser
to the late Mr. Delany — rest his soul. in peace ! "

"I know it, sir," said Arthur, looking very sheepish.
He evidently feared that something bad was coming.
He looked at his father, and his father looked at him.
Maria and the lawyer too, exchanged glances, and both

1^,

ft t ,

ELINOR PRSBTUN.

smiled. Curiosity was depicted as plainly as could be on
every flice, but no one spoke until the lawyer, having leis-
urely surveyed us all through his gold spectacles as
though enjoying our surprise by anticipation, took from
his pocket a very legaMooking document which he said
he would read for our special enlightenment. This docu-
ment proved to be the will of the late Mr. Deluny, which,
after various legacies, and a bequest to his parish church,
secured to his daughter Maria the sum of ten thousand
pounds, being the residue of his fortune.

Various exclamations of surprise escaped from all
present. People could hardly relieve their ears. As
for Arthur Dillon, he looked anything at all but exhilara-
ted, and I really believe that he was sorry to find Maria
still an heiress. Mr. Dillon, senior, looked very hard at
the lawyer, shrewd man of business as he was, being
much inclined to view the whole as a practical joke, but
the lawyer nodded to him in a friendly, confidential way,
as though he had said, " All right, old friend ! " Where-
upon the new-made father-in-law took out his snuff-box
and handed it to his legal friend, with a countenance ex-
pressive of unlimited satisfaction. Maria herself, tired,
as she said, of being stared at, drew me after her to the
deep recess of a window, telling Arthur, in a very author-
itative manner, to stay where he was. The discomfited
bridegroom was fain to smile, and resume the seat from
which he. had risen with unusual alacr'ty. Maria's de-
parture was the signal, it appeared, for unbridling the
company's tongues, for there was an instant clatter of
voices, each one giving vent to his or her surprise in all

ELINOR PRESTON,

the various notes of the gamut. Maria pressed the arm
whieh she had drawn within her own, and whispered me
to listen. "I have just left them to t^ilk the wonder
out," said she; "and besides, I couldn't have kept from
laughinjT another minute, they were all in such a comical
sttite of bewilderment. Only listen, Nell ! "

** So Dolany's money was safe and sound after all ! "
said one.

" Small thanks to it for that," said another ; " never
was monev bi-tter taken care of. Not a man in Dublin
knew the value of a penny better than the same Luke
Delanv."

" I never cottld understand," cried a third, " how Luke's
affairs came to be in a bad way, so this makes it all
straight."

" But what a sly trick it was for Miss Delany to play.
Didn't she do us all nicely — herself and Shaugh? I tell
you what it is, Shaugh, I never thought you had so much
mischief in you ! "

The man of parchment chuckled in a way peculiar to
himself " TLa ! ha! ha! — haven't spent fivc-and-twenty
years about the Four Courts for nothing, Mrs. Arthur
Dillon very extravagant in hor purchases — eh, ladies?—
drawing too freely on the matrimonial purse that was to
be! — ha! ha! — well for Master Arthur he didn't keep
the strings too close — if he had, self and client wouldn't
have dropped in this golden luck-penny. A useftil lesson,
we hope, to all suitors for ladies' hands in generr.l ! Free
and easy, gents, free and easy — ^that's the way to win
them ; shave the upper lip like Christian men, and don't

ELINOR PRESTON.

! 1

affect fiircign manners, which interpreted means pujv
pyisin."

"Dinner on the table!" said the butler, throwing
open the door with an official jerk, Mr. Dillon, senior,
instantly made his bow to Maria under the curtains, my
father offered his arm to her graciously-smiling mother-
in-law, while Arthur took my hand with something of
his former affectation, and down we marched to dinner,
the others pairing off according to the good pleasure of
the gentlemen.

During the time of dinner Arthur was very rational
indeed. It was only once or twice that he made a little
excursion into the land of fable, but Pegasus was now
bridled, and had his wings clipped. Maria had become
an interested party, and instead of drawing Arthur out,
as was her wont in times past for the amusement of the
company, she now adroitly turned the conversation into
another cliannel. Many of the company saw her object,
and cheerfully assisted in carrying it out, so that Arthur
escaped with flying colors.

" Well ! " said Maria to me, when we found ourselves
snugly seated together in a corner of the large drawing-
room, shaded by a high-backed chair, — " Well ! don't
you think Arthur is improving already 1 "

*'I believe he is," 1 replied, with a smile.

" Aye ! but why do you laugh ?— depend upon it,
there is a jewel within that casket, and with God's help
I mean to bring it out in all its native lustre. The little
crust of affectation must and shall disappear."
' " May God assist you ! you have done much already !"

ELINOR PRESTOir.

" God tvill assist me — I have no doubt of it. Arthur
has an excellent heart, and, what is a still great<*r se-
curity, he has a profound reverence for religion. At the
worst of times no one ever heard him speak lightly of
anything connected with religion. Had such been the
case, he had never been my husband, fur, after all, there
is no trusting man or woman who has not a proper re-
spect for the things that are of God."

Just then I was summoned to sing "The Light of
Other Days," then and for long after one of the reigning
favorites in the arena of vocal music. Alas ! that such
songs should ever become "antiquated," or banished
from the drawing-room at the bidding of that addle-
headed monster — that pretentious fool — in modern par-
lance yclept fashion ! It seems to me that in this re-
spect the Dubliners are far ahead of many others. Songs
there retain their hold on the heart, and wield dominion
over the charmed circle more in proportion to their
merit both as regards poetry and music; and you will
seldom find a noble song with a nobler air dismissed
the Dublin salons, and huddled away in comers among
old neglected music, for the sole reason that it is " too
old;" — the very words are suggestive of some lisping
daiidy, or some singing-bird in petticoats called " a
musical young lady," neither of them naving brains
enough or taste enough to appreciate true p<jetry or true
music. The citizens of Dublin can, as I have said, relish
a good song, even though it be none of the newest ; and
yet, stran ge to say, there is no city (not even excepting
London or Paris) whose judgment is more highly re«
8

ELINOR PKESTOK.

« ft

spected l»y the inuslcal artists of every age. It is, I b^
lieve, au iiKlisjuitable fact, that the singer or the actor
who fiiids favor in the eyes of the Dublin critics, irj pretty
sure to succeed in any capital either of Europe or
America, All this apropos to songs and ballads, con
necting links as they are between diftcrent periods of
existence :

•*OId sonfTs! old sonj^a!— bow well I sung
Your varied airs with childish touRuc,
When breath and spirit, free anti hght,
Caroll'd away fVoni m^rn till night.

"Old sonps! old soncjs —how thick yo come,
Telling of childhood and of home,
When home forged links in memory's chain
Too strong for time to break in twain,
When home was all that home should be,
And held tht vast, rich world for me I

•*Old songs ! old songs ! — how ye bring back
The fairest paths in mortal track !
I see the merry circle spread,
Till watchman's notice warned to bed ;
When one rude boy would loiter near,
And whisper, in a well-pleased ear, —
• Com«*, mother, sit before we go,
And sing Juhu Anderson, my Jo/

•*Thc ballad still is breathing round,
But other voices yield the sound;
Strangers possess tiie household room,
The mother lietli in the tomb.
And that blithe boy who praised her song
81eef*eth as soundly and as long.

ELINOR PRESTON. 97 '

*' Old 8on!<8 ! old songs ! — I sliould not sigh—
Jo3a of the earth on earth must die ;
But spectral forms will sunietiines start
Withiti the caverns of the heart, /

Ilauntinj^ the lone and darkened cell
Where, warm in life, thej used to df^l.

•
" Hope, youth, love, homo — each hnmko tie
That binds we know not how or wh) —
All, all that to the soul belongs,
Is closely mingled with 'old songs.'
All ! who shall say the ballad line
That stirs the soul is not divine!
And where the heart that would not dare
To j)lace such songs beside the prayer I "

— Old Xt ?9pap«r.

It might have been a month after Marin's marriage,
when my father one night asked me, as he often did, to
phiy and sing tt» him. lie drew his chair cU)se to the piano,
and phic'ing Carry on an ottoman at his knee, he said,
" Now, George, take your flute and accompany Elinor
— it's some time since I have heard you phiy together.
I don't know what's coming over me at all — I just feel
as if my heart was made of lead. But, Ood help me !
sure it's little wonder I'd be duU .'uid d(»wn-hearted !
Go on, children ! — give me somethin^^ livrly. Carry,
my pet ! sit ov r close, and lay your hi'a<l i>\\ my knee.
Perhaps it's not long you'll have me — " and then he
sighed, and fondly stroked the silken tresses that hung
dishevelled over his knee. George and I exihanged
glances, for we had just been saying to each other a little
before that there must be something ever us, our heart*

ELINOR PRESTOW.

were all so henvv <5f;ii

Ge..go darted at'oL in o a ^h "rT'^' ^ '""«''. -""J

-<lden,, stopped br^fa, ^S /"'"'''^- ""^ *-

said heT'-lT'ter?' """u'" ""'^ '""''«« >"« worse »
WM;ore.':iC.Ll&"^'^^">---

ping, said, in a whisper "'.aT;. ^k' ''''''' '"'""-'"'^ ^'"P"

soundly, «o voundly, indeed hah ""■' ''^ *' ^P'

I leant ov,.- hUn to see whth V ^ " '""""S" ^"'P^k
-- . ...0. ..e,;.ved to find thltl ?;'"'/""'•'«''• ""''
arose, k. ,.,,, ,„^ 2hl.! ''• ^"'■'•^ "'^'""t'y

gone for ever from on. 7,1 , '^"^^ ''"'^ ''"" was
'oving hearts only 1 If'" ^ '=»«' »"1 "oting, a,
on features but 1 'te7;o t^'" ,1 "'" ""^ ^^o-
While «-o were Jt ,0'^. ""'' '^^■'■•^'' "»^ P-'^^d.

beon droan,in«, yJs 5 ""?" ' ^«"«ve 1 have

her that night in her o,!,J.IocriL . ' "^ "'' "^ '"^
-"« Tc.rosa wanted me-L onflT "^ ''"'""^^ = ^^e told

'--^"h d..ad and in heir 1 '' '"^ *"" ' '"•«"'' they

^--?-d, ,.y;:'XeT;\;r.'"'^^-^^^^^

/e, 1 tnought ivHtc had the

ELINOR PRESTON.

Preston arms painted right on the fnn t of ;i certain
mitre-like head-dress which she wore — ha ! ha ! I sup-
pose she does keep up fainily-stite in the other world—
if she can she will, at any rate ! "

This ludicrous idea of my poor aunt's In'ing armori'.My
eml)lazoned in the world of spirits gave us an opportu-
nity of echoing my father's faint laugh, which we did
with forced gaycty.

"By the hvc, children !" said my father, " is not this
the very chair in which we found poor Kat«^, in her
spectral costume 1 " George answered in thc^ allirmative,
whereupon my father rose, and said, with a sigh, as he
moved towards the door, —

"It will soon have other, and, it may bo, sadder
memories connected with it. Don't part with it, chil-
dren, do as you m,iy ! — Nonsense, now ! what do you
cry for? Upon my word! you're three great babies,
nothing better ! because your old father is in low spirits,
you must all be in low spirits too. Fie ! fie ! George !
you'll be head of the h«»use some of these days, and this
is a poor specimen of your manhood! I think we had
all better go to bed — but stay, Elinor! go, like a good
girl, and get Nancy to make me a tum])lcr of punch —
sweet, strong, and warm, you know. Bring it up to my
room, and I'll take it after I lie dov»'n. I feel as though
I wanted something to warm mc, and it's strange, too,
f«)r the weather is warm enough — I suppose it's the bo-
ginning of old age!" lie smiled fiintly, and George
tried hard to get up a laugh, but it would not do. He
felt more like crying, as he afterwards tuid me. And
yet poor George used to be die merriest soul alive.

SLINOR PRKSTON.

please God! we'Il'go „ dl E„-|"''' "'"■'"-'•o-,

would do n.v hrart eood! '° Clo„gowe._I think it

once „.o.e. Goi S'^;:: f '"^^''■"-" H-ther
faint response I hastll^Tf ^ ^"l ""' ^^t"""uring a
w.^.d no' longer C^S tf"'["^ "^ '«'"
my father had ever asked n, f "' ""^ ''"'*■ "me

•inee the day of my first co2n '"'"^ '""' '""'-"' '^"^t.
Ja%.eu.ar way i ^aT;'^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ "^ ^''^ it in a'
»«d never been what is eaWedf.r ''"■'-■''''•'• ""

faster, and was always a stout /r ."'"""' «"<*
dogmas when assailed i'n his pZjf'T "' '^""'"'"'
firmly attached to our holv TT' *""' "' ''«"'•'.

either, from professing his suLt' """^"'' ^'"•'»"'',

««" he was «.r fro.n teilg pT XV^-l^ ^'"-'> ! «>ut
request, made, too, with unmfs k b '^'"•"".'"•' "'"^ ""^
me very strangely. Loni. IT , '""^"h: affected
awake thinking^.f'^^he soTrowful". ""'" '" ">< ^ '=»/
father, and p^,,,^, with a :; ntfrr ^'''^ '" '"^
w>H of God, wo mi..ht m,t l T "^ " "ere the

P^^nt- Vain, vai^, 1 ' 'r'""'*"'' <''' '""• ""ly

a«'eep,Im„stL.ve:ie;'on;:„7 . ''''" ' '" «"'
room was full of bright sulh u^ *""""^' ''"^ the
•tart-roused by a wild sh '" T.'"^" ' ««<"'« with a
tie house. Carry was gone ;;"""■'' '"""^^ ""-""gh
""defined fear was f" r hfr Th'" '"^ '''"' """ '"^ ««'

•-«-.srhu,riedounn.th!X-r.;rr::

ILILOR PRESTOil.

my poor sister rusMng like one crazed, from rny father's
room, her face like that of a corpse. Before 1 could ar-
ticulate a word, she took me by the arm and dragged me
in, then pointed to the bed, and fell fainting in a chair
beside it. And well she might, for there lay the lifeless
body of our good kind fjitlicr, stark and cold, the eyes
nearly wide open, and the color of the face so little
changed that you could hardly believe him dead. Calm
and still he lay, the very bed-clothes undisturbed above
him. Before five minutes every soul in the house v/as
assembled round the bed, and in ten minutes more the
doctor bent over my poor father, his whole frame
trembling with emotion, and he literally gasping for
breath.

Oh, my God ! how eagerly did we three desolate
orphans watch the face of our old friend, as, raising his
head with a heavy sigh, he took hold of my father's wrist
to feel for a pulse which was stilled for evermore. After
a few seconds he laid the hand down very gently, and,
motioning to the terrified servants to leave the room, he
took one of my hands and one of Carry's, and prtissing
them between his own he said, in a voice hardly articu-
late :

" May the Lord in heaven comfort you this day, my
poor, poor children ! "

Upon this all burst into tears, and George only could
command words : " Oh, doctor ! doctor ! you don't think
he's dead — he can't be dead, doctor ! — it's only a fit —
won't you — won't you try — have some other doctors !—
try something I "

ILINOR PRESTOK.

"My (ItNir Ocorgo, it's no earthly uso — only heaping
expense on yourselves, and I fear yonVe litth,' monev to
sparr," in; addeil, in a lower tone. "All the doctors in
Duldiii couldn't l)rin«x hack the soul into that body.
IIi-'s heen dead some hours!"

"Wt'll! we'll try at any rate," said George, some-
what tartl) ; "take the horse, Larry !" he ealh'd out in

the passage, "and run fur Dr. II , and I'll go for

Dr. T ."

" Viry well, George, very well ! " said the worthy
doctor. "I'm content, my poor boy! — i*'M satisfy your
mind at any rate. G>mo with me, girls, to the next
room ! " But neither Carry nor I would stir from the
spot — a strange kind of fascination was upon us, and
though we trembh^d from head to foot, an<l could neither
of us utter a word, we threw ourselves on our knees be-
side the bed, and clasped our hands in lu-lpless anguish,
our eyes fixed on the ghastly dead face bdore us, look-
ing all the more ghastly for its life-like hue and staring
eyes. Ah, it was a dreadful sight — a sight never to be
forgotten.

It is needless to say tlwt th(^ two eminent physicians,
who arrived within a quarter of an hour, did but con-
lirm the melancholy report of our own doctor. Then
^ame, as if to crown our aOliction, the drt jull'id thought
! tour father had been summoned to the bar of divine
justice without any preparation, no sacraments to cleanse
or fortify his soul, no priest to bless his departure. Oh!
the misery of those hours when, the doctors beinjj gone,
we were left alone with our own poor household, novr

■LINOR PRESTON.

reduced to Larry and his tidy spouse, Nancy. Bewil-
dered and confounded, we none of us knew what to do,
and I know not what we should have done, had it not
been for the blunt kindness and the practical good sense
of Mr. O'Shaughnessy, who proved himself really a
friend in need. The Dillons, too, did what they could to
comfort us, but with these exceptions we had surpris-
ingly few to keep .s company. The first day there were
some half dozen or so, and so on during the night.
Alas ! how different a wake it was from that of my aunt.
Then we youngsters could not understand the reason
why so few attended, but we understood it well enough
since. Had we had more experienc ' the world we
should have known that worldly tnends, like rats,
desert falling houses ; and that now, when the head of the
house was gone, there was no great attention due to a
family of orphans who had no power to befriend any
one. So the first night had passed dismally away, every
hour seeming as long as two. Early in the morning,
one of the first sounds we heard was Larry's voice, in
angry expostulation with some one on the stairs. George
immediately went out to ascertiiin the cause of the tumult,
and tlie noise soon ceased ; but when my poor brother
returned to the wake-room, after the lapse of twenty
minutes or so, there was an angry flush on his pallid
brow, and a strange lurid light in his eyes, already red
and swollen. After a little ho beckoned me from the
room, and said to me :

" Elinor, my poor sister ! don't be surprised at seeing
strange men move through the house."

IMAGE EVALUATION
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Sciences
Corporalion

23 WiST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, N.Y. 14SS0

(716) •72-4503

ELINOR PRESTOH.

*• Why, George, what do you mean 1 " I asked, my
heart sinking with fear.

" Don't be alarmed, Nell," he returned, with a strange,
ghastly smile, his lip quivering convulsively ; "it's only
two bailiffs, that are in the house taking an inventory.
They're sent by my father's creditors to seize our goods
and chattels. I wouldn't have told you, poor girl ! only
it wasn't possible to keep it from you. We must get
those people out of that room as soon as possible, under
some pretence, for the bailiffs will soon pay it a visit.
I wonder now," he added, in the same strange, hoarse
voice, " would it keep them from going in there^ were
we to tell them that my poor father died of typhus, or
something very infectious 1 — eh, Nell % "

" Ah ! George ! George ! don't talk so ! — don't, for the
love of God ! 1 know you wouldn't say what wasn't the
truth, and on such a subject too — and yet you're in no
humor for jesting. God help us this day ! what are we
to do at all ? " and I wrung my hands in tearless anguish.

Poor George could give me little comfort, but what
he could he did. Maria Dillon, and Arthur, too, were
more than kind. No sooner did they learn that our
things were under seizure than Arthur hurried off* to
Mr. O'Shaughnessy, and both went together to try and
arrange matters, so that the bailiffs should be withdrawn.
This they found impracticable, as the sum due for rent
alone was very considerable, — much more than, under
the circumstances, Arthur could reasonably think of ad-
vancing ; and nothing less would appease the inexorable
creditor, who had been for years and years the easiest

ELIKOR PRESTOK.

of landlord i to my father. He seemed to have got a
nervous fear of our unfortunate chattels being spirited
away, and he left in the lurch, as he elegantly ex-
pressed it. So the bailiffs remained in undisputed pos-
session of the house during the three days and nights of
the wake. If Larry had got his way, their triumph
would not have been so easy ; for his fingers were itching,
he said, " to send that black a-vised chap in the hall head
foremost into the street." " And may be the fellow up
stairs wouldn't follow him in double-quick time ! " said
poor Larry, "if you'd only let me at them, Master
George, — now do, sir 1 — why, I declare to you, that wo-
man of mine can hardly keep her hands off them, let
alone me ! "

My brother had some difficulty in persuading the
faithful servitor that any attack on the bailiffs would
only add to the misfortunes of the family ; and this being
once impressed on Larry's mind, he promptly conveyed
the intelligence to Nancy, and both heroically resolved
" to let them fall into other hands.''

Alfred, who was then near the end of his noviciate,
came with one of the fathers to visit us during those
dreary days, and I remember we were all highly of-
fended at what we considered his coldness. We could
not understand the sustaining power of religion when it
wields dominion over the soul. I have now little doubt
that Alfred loved my father as sincerely as any of us,
and that his sorrow was to the full as great as ours,
especially when he found that the death of that dear
parent had been Voth "sudden and unprovided j" but

ELINOR PRESTOir.

at the time I thought him cold and heartless, and George,
I believe, told him as much of his mind. Poor Alfred !
he only smiled — very faintly, too— and said, " Do you
think so, George 1 " Alas ! his own face was, at the
moment, as colorless as that of the corpse — ^now laid in
its coffin — and his voice, when he spoke, had a tremulous
tone, broken very, very often by a short, asthmatic
cough. So he only said, "Do you think so, George?
— well, perhaps I am unfeeling." He turned to the bed,
on which the coffin was laid, and stood for a few mo-
ments regarding the corpse in silence. Ho was in the
shade of the door, which was open, but I saw a tear
trickling down his pale cheek, and that tear melted the
ice that had been gathering on my heart. I went up to
him, and took his hand and squeezed it hard, hard. He
turned and met my eye, and his whole face was lit up
with a momentary gleam of sunshine. The feeling, I
suppose, was too natural, too earthly for that pure world-
detached spirit, for he instantly resumed the grave, col-
lected mien now habitual with him, and told Father

B he was ready to go. Having taken a kind leave

of us who were still in the flesh, he bent for one brief
moment over the fastly-changing remains of our good
father, — a tremor shook his whole frame, doubtless as
he thought of the immortal soul which had so lately
" shuffled off* that mortal coil," — but no audible sound
escaped him. Before any of us could get out a word,
he and his revered companion had glided from the room
like beings from another world, cold, and calm, and
pulseless — ^at least to all human appearance. I can

ELINOR PRESTCV.

hardly describe the effect of this visit. On me it had a
soothing and at the same time a beneficial effect. Such
a picture of early detachment fpom the world in a
brother whom I had i^nown but lately so full of human
affection, so wrapped up, as it were, in the little circle
that formed his world, — such a picture had an in-
describable charm for me, and I felt myself all the better
for it. But George was very, very angry, — I believe he
hardly ever forgave Alfred, — and Carry pursed up her
pretty lips, and said Alfred had grown so cold that she
couldn't have thought it possible. He cared nothing
about poor papa, — that was plain. Little did they know
of the workings of that young heart which had so early
schooled itself to conformity with the evangelical counsels.

Next day we followed the mortal remains of my
father to their last resting-place. His grave was made
beside my mother's, in Glassnevin, and not far from the
tomb of John Philpot Curran. How closely we three
orphans clung together, — how tenderly George supported
each drooping sister as we stoo J to see the narrow house
filled up. I well remember how hard it was for me to
realize to myself that it was my father whom I saw thus
covered up in the dark, lonely grave. He whom we
had seen so full of life, so cheerful and so busy, but one
short week before. Ah ! death ! death ! how wondrous,
how absolute is thy power, fell destroyer that thou art !

The funeral was small, very small, considering the

prominent position which my father held. This at the

time gave us little trouble ; but now, when I look back

on the events of my past life through the softening haze

ELTKOR PRESTON.

of time, I feel as though the ingratitude of our quondam
friends ought to have made me sick of the world. But
I was young, and the hollowness of worldly friendship
was something which I could not realize, let its proofs
be ever so manifest. It is only the sad experience of
years that can strip the world of its specious veil, — the
young heart can not go beyond appearances, and they are
very fair, very prepossessing, indeed !

The Dillons insisted on our going home with them,
but George and myself both felt as though it would only
make us worse. " The old house at home " was not to
be left to its loneliness so very soon, with all its an-
cestral furniture,— every article and item of which was
now an honored memento of " the loved and lost." Be-
sides the bailiffs were there, and we did not choose to
leave poor Larry and Nancy to utter loneliness ; so home
we went. Oh ! what a home it was !

Tea was brought up at the usual hour, and we sat
around the table, not to eat or drink, but to weep in
silence, — ^none of us could even speak of our loss. All
at once the door-bell rang, and a cheerful voice was
heard in the hall talking to Nancy. All the way up the
stairs, clatter, clatter went the tongue, — a heavy foot
stumped along the passage, — ^a knock at the drawing-
room door, — ^and in came Mr. O'Shaughnessy, all flushed
and breathless after his long walk, as he took good care
to tell us after he had established himself in a chair
at the table beside Carry.

"Humph! what's this L see? — crying, ehl Dry
your eyes every one of you, no\f George, Fm really

ELINOR PRESTON

ashamed of you ! — don't let me see Lnother tear, — mind
that now ! — I'll have no such nonsense here ! — that's al]
about it ! Give me a cup of tea, Elinor, — that's it,—
hand me that bread and butter, Carry, — thank you,
sweetheart ! — ha ! ha ! — I used to call you ' little wifie,'
— ^I think you must come and keep house for me now ! "
Thus did the good man rattle on ; it is true he did
most of the talking himself, except that George now and
then put in some stray words, but his presence was
worth gold to us. Sometimes we could not help smiling
at the quaint drollery of his remarks. After tea, just
when we began to fear that hb was thinking of going, he
established himself in the memorable chair so doubly
haunted with ghostly memories, and declared his in-
tention of staying all night. This cheered us more than
a little, for the comical face of our old friend was pleasant
to look upon, and the dismal shadows which follow in
the train of death, and sit brooding over the stricken
household, took wings to themselves and flew away at
the sound of his merry voice.

ELINOR PRBBTOV.

CHAPTER IV

• c

EXT morning after breakfast Mr. O'Shaugh.
nessy took George off with him to his office
for a few hours, charging us to be sure
and have something nice for dinner. While
Nancy and I were just consulting about how
the " marketing " was to be got, in came a
large basket of all the delicacies of the sea-
, - . ^ son, sent home by the worthy lawyer on his
Ap way to his office.

w During the morning, Nancy came to ask

me if I would be good enough to go and look over a
letter that Larry had just been writing to a brother of
his in America. " He's been at it, off and on, this fort-
night, Miss," said Nancy, "an' he just finished it this
mornin'. Little thoughts he had when he began it of
the news he'd have to put in before it was done."

" But why does he want me to read it, Nancy ? " I
asked, as we went down the kitchen stairs.

"Well! to tell you the truth. Miss Elinor," said
Nancy, with a grin that reached from ear to ear, " he
can't make head or tail ( f it himself, an' both him an*
mc'id like to hear what's in it, before it goes,"

ELINOR PRE8T0V.

101

If it had been at another time, I would have enjoyed
this amazingly, and even as it was I could not h elp smil-
ing. I found poor Larry in a doleful plight at the
kitchen-table, with a newspaper spread out under his
letter to save the table from the inky abomination so
visible on his own ten fingers, and even on his mouth.
He looked disheartened, too, and not a little puzzled.

" Why, what's the matter, Larry ? " I inquired, affect-
ing not to know.

" Well ! it's this bit of a letter, Miss ! Yd be thankful
to you if you'd read it for mo, — an', indeed, I don't like
to ask you, on account of the sorrowful news that's in it.
But sure. Miss Elinor dear ! you'll not mind it ! It's
what we must all come to, an' I hope it's a happy change
for the poor master, any how ! "

Larry's admonition was quite superfluous ; for, after a
careful investigation, and many fruitless attempts, I was
forced to declare that it was all Greek and Latin to me.
Larry's hieroglyphics went far beyond my skill, and 1
told him so very gravely.

*' Lord bless me," cried Nancy, her big round eyes
protruding far from their sockets, " what sort of a letther
is it, when even Miss Elinor can't make out what's
in it?" ^

" Never mind ! " said Larry, beginning with great
coolness to fold the precious document, " never mind,
honey ! — ^we'll put it in the post any how, plase God !
They say they're the mischief at reading letthers in
America!"

I had some difficulty in persuading Larry to let me

102

ELINOR PRESTON.

;

write a letter for him. It was too much trouble, he
said ; especially as I had trouble enough on my mind al-
ready. But at last ho gave in, having furnished me, with
Nancy's help, with the various items of news which ho
wished to convey to his brother Owen, in Canada.

Day after day passed away, — heavily and slowly
enough, it is true, but still they passed. The auction
was at length over. The furniture, so carefully selected
and so well preserved through many a changeful year, —
each article vested with its own varied associations, — all,
all was gone, scattered abroad through scores of house-
holds, where their value was merely that of " second-
hand furniture." Mr. O'Shaughncssy, however, had
managed to secure " the old arm-chair " which my father
had charged us to keep. Oh ! the breaking up of a
family, — especially if death has brought it about, — what
is there in all this wide, cold world so dreary, so heart-
rending ! Many a time during those melancholy days
that it lasted did I wish that I, too, occupied a quiet
grave in the family-lot in Glassnevin. Of course, the
wish was sinful, and as such duly repressed, but its sub-
stance was in my poor sinking heart.

When all was over, and everything sold, we had the
additional consolation of being informed that we were
very nearly penniless. A matter of fifty pounds fell
into our hands, and even that sum we hardly expected.
Of this poor George wOuld only take ten pounds to buy
himself a decent suit for his mourning, Mr. O'Shaugh-
nessy taking him from that day into a sort of partner-
ship, whereby a reasciuible salary was at least secured

ELINOR PRESTON.

103

to him, and that was tho old man's object. Tlic nuns
of Cabra insisted on taking Carry to themselves. In
vain did she assure them that she '* wouldii't be a nun,"
and being then fully eighteen, she had a right to judg«
for herself, she said. But the good sisters would have
her try (knowing well all the time that she itid no voca-
tion) so that she might be near Emily in the meantime.
This was a great inducement, and poor Carry could not
hold out when Emily appealed to her sisterly affection.
I, too, was invited by the kind sisters to make their
house my own, at least for a time, on the plea that I
could help them in the school.

Mrs. Dillon, on the other hand, urged me to spend
some time with her, and as George pleaded hard for me
to remain near him, I at length consented.

A full year was spent under the hospitable roof of
Arthur Dillon, and if the load of sorrow was not re-
moved from my heart, it certainly was not for want of
the kindest and most unremitting attention on the part
of the whole family. I might, perhaps, except the elder
Mrs. Dillon, who, having been r^lised by her husband's
successful specull||ons, at rather an advanced age, to a
position which she bad never dreamed of occupying, had
never been able to divest herself of the coarse and some-
what boisterous vulgarity which had been through life
her prevailing characteristic. On such a nature as hers,
the acquisition of wealth has anything but a refining
tendency. If they are naturally or habitually vulgar,
riches do but make them more vulgar still, and such
vas the case with the lady in question. Still, under all

104

ELINOR PRESTOir.

that thick crust of vulgar aBsumption, Mrs. Dillon, senior,
had a kind, good heart, and those who knew her best,
were dispowud to overlook those faults, which were
chiefly on the surface, in consideration of the genuine
worth which was even studiously, it would seenrij con-
cealed within. The misfortunes of our family would
undoubtedly have opened a path for myself to Mrs.
Dillon's heart, were it not for an unlucky little peculiar^
ity of hers which militated against mo. She either had,
or aflfected to have, a profound contempt for what she
called " larned people," and however she managed to in
elude me in that honored class, she certainly did so, to my
great misfortune. I suppose it was in consequence of
my having been brought up at a boarding-school, for good
Mrs. Dillon was in the habit of declaring, with charac-
teristic energy, that " them boordin'-schools were fit for
nothing only turnin' the heads of young girls : if she had
fifty daughters," she used to add, " she wouldn't send
one of them to a boordin'-school," nor was there any ex-
ception made in these remarks in favor of conventual
education. "They 're 'all six-o'-one and half a dozen of
the other. Many a fine sensible girl-gets spoiled among
them. And why wouldn't they ? — sure it's ladies they
all want to be — ^lamin' to play on the piano, and sing
songs in Italian, to be sure, and French, and all of them
out-of-the-way languages that nobody understands a
word of — ^not even themselves, for all / know ; an' then
when they come home to their poor old par-ents, it's
then they'll turn up their nose at the darning of a stock-
ing or the making-up of a bed, or anything that would

ELINOH FREBTON.

105

be useful to the family. Ah ! if I was their mother,
maybe I wouldn't keep them at homo altogether and
malce them learn to work — Pd see them far enough be-
fore I'd be pay in' out for what they ought to do, an'
have them sittin' up in the parlor, singin' their /a-sol-las»
Look at Elinor Preston there," she would generally wind
up, " what is she good for now ? — tell me that ! — Maria's
bad enough, God knows, but then it pleased Providence
to leave her independent, so that she can pay others to
do her work. But Elinor, poor girl ! hasn't a shilling
to jingle on a tombstone."

Here I used to break in, though my heart was burst-
ing, with, " I beg your pardon, my dear Mrs. Dillon !
my funds are not quite so low as that. You seem al
ways to forget — "

" Well ! well ! how long would your poor penny of
money last you, if you hadn't friends like us to keep
you ! Now I want to know What good your fine edu-
cation does you ? Tell me that, now ! "

There was no answering this triumphant appeal —
Maria and I would exchange glances, the dutiful daugh-
ter-in-law would answer as expected, with a forced laugh,
** Very true, mother," and poor Elinor Preston would
change color, and bend very low over the book or work
in her hand. Ah ! those were trials at the time — per-
haps grievous trials, but now I can view them with a
smile when I take into account the heavy balance of
genuine, unsophisticated kindness recorded in my heart
in favor of that very woman. It is hard to bear malice
against the dead. Their little failings, however annoy-

106

ELINOR PRESTOir.

ing they might have been to us at the time, dwindle
into nothing, when viewed through the softening haze
of years, with the saddening reflection that the strange
mixture of good and ill — the being of whom they were
a part, is long since mouldered into dust. As that
thought takes possession of the mind, how tenderly do
we glance over those peculiarities, whether of mind or
manner, and fix our sorrowing gaze on the gem whose
lustre they once obscured — the sincere and upright mind,
the warm, trusting heart !

During this year of my sojourn with the Dillons, I
could not help noticing the admirable change which was
gradually taking place in Arthur, fully justifying Maria's
expectations, sanguine as they were. What penetration
of character that girl must have had, now when I come
to think of it ! Who but herself could ever have seen
through the frippery airs wherewith he had so assidu-
ously bedizened himself, leaving it doubtful at times to
the cursory observer whether he had even the average
run of common sense. This salutary change was per-
ceptible in a thousand little incidents of daily occur-
rence, and it was amusing to see the sly significance
with which Maria — sly enchantress that she was ! — chal-
lenged my attention to this progressive improvement.

Arthur was one morning stepping out as spruce as
ever, but not anything like so dandified, to go to hisi of-
fice, when who should he meet on the very steps but
our old acquaintance, Susy Broadigan, her face broad,
and red, and comical as ever. She looked rather era
barrassed on seeing Arthur, being mindful of certain pas

ELINOR FRE8T017.

107

sages in their former intercourse which were anything
but favorable io her, she considered. She was greatly
surprised, therefore, when her low curtsy was responded
to by a very hearty " How d'ye do, Susy ? " from tlie
young master of the mansion.

" Why, then, I was oflen worse, Mr. Arthur, dear,"
said contented Susy Broadigan, " many thanks to you,
sir, for askin'. How's the mistress, sir, an' the ould
madam, an' your father — the Lord's blessin' on him !
it's him that never turns his bafck on the poor, anyhow —
an' sure so sign on him — he wouldn't be what he is the
day only for the blessin' o' God, an' the blessin' o' God
tbllys them that has compassion on the poor. Might I
make so free as to ask, sir, is Miss Elinor Preston athin
this fine mornin' 1 — I was wantin' to see her."

" Certainly, Susy, she is in, and I'm sure she'll be
very glad to see you, and so will Mrs. Dillon — Mrs.
Arthur ! " he added, with a smile that put Susy into
ecstasies, and drew a fervent blessing from her honest
heart.

Arthur turned and rang the bell, desiring the servant
who appeared to tell the ladies that Susy Broadigan
wanted to see Miss Preston. Maria and myself were
sitting together at the time in the front parlor, and
pleased we both were.

" Why, then, now, Mrs. Arthur, ma'am," said Susy,
rather abruptly, after showing her manners by dropping
a curtsy to each, " what have you been doin' to the
master, dear young gentlemiui ! that he's come to be so
homely and so natural-like all of a sudden 1 " iv

^ \08

ELINOR PRESTON.

"We laughed, and Maria asked what she meant, just as
though she didn't know, sly one that she was !

" Hut, tut, ma'am — begging your pardon — sure you
know well enough. Why, only I've been lookin' at him
since he was the height o' my knee, I wouldn't believe
the bishop it was him was in it. All the ould foolery
that he used to have is gone — gone, 1 hope, for good."

" What makes you think so, Susy 1 " said Maria, still
laughing.

" What makes me think so, ma'am ! why, isn't it as
plain as the nose on my face ! When I met him there
abroad, didn't he speak to me as kind an' as civil as if
I was one of his own aiquals ! — an' didn't he smile at
myself, loo — an' more betoken, ma'am ! he has sich a
sweet smile of his own, that you'd wonder at him for
throwin' it away on an ould apple-woman. And didn't
he rins: the bell with his own hand ! Wow ! wow ! " and
Susy shook her head with a most sagacious air ; " sure
it's myself can see the change in the clappin' of your
hands. Tell me this, ma'am ! " and Susy sidled up quite
close to Maria, until she almost whispered in her ear ;
" Tell me this, if I may make bould to ask : doesn't he
go regular to his duty now ? — I know the ould madam
couldn't get him to go at all."

Maria answered in the affirmative, and then changed
the conversati n, but Susy would have the last word.
" I knew it — I knew it well," she said, with honest exul-
tation, " I'm an ould woman now, ladies, and I never
seen sich a change as that brought about in so short a
time athout the grace o' God. Nothing in tl\e world but

ELINOR FRESTOir.

109

that one thing could bring Mister Arthur tc what he is
ffrom what he was."

1 " But, it's what Fm forgettin' myself altogether, an*
making mighty free entirely. But sure ye's all know
that poor Susy Broadigan says nothing but what's in
her heart an' mind, an' you never take anything she
says amiss, God mark ye's all with grace ! Well ! Miss
Elinor dear, I came over this mornin' just to ask you if
you ever got any word from Larry and Nancy, from
beyant the water. I'm troubled every night dreamin*
about them, an' it's what I began to think they might
be dead."

" Not unless they died within the last month, Susy,
for I had a letter from them a few days ago. They
were quite well then." . , v i. •

" Thanks be to God for that same, dear ! — are they
still in the same place — Montrale — I think it was — or
somewhere in the Canadas, anyhow ? "

" Yes ! they are still in Montreal — ^they were so for-
tunate as to be both engaged in the same house just as
they were with us ! "

" Ah ! God help them, poor things ! I'm afeard they'll
never meet with a home like yours ! — ^poor Nancy and
poor Larry ! may the Lord assist their honest enday-
vors. I was speakin' to Larry's mother, ould Polly,
and she tould me she got five pound from them about
three months agone. Their luck will be all the better
for not forgettin' her, I must call on my way back an'
let poor granny know about this letter."
^ I said she would oblige me by doing so, whereupon
10

110

ELINOR PRESTOK.

Susy, having asked for all the sunriving members of our
family, and invoked a blessing on each, turned to Maria
and bade her " good-mominV' together with a certain
ejaculatory prayer which brought the warm blood to the
young matron's cheek.

• "May the Lord bring you safe over your trouble,
Mrs. Arthur, dear ! " she repeated in a lower voice, on
her way to ^he door. "Sure it's myself knows well
the tryin' time that's before you — ochone ! hadn't I five
o' them myself! God be with you all till I see you
again ! "

" Susy evidently considers herself a privileged person,"
said Maria, as Susy's squat little figure disappeared from
our view ; " if another in her position were to speak as
she does they would get turned out of doors for their
pains, but for your life you can't put a check on Susy's
tongue. It will run on, do as you may, and you cannot
take offence, for, after all, there is much good sense in
what she says. You must have noticed her remarks as
to the change so visible in Arthur." ->■-■

" I did, and am quite of her way of thinking. There
is no such cure for vanity, affectation, and all other such
nonsense, as the cultivation of religious sentiments— of
course I do not mean the mere outward practices of re-
ligion, but the thoughts, the habit of mind. Place that
under the influence of religion, and all that is mean,
shallow, conventional, will disappear like specks from
off the sun's disk." ,

** Why, you talk like a book, ma belle Elinor, and
^uite strc igly, too ! " said Maria, with a pleased smile.

ELINOR PREST iV,

Mil

" If I do, it is because I feel strongly on this subject.
If all young men were made fully sensible of their true
relations with regard to God and the world, so that they
could bear the insensate ridicule of foolish worldlings
without shrinking, we should then see them i:: their real
character — fresh from the hand of God — and there would
be no lisping dandies, no foreign airs put on to mar and
disfigure, as in Arthur's case it did, a really fine char-
acter. Irishmen, were they only true to God, would be
Irishmen, properly so called— proud of that title — proud
of their honored ancestry."

" I declare, Nell," said Maria, archly, though her own
cheek glowed with sympathetic fervor, " I declare, you
grow quite eloquent. There spoke the blood of all the
old Prestons from the Confederation* down ! Upon my
word, Aunt Kate was nothing to you in the way of
glorifying your ancestors ! "

" Don't mistake me now, Maria " — I knew she didn't
mistake me — she well knew and fully entered into my
feelings on the subject — " I do not speak of my own an-
cestors in particular — I include the whole of Catholic
Ireland — oh ! it is a glorious heritage that our fathers
have left us ! "

" I know it, sweet friend, I know it well ; but here
comes Mrs. Dillon, senior — it's well she didn't hear you,
or she'd be for sending you to Swift'sf in a straight

* The great Catholic Confederation of 1641, in which the Lord
Oormanstown of that day took an active part. He was one of th«
Lords of the Pale who remained faithful to the old religion.

t Swift's Hospital is the Lunatic Asylum of Dublin. It was
founded by Dean Swift.

112

ELINOR PRESTON.

jacket, and perhaps me too for listening to a mad^
woman. Hush-sh-sh, not a word ! — there's a thunder*
cloud on her brow, or Fm mistaken. Oh ! mother," and
she almost ran to meet her, " I thought you'd never get
in from market. I want you to help ;ne to cut out those
shirts ! "

" To be sure you do ! " said the old lady, gruffly, as
she puffed and panted herself into a chair ; *' you're al-
ways a' wantin' me for something or another — ^I wonder
what you'd do if you hadn't me. I think, between the
two of you, you might manage to cut the shirts without
me : here I am just worn off my feet with the dint of
hard work, runnin' to market, runnin' here, an' runnin'
there, an' two of you girls «ittin' here in state — not doin'
a thing. !My poor bones pays for all. But sure it's all
on account of some people bein' brought up ladies-
ladies indeed! — well come up with us all! — some
people's the china ware, an' some people's the crockery
— ^that's it ! well ! well ! its a quare world anyhow — for
the size of it ! "

Having delivered herself of this aphorism, apparently
very consoling to herself— it was rather a favorite with
her, too — she seemed to grow somewhat softer : " Well i
what about them shirts, girls ? — ^it's a pity to keep the
two of you idle. Get the linen, Maria, an' I'll show
you what to do."

As Maria well knew, this was soothing to her bustling
lelf-importance, and away she posted in tolerably good
lumor to give directions about the dinner.

Arthur was near spoiling all at dinner. " Mother ! "

ELINOR PRKSTON.

118

said he, " we're going to visit Christ's church and St.
Patrick's this afternoon with a friend or two from the
country whom I have asked to spend the evening. Will
you come ? "

" Indeed, then, I won't," was the gracious rejoinder ; " I
never want to set my foot in one o' them churches —
where's the use of it ? — there's churches enough of our
own in the dty where we can go an' say a prayer when
we have time ! Catch me goin' to Christ church or
St. Patrick's either — more shame for it to have such a
name ! I wish to God they had called it something else
when they took it from us ! If they called it Harry
the Eighth's church, or Queen Bess' church, or something
that way, now, it would be only common decency ; but
to think of them having the impudence to keep St.
Patrick's name on the buildin' when he turned his back
on it hundreds o' years ago, an' wouldn't touch it with
his stick ever since — St. Patrick's church indeed ! — oh !
its no wonder my head's gray ! "

" Never mind them, Margaret ! " said the old gentle-
man — for he was a gentleman, one of nature's gentle-
men — in a soothing tone, " never mind. Give us some
soup, there's a good soul ! before it cools. Is it mock-
turtle, or what ? " .. ,'

"Mock-turtle, to-day again! — ^no, indeed, Stephen,
honey ! it's no such thing ! You had mock-turtle, yes-
terday, and you may be very thankful to get it once
a week. It's just plain rice soup — that's what it is ! "

" Let us have it, my dear, whatever it is. Thank
you — Elinor, after you ! Weil, Arthur, my boy, are

"¥

114

ELINOR PRESTON.

you going to take our Kerry friends a sight-seeiug this
afternoon?"

*' I think so, father, — that is, if you cannot well spare
time."

The old gentleman could not spare time. He had
the world and all of business on hands, but he charged
his son to show the visitors everything that was worth
seeing.

" Well, you know I can't show them all in one day,
father, but we'll do what we can in that way between
this and six o'clock."

About three the carriage was at the door, and the two
Fltzmaurices, commonly known in their own locality as
the Fitzmaurice Brothers, were duJy in waiting in the
front parlor when Maria and I descended, shawled and
bonneted, for the drive. They were no strangers to
any of the Dillon family, so their introduction was
merely to myself. There was so little to distinguish
one brother from the other, and the family likeness was
really so strong, that for the life of me I could hardly
remember which was which. Several times during the
afternoon I had the mortification of being set right, now
addressing Mr. Henry as Mr. John, and vice versa.
After several mischances of this kind, and just when I
was falling into despair, I discovered by the merest
chance that Mr. John, the head of the firm, spoke with
the slightest possible snuffle, while his brother's enun-
ciation was remarkably clear. This discovery set me
quite at my ease, and the relief it afforded me gave me
such a flow of spirits as I had not had for many a day

XLINOR PRESTON,

115

previous. I had often visited the Dublin lions before,
but really I was quite in the humor of examining them
myself that day and exhibiting their " points " to others.
So off we went- 'n the Dillon barouche, Maria and I on
the back seat, with Fitzmaurice Brothers for our vis-d-vis^
and Artb'ir sharing the driver's seat.

First ji^ visited some of the principal Catholio
churches, l^t of the Conception in Marlborough street,
St. Andr50w's in Westland row, the beautiful Church of
St. Francis Xavier in Gardiner street, and one or two
others, but these were all too new for the antiquarian
tastes of our southern friends ; they were proud to see
such churches belonging to ourselves, and, to do them
justice, said a short prayer in each with becoming rever-
ence, but they wanted to get on to " the old churches and
things " — the things being, as we afterwards found out,
the Four Courts, the Custom House, the Bank of Ireland,
and Nelson's Pillar ; none of them belonging, indeed,
to the antiquarian period, but great sights, for all that,
for " country cousins."

I was really in a facetious mood just then, for there
was something remarkably quizzical about this worthy
pair of Siamese twins — ^by-the-by, they were rather of
the fattest, too — quite in condition were the two Brothers
Fitzmaurice. But this artificial frame of mind soon
gave way before the awful grandeur of the old cathedral
piles. There is something inexpressibly solemn and
touching in the interior of such grand old temples — tem<
pies where our fathers worshipped, albeit that they have
■ince ** fallen from their high estate," and have now

116

KLINOR PRISTOir.

nether altai nor sacrifice. There is choral service in
Christ Church every aflemoon at three o'clock, on which
occasion it is usually crowded with fashionables, but by
the time we reached there the service was over, the audi-
ence gone, and the old minster left to its ghostly still-
ness, broken only by our cautious footsteps, and our
whispered comments on what we saw. As w« wandered
through the sounding aisles, a tender melancMy stole
over me as memory brought back the last iqi(| I had
paid to Christ Church, when my father and molwr and
poor Aunt Kate were all of the party. Then they were
full of life and spirits, and likely to live for many and
many a year ; now they were all dead — dead and cold as
the marble effigy of the renowned Strongbow, where it
lay on its monumental slab before us, with shield en
arm and hands clasped as if in prayer. (It had need to
pray, too, for it is to be feared that its original, like
many other great men, did not pray much while living !)
Still I did my best to shake off these saddening thoughts,
and affected a gayety I no longer felt. Afler a while,
however, my own individual concerns began to dwindle
into nothing, and finally faded from my mind, in pres-
ence of the tombs of the mighty dead. When I stood
before the monumental figure of " Hie first and princu
pal invader of Ireland^'* as the legend on his toml de-
scribes him, I said to myself, " What now remains of
this great Captain — ^the teifror of a whole nation 1 A
handful of dust, even that undistinguishable from its
mother earth ! So much for what men call glory ! **
Still further on, we paused before the tomb of Thoma«

ILINOR PRBSTOir.

117

incu

is of

iU
f »»

Prior, and again the inward voice whispered : " Here
lies a man who holds a high place among the English
classics ; his fame remains, but himself — where is he 1
what is there now of his mortal body ? where is his
immortal soul — the spirit which created those undying
verses ? " On and on we went through " the sweeping
aisles," passing on our way the tombs of lords temporal
and spiritual, with eminent citizens of every age. What
were all these now but phantom-names, high-sounding
indeed, and much be-praised on their respective stones
by the chisels of men who, less fortunate than those they
celebrated, had themselves sunk into nameless graves !
What had become of the hopes and fears, joys and sor-
rows which alternately held these sleepers in thrall ] — ^all
gone — gone — leaving no record of their passage ! Then
how could I, poor lowly mortal, undistinguished from
the common herd, how could I busy myself in such a
scene, in such a presence — with little sorrowful reminis-
cences which affected only myself? " What will your
troubles be in fifty years or so?" I asked myself;
** who will then know anything about them or you 1 —
for shame ! — cheer up, girl ! and do what you can to
cheer others too ! " In pursuance of this sage self-coun-
sel I resolutely turned the brightest side out, and made
myself very busy in the capacity of cicerone to the great
comfort and instruction of the Brothers Fitzmaurice.
Great was the wonder expressed on their faces as I told
them of the old Danish king of Dublin, Sitric son of
Auley, who, in conjunction with the archbishop of that
day, also a Dane, founded this church about the middle

118

KLINOR PRI8T0V.

of the twelflh century ; and still more surprised were
they when I pointed out to them the different portions
of the building, distinctive in their character, erected at
widely-different periods. I believe they regarded myself
with as much admiration as they did the lofty arches
and graceful pillars, and archiepiscopal grandeur of the
old cathedral :

i«

And Btill they gazed, and still their wonder grew,
That one small head could oarry all /knew."

So much talking was very unusual with me, but some-
how it seemed to devolve on me : Arthur had never
given much attention to the history of his country, or
the local history of his native city, and Maria, though
tolerably well informed on most subjects, had little or
no taste for archa)ological or antiquarian lore. So there
were the Brothers Fitzmaurice to be enlightened — want-
ing to know all about every thing ; and there were na-
tional monuments which I highly prized, crying out to
me in their own mute eloquence to do them justice, so
talk I must and did.

Leaving Christ Church, we sent the carriage on before,
and proceeded on foot through the ancient street, which
bears the name of our national patroness, the great St.
Bride, to the venerable Church of St. Patrick, said to be
founded by the Saint himself. Like some brilliant gem
gleaming out through the dusty rubbish of an '* old curi-
osity-shop," stands the beautiful old Cathedral, closely
surrounded by, and as it were choked up among build
ii^ of a mean and common description, many of them

ILIVOR PRESTOZr.

110

bearing tlic marks of very respectable antiquity, but
with littlt! else to recommend them. • But St. Patrick's
itself, both without and within, is a rare specimen of the
graceful Gothic, in perhaps its purest period, the twelfth
or thirteenth century. There are few buildings in Ire-
land, or perhaps any other country, to exceed St. Pat-
rick's, whether in artistic excellency or historic interest.
Many a Saint officiated at its altars — when ultars it had
— and in the van of the shadowy host rising before us
are the venerable figures of St. Patrick, an^I St. Lawrence
OToole, great patriarchs of our race. Passing on down
to modern times we perceive ** the witty Dean," whose
name is honorably identified with that of St. Patrick's—
the immorUil Swifl, whose mortal remains rest within
the walls of the church where he so often officiated.
Near him sleeps Hester Johnson, known all the world
over as the Stella who was his inspiratfbn. Their
monuments are plain marble tablets placed against two
adjoining pillars in the nave. Here, too, lies the body
of Duke Schomberg, mouldered into dust, and yonder
slab of black marble set in the wall commemorates the
notable fact.

It was a breezy day in early summer, a day of cloud
and sunshine, and the sunbeams shooting through the
grand old windows, glanced, and gleamed, and danced
like elfin spirits through the deserted aisles and over the
ancient tombs. The wind, too, came rushing in at inter-
vals, gently uplifting the gauze veil from off my bonnet,
giving a sportive 9hake to Maria's long ringlets, and
then, by \7ay of finale^ sweeping along the arched

• V

i i

ISO

ELINOR PRC 'CON.

poof, making such a rustling up there among the heavy
folds of the ancitnt banners,* that the Brother's Fitz*
maurice simultaneously started more than once, and
looked up alarmed, probably believing that some of the
shadows of the place were suddenly starting into life.

Having at last seen all that was to be seen, we took
our leave of the old Cathedral, Maria and I, as we whis-
pered to each other in the aisles, both impressed with
the sad fate which had given these treasures of Catholic
art into the hands of strangers, — Arthur thinking that,
after all, the dark ages weren't so very dark as people
take the liberty of calling them, and the Brothers Fitz-
maurice as full of simple wonder as men could be.
The burthen of their thoughts may be inferred from what
Arthur overheard Mr. Henry say to Mr. John, while
the rest of us were considering where we should go
next : " I say, John, wouldn't she be better than a book
of winter nights by the fireside ? why, if we had her, it
would be just the same as a peep-show — only hearing,
instead of seeing." To which John, it appears, gave a
cordial assent. Good, simple souls, those Tralee mer-
chants ! but, I fancy, rather further behind the age than
Tralee merchants are now. By the time we had seen
all the usual sights, Maria and myself were about tired,
though we had on the whole a pleasant afternoon of it.

* " The banners of the Knights of St. Patrick hang at a consider-
able elevation over the arches of the nave, and would have a very
pleasing effect but for the melancholy appearance of decay which
the whole of this portion of the venerable edifice presents."— i>u^/»ii|
by W. F. Wakkmak.

I !

ELINOR PRESTON.

121

There was a freshness of originality about the worthy
Kerry men that was quite charming j? and then to hear
Arthur, how glowingly he descanted on the eloquence of
Curran, and Flood, and Grattan, while doing the honors
of the ancient Parliament House, now alas ! known as
the Bank of Ireland — sic transit gloria mundi ! Maria
and I smiled at each other as we listened to his explana-
tions, as memory brought back the time— only a few
years back — when he would have sneered, or affected to
sneer, at the name and fame of even those great lumin-
aries of the political hemisphere of Ireland. Our coun
try friends were evidently more at home on this subject
They had read of the great orators of their country, and
were honestly proud of their fame. They had been
subscribers to the Nation from its very commencement,
and were rather inclined to take sides with the Young
Ireland party — ^not that they were prepared to give up the
moral force doctrine, for they were still ardent admirers
of O'Connell and spoke of him as the Liberator, although
that term was now tacitly dropped — the star of the
great leader being well-nigh set. So the Brothers Fitz-
maurice stood, as it were, midway between the Old and
Young Irelanders, with a hand extended lovingly to each.

" Pray, Mr. Dillon," said the elder brother, as we
stepped out into the grand portico of the Bank of Ire-
land, fronting on Westmoreland street, " pray, Mr. Dil-
lon ! which of these six is tie pillar against which Cur-
ran was found leaning at the moment when the unfor-
tunate Act of Union was being passed within ? "

Arthur looked surprised, and not a little embarrassed*
11

122

BLINOB PRESTON.

He had never heard of this incident, and yet did not
like to say so. v

" I really oan lot tell," he said ; " I believe tradition
has not pointed out which particular pillar it was.*'

'* Well ! the incident hae always struck me as most
affecting — ^you know it, of course^ Miss Preston 1 "« Miss
Preston did not, unluckily.

" Well ! it seems that on that fatal day of the year
1800, which sealed the political doom — ^and, I might add,
annihilated the nationality of Ireland — unless, indeed, the
glorious revival of our era may restore it to life, which
is not at all improbable — ^as I was saying, ladies, on that
fatal day somebody, whose name I forget — my memory
is none of the best at times, found the great little coun-
sellor leaning against one of these pillars — I'm really
sorry not to know which of them it was — with a coun
tenance so woe-begone, and, in fact, so dull and stupid,
that he was really alarmed, and, taking him by the arm,
asked what was the matter. Whereupon poor Curran
told him, but not till he had repeated the question more
than once, that there was quite enough the matter, for
that the national existence of Ireland was being sold
away in-doors, * and,' said poor Curran, * I couldn't stand
it — I couldn't wait to see that treasonable Act passed ! '
1 don't pretend to say it in his own words, but that's the
substance of it. Ah ! John Philpot Curran ! " apostro-
phized the worthy Kerry man, as he wiped away a tear
that made me forgive all his tedious circumlocution,
" John Philpot Curran ! it's low your grave is this day
i:i Prospect Cemetery, but high is your place in the

ELINOR PRS9T0V.

123

heart of Ireland, for it's you had the great tongue and
the great head, and it's you was the patriot all out ! "

" Is it Curran, your honor ! " interrupted an old-fash-
ioned little urchin, whose garments were in a sad state
of dilapidation, especially about the knees and elbows ;
"is it Curran, your honor! ah! then, sure enough he
was the broth of a boy, and if you want to know which
pillar it was, sir, sure Vm the boy that knows it as well
as any other in Dublin City. There it is, your honor ! "
pointing, or rather laying his finger on the one just be-
fore him ; " that't it, sir ! that's the one Curran leaned
agin' whin he tuk that weakness — pity the friend you
were talkin' of, sir, hadn't a drop of Kinahari's malt in
his pocket — it 'id bring him round in no time. You
would't have e'er a sixpence or a shillin' about you, sir %
— my mother's very bad with the windy colic, sir, an'
there's six of us in it, an' we haven't a rap to bless our-
selves with — "

" Poor boy ! poor boy ! " broke simultaneously from
the wonder-parted lips of Fitzmaurice Brothers, as they
each dropped a shilling in the outstretched palm. For
us, we could hardly keep from laughing, for the young-
ster, as we passed him descending the steps, evidently
knowing us citizens from our country friends, said, with
a leer of most mature cunning : " I wonder, old boys !
does your mother know you're out ? "

" I say, Ned ! " cried another juvenile loiterer from a
lower step, " you took them to the fair nicely — didn't
you 1 — what did you know about the pillar % '

" Why not much, to be sure," returned Ned, with dig

124

ELINOR PRESTON.

nified candor, *^ but none of them knew any more than I
did, an' why wouldn't I make an honest penny out of the
Kerry men. It's all for my poor mother, you know,
that's so bad with the windy colic!" and then both
raised such a laugh that Fitzmaurice Brothers turned
their heads, whereupon the waggish young shark who
had been preying upon their simple kindness, placed his
finger on his nose, and with his two hands made that
rapid gesture meant to express plainer than words could
the flattering sentiment : " You're sold, aren't you 1 "

" Well ! well ! " said Mr. Henry, while Mr. John
shook his head in accordance with his brother's dictum:"^
" well ! well ! I often heard of the Dublin jackeens, but
that chap beats all ! He looks as if he was his own
grandfather ! "

Arthur assured them for their comfort, that they had
seen nothing of the jackeens yet ; whereupon they held
up their hands in simple wonder.

This little incident gave us a good laugh at the ex-
pense of our worthy friends, they themselves laughing
as heartily as any of us, and our whole party were in
the best of humor when the carriage stopped at Mr.
Dillon's door, in Adelaide Place, Upper Baggot street.

The old lady met us at the door in full feather, viz.,
a copper-colored satin dress, the richest of old-fashioned
lace, in the shape of a collar which almost covered her
ample shoulders, fastened with a brooch which might
have formed part of the regalia of some native prince in
the old, old times. The good lady's head-dress was
rather of the fly-away character, and with its broad

ELINOR PRESTON.

1!^

streamers of handsome gauze ribbon, looked as though
it might take wing any moment. The fine, fresh-colored
and somewhat chubby face within it was, at the moment,
in a state of commotion, and her salutation was, I am
sorry to say, more characteristic than polite : ...

" What in the world kept yoil so long 1 — why you
might have been ten times round the city since ! — for
goodness sake, girls ! do go up and take off your things,
— don't wait to dress any more, for the people are tired
waiting ! you'll do well enough as you are ! Arthur,
will you just take the two Mr. Fitzmaurices up to the
drawing-room? Hurry now, for I'm ashamed of my
life ! "

We were none of us over and above pleased to be
thus coerced into using dispatch, and we of the feminine
gender grumbled a little about the awkwardness of ap-
pearing "just as we were," but when we once got the
length of the drawing-room, our anticipated embarrass-
ment quickly vanished, foi he party assembled, consist-
ing of six or eight, were all old friends, and none but
" the old familiar faces " met our view. So there was
no credit in " being jolly, under the circumstances," as
honest Mark Tapley would say, and by the time we had
shaken hands with the company all round, everybody
was talking to everybody, and as nobody was in full
dress, we were quite satisfied with our own, for dress
is, after all, but a secondary consideration among really
well-bred people, and those who can appreciable the
charm of good society, are precisely those who will any-
where trouble themselves least about the outward adorn-

12B

ELINOR PRESTON.

i';

rt.ent of " the mortal coil " which encases the bright,
. cheerful, happy spirit. We had a delightful evening of
it — tea and coffee hauded round by the gentlemen, one
or two of whom had the special privilege of assisting
Mrs. Dillon, who presided at the table, placed in the
centre of the room. It was an old joke, a standing joke,
that of "keeping the ladies in hot water," but when
brought out then with much humor by young Barrett,
the self-appointed aid-de-camp^ as he said, of Mrs. Dil-
lon, it was as well received as though heard then and
there for the first time. O'Shaughnessy was there in a
*' bran new suit " of his favorite snuff-color, and with him
my brother George, then a very handsome young man,
but looking some five years older, poor fellow ! than he
really was. It was painful to me to note the change
which had come upon him. The fine flow of spirits for
which he had once been remarkable, had latterly given
place to a subdued and quiet demeanor that was all but
melancholy, and the boyish gaiety which had been wont
to cheer us all, had fled and left scarce a trace behind.
And how inexpressibly dear he was to my lonely heart,
that kind, fond brother of vhom any sister might be
proud. If my poor aunt had lived to see him then with
the precious dignity of sorrow ennobling his early man-
hood, and the light of a cultivated intellect beaming
from his dark eye, she would have claimed him proudly
as a Preston, though I question whether he did not take
his finest traits, both mental and physical, from the ma-
ternal line. However that might be, it is pretty certain
that George Preston was regarded with no small degree

ELINOR PRESTON.

127

of admiration by more than one Dublin helle^ whose
parents, I dare say, would have cut them oft' with a
shilling had they dared to acknowledge a penchant for
the young law-student, the protege of old Shaugh.

During the evening I was honored (dare I say bored X)
with the particular attention of Fitzmaurice Brothers,
especially the junior partner, who was really quite and
most insufferably soft. My archaeological attainments
had evidently made a very deep impression on the sus-
ceptible heart of Mr. Johi., and the chord touched there-
in awoke a full diapason from the kindred organ of Mr.
Henry. Once when I made a dart into the adjoining
room in order to escape their most unwelcome assidui-
ties, I found Arthur entertaining O'Shaughnessy with the
account of that day's adventures, if adventures they
might be called, due prominence being given to the part
I had played.

" But here she comes," said Arthur, " looking as de-
mure as though she had not hooked a single fish to-day,
when she knows right well she has two great perch or
breames — what are they, Elinor % — dangling at her fin-
ger-ends." I was just preparing a suitable repartee,
when John Fitzmaurice spoke from behind.

" Mr. O'Shaughnessy, we want^ you out here to make
up a rubber — you play whist, don't you ] "

" Don't I ? — I rather think so, Mr. Fitzmaurice. But
I say, I've been having an eye to business here. There's
a crim. con. brewing, I fancy, and of course I'm in for
it." This was said I afterwards found by way of " di-
version " in my favor, the worthy man fearing that tho

128

ELINOR PRESTOir.

other might have overheard some of the previous baditi'
age, Arthur and I looked, as we felt, really astonished,
and poor innocent Fitzmaurice blushed like a peony, for
no other earthly reason but the steadfast gaze of the im«
moveable old lawyer, fixed pointedly on him.

" Why what do you mean % " said Arthur. •* That re-
quires explanation, my good sir — crim. con, is rather a
serious matter."

*' It is, eh ? — ^and you want explanation — jusfc as if yoif
hadn't told me there a minute ago that one of the Broth*
ers Fitzmaurice — the youngest I think it was — ^had been
rather attentive to your wife. Come now, Arthur ! — ^be
a man and speak out ! "

Arthur was now really embarrassed. The thing waa
so very absurd — the remark so very unlooked for — that
/ believe a pistol discharged at his ear would not have
startled him more. Still he thought it necessary to say
something, as the Kerryman turned his eyes full upon
him with no very agreeable expression either.

" I — ^I— really, Mr. O'Shaughnessy, I never dreamed
— upon my honor, this is too bad — too ridiculous ^*'

" Allow me to tell you, Mr. Dillon ! " said Fitzmaurice
very slowly and with marked emphasis, " that I will not
permit any man to introduce my name in such an affair.
If you entertained such an idea of — the youngest FiUs-
maurice " with an ironical bow — " why admit him to
your house this evening 1 A hint would have been quite
sufficient, for we are not so dull of comprehension down
in Kerry as you Dubliners may suppose."

He spoke with such energy and in so vehement a tone

SLnrOA PRESTON.

139

that it was quite clear how much he was offended. Ar-
thur looked reproachfully at his friend who burst luto a
hearty laugh, such a laugh as no one could give but him-
self.

" Well now, really, Mr. Fitzmaurice," said he, " I give
you credit for much genuine humor. If you hadn't that
you could never enter into the spirit ot my joke so welL
Give me your hand, man ! — if I haven't the prospect of
making out a ca^e by your instrumentality, I have made
a very pleasant acquaintance. You must dine with me
te-morrow."

" Excuse me, sir ! " replied Fitzmaurice very stiffly,
** if the whole was, as I begin to perceive, a fabrication
of your fruitful brain, it is still very offensive to me. I
may be a plain, unpolished countryman — if you will —
but I always make it a rule never to make a jest of any>
thing that would be offensive to God. If this gentleman's
wife were not his wife, ycu might quiz me about her till
midnight and I wouldn't take the least offence, but being
his wife, or any other man's wife, I will not be taxed
with paying her particular attention. I have neither
heart nor eye in her, Mr. Arthur, I do assure you. Mar-
riage is a sacred institution, my worthy sir, and every-
thing sacred must be respected. What think you. Miss
Preston 1 " he asked very suddenly, so suddenly indeed
that I started and blushed, the more so as I had been
just thinking, " after all, we cannot but respect you —
simple as you seem to be."

" Who— 1 — Mr. Fitzmaurice ? " I hesitated, and con-
scious of that, blushed still deeper. "I really don't

130

KLINOR PRBflTOH.

know, but — ^but I should think you are quite right. But
surely you take the matter in too serious a light — if you
knew Mr. O'Shaughnessy as well as we do, you wouldn't
mind any thing he says."

" Provided he jest on proper subjects "

" Poh, poh ! man, you're forgetting what you cama
for," said O^Shaughnessy, and rising he laid hold of his
arm, " you're what I call the crow's messenger, my fine
fellow. Where's this whist-table 1 — I suppose you're all
tired waiting. This lad " looking slyly up at his com-
panion's rather extensive whiskers, wherein there was a
considerable sprinkling of grey, "this lad, I say, saw
something within there that attracted his attention — a
sort of a rattlesnake, or basilisk, or some other specimen
of natural history — ahem ! — EUinor, my dear, are you
going to join us young people ? "

" Do, pray, excuse me, Mr. O'Shaughnessy, I've got
to look after that rattlesnake you talk of. It is not safe
to leave it at large." And away 1 went with the old
gentleman's merry laugh ringing in my ear.

Whether it was the visit of the Fitzmaurices that put
it into Maria's head, or what, I cannot say, but in a few
days after their departure, she asked Arthur what woulu
he think of a trip to Killamey. Whatever she pleased,
Arthur said — ^if she liked it, so would he.

"Oh! you dear, obliging creature! — what a pattern
husband you are, to be sure — well, then, hey for Killar-
ney! — that's the word! — of course, EUinor, you'll come!" #

"Of course I will not. I'm going to spend a few
weeks at Cabra, and that will be a go»d opportunity.'*

XLINOR PRXSTOir.

Idl

"Very well, ma chhre amief — ^you'll deprive mo of
the trip, that^s all, fur I sha^nt go a step without j
But I know very well what's in the wind, my lady !
you're afraid to venture into the kingdom of Kerry for
fear of being carried off bodily to Tralee !"

" Nonsense, Maria ! — how you do run on ! — ^but, se-
riously, if you wish me to go — and, after all, I may be
useful to you — why, I'm quite willing to go.*'

" That's my own good girl. Now let us go and tell
Mamma Dillon — come along, both of you, it will take
us all to come round her. If we can manage it, she
must come too, for it will do her a world of good. If
she goes, we can easily persuade father."

It was no easy matter to reconcile the old lady to the
projected tour — the expense seemed enormous to her

momical eyes ; and as to herself, why it would have

m just as easy to persuade the Sugar-Loaf mountain
to pay a neighborly visit to the Scalp as to induce her
to shut up No. 3 Adelaide Place. *' She wasn't so mad
yet as all that came too," she told us, very impressive-
ly ; " if some people were a little flighty or so, she thank-
ed God she never was that, the youngest day ever she
was. If Stephen liked, he might go," she condescended
to say, knowing all the time that Stephen would not go
unless she went. We next tried our joint eloquence on
him, but it was no use — " he couldn't think of going with-
out Margaret ; and, after all, it wouldn't be safe, per-
haps, for all to leave home. The business and the house
were worth attending to." W liat effect this might have
bad on Arthur there is no saying, but Maria gave him

162

SLINOR PRSSTOV.

no time to think. It was nothing but bustle, bustle
from morning till night, for the next forty-eight hours ;
and at the end of that time off we three started for Kil
lamey, in company with Mr. O'Shaugnessy — how my
heart ached to leave poor George behind, and he looked
so longingly after us, too, when we started fronj the
Railroad Depot. Poor fellow ! how often did the tears
start to my eyes that day when I thought of him going
back slowly, slowly and alone, to resume his daily labor
in thstt low first-floor office, where he sat all the midday
hours through, behind his desk, thinking of days gone
forever, when he, too, would haVfe been on the road, full
of excitement and joyous anticipation ! I wonder whether
he or I felt saddest or loneliest that day, although he
was nearly alone, pent up all day, at his cheerless task,
and I hurrying on from one new scene to another, in
company with kind and hearty companions.

■UHOB PRESTOV.

18S

CHAPTER V.

AVING once reached Killarney, and es-
tablished oursdves in the far-famed " Lake
Hotel," we had little time for thought. All
J was feeling, — exquisite, fresh, and of a kind
unknown before. Every day and every
hour of the day during the week that we
spent there had its own round of enjoyment.
Not to speak of the natural wonders by which
we were surrounded, and the thrilling as-
sociations borrowed from the old **Lake
lore," there were both pleasure and amusement to be
met in the crowded parlors and drawing-rooms of the
hotel, where all sorts of characters from all sorts of
places were to be seen. It was real enjoyment to secure
seats near one of the windows in the drawing-room,
towards evening, when the different parties began to
drop in from their protracted rambles, to hear them,
while waiting for the tea-bell, comparing notes, and re-
tailing their siifveral experiences for the public entertain-
ment : — ourselves all the time looking out on the fairy
scene, — Castle Lough Bay, with the remains of the Mao
12

134

ELINOR PRESTON.

7f I

Carthys' ancient castle ; Ross Island, with its historic
ruin, once a fortress of great strengh, and memorable
from its heroic resistance to the canting cut-throats of
Old Noll ; the fairy Island of Innisfallen, with its once
splendid Abbey, now roofless all and desolate ; to the
left, the gigantic Tore rearing his huge form to the skies ;
further on in the same direction the Eagle's Nest ; and
before us, in the distance, the loveliest of Killarney
mountains, the pastoral Glena with its hue of summer
verdure — to see all this through the gathering mists of
evening, listening all the while with a sort of dreamy
consciousness to the running commentary going on
around. A fair-haired girl — a Cork beauty — was sing-
ing at a distant piano to some half dozen admiring
swains one of Moore's delightful reminiscences of Kil-
larney :

" *Twas one of those dreams that by music are brought,
Like a bright summer haze o'er the poet's warm thought— •
When, lost in the future, his soul wanders on,
And all of this life but its swetness is gone."

The voice that sung these musical words was certainly
neither a Jenny Lind's nor a Catherine Hayes', but it
was soft and tremulous ; the latter, probably, on account
of some " listening ear " whose heart was wont to re-
spond to those tones. It was, in short, a voice well fitted
for a simple lay : and then the hazy, tender twilight,
and the thousand romantic associations of the place, all
conspire id to gWe a charm to the unpretending miih
strelsy and before the song was half through, all other

ELINOR PRESTON.

137

lounds were hushed throughout the spacious 'oom, and
we all listened as it were entranced. Whea the last
Bweet cadence died away, the singer, ashamed of the at-
tention she had excited, glided quickly from the room :
but ft'om that hour I felt a desire to make her acquain-
tance, for I felt that she had a soul, and something told
me that it was a kindred soul, too. My pleasant reverie
was broken by the sound of a quick, rough voice al-
most at my ear, singing, or rather droning out, as if m
derision, those elegant lines :

" What a beauty I did grow — what a beauty I did grow,"

ending somewhat in this wise :
" My mammy fed me with a quill for fear to spoil my mouth."

It was the first time we had ever heard " a stave," as he
called it, from Shaugh'a mouth, and Balaam, accordingly,
was not more astonished when his assine supporter
opened her mouth and spoke. Every eye was instantly
turned on the queer old customer, who sat lilting his
charming ditty with such cool composure. At first there
was a general inclination to resent the evident attempt
to burlesque the song just ended, but one glance at the
humorous old fogy was quite sufficient to do away with
any such feeling, and the abruptness with which the dis-
cordant sounds commenced, together with the odd selec-
tion made, tickled the audience so that they — I should say
we — bur;^t into a hearty laugh. Shaugh then stopped
all of a sudden, and looked around with affected anger :
" Well, really, for tourists, you're about the most ill»

138

ELINOR PRESTON.

mannered set of people I ever came across : here you
were, almost crying a minute ago at the melody of sweet
sounds kept up through some half dozen verses, but as
soon as I began to tune my pipes, you hadn't the com-
mx)n decency to let me sing more than one verse — ^hardly
that same. All because my honorable and learned —
humph ! I mean my fair friend, is a very charming lit- ^
tie noun feminine, whilst I'm nothing better than a rough
old verb active — to sing — to grunt — to snarl."

We were summoned to tea at the moment, but I
could see by the looks and signs interchanged among the
company that the old Dublin lawyer was set down as a
little touched in the attic story.

Next day we made the acquaintance of Miss McCar-
thy, the young vocalist of the previous evening, and I
found her just what I expected, if not something more.
She was a gentle, loveable creature, sportive as a fawn,
yet mild in manner and pure in heart — a genuine Irish
girl of the very best stamp. Her talents, naturally
good, had been carefully and well cultivated, and her
reasoning powers were far beyond those of most girls I
had met ; yet there was so little stiffness or formality
about her that you constantly forgot the higher qualities
of her mind in the sprightly ease of her manners. Dear
Ellen McCarthy ! how I love, even now, to recall the
charms of your fair, girlish face, your slight, graceful
form, and your conversation, so full of mind, so brilliant,
and yet so artless. She was pious, too, really, ^ncerely,
but unostentatiously pious. Her parents, like my own,
were dead, yet you could hardly call her an orphan, for

ELINOR PRESTON.

139

she was blessed 'vt ith the protection of a grandfuther, the
kindest and most indulgent, yet most prudent of Men-
tors. He was a man of considerable fortune, aixl had
mixed all his life in the best society of his native city,
and that city the Irish Athens. They were a charming
pair, as memory sees them now, — the tall, dignified old
gentleman, looking as though the blood of the entire
" Clan Mac Caura " had descended into his veins, and
was there duly enshrined as in a costly casket ;

" His hair is white with winter-snow
No earthly sun awaj may carrj/'

and the fire of mind and spirit is still ali\e in His dark»
southern features. He is like some aged oak, strong and
proud even in decay, while the fair Hebe leaning on his
arm, looks like some graceful tendril clinging to its
venerable trunk. Such were Denis John Mac Carthy
and his pretty granddaughter when they crossed my path
at Killarney. Our intercourse was then but brief — ^a
few days only — but in that short time we knew each
other as well as though we had been years and years to-
gether. Although no two men could be more unlike in
most respects than the lordly Mac Carthy and the quick,
busy, bustling attorney, yet somehow they were quite
attached to each other, I suppose because extremes are
said to meet ; and in all our excursions through the Lake
region you would generally find the little old-fashioned
man of parchment somewhere in the immediate vicinity
of the calm, self-possessed, aristocratic-looking South-
erner peering up into his face, and perhaps standing: oo

140

ELINOR PRESTON.

tip-toe as he did so, while endeavoring to impress him
with some peculiar view of some favorite subject. And
it was a picture too, in its way, — the contrast between
those two men, each representing his own class.

As for us juniors of the party, we all four kept pretty
much together, though it often happened that Ellen and
myself contrived to get separated from the rest of the
party ; and it was then that the rich, poetic fancy, and
the cultivated taste of my young friend showed to most
perfection. In ordinary cases she was rather abashed
by the presence of strangers, and seldom spoke much ;
but when alone with me, or with only her grandfather
besides, she could talk and I could listen for ever.
What glorious reminiscences of former days fell from
the lips of both parent and child, as we strolled in the
summer moonlight among the wondrous scenes where
the Mac Carthys ruled as princes, and fought as heroes
m the old, old time ! The very islet or promontory
(for it is now connected with the mainland by a little
artificial causeway) on which our hotel was situate, bore
on its b*^ld crown a mouldering fortalice of the Mao
Carthys, which had originally given its name to the ad-
joining or surrounding bay, and the whole was famous
throughout the Ireland of that day as Castle Lough of
the Mac Carthys, Then there was Mucruss, the Irrelagh
of former days, the great Abbey of the Mac Carthys,
and still, even in its ruined state, one of the greatest at
tractions of Killarney. But alas !

** The Mac Gaura no more comes with gift in his hand,
For the sons of the Saxon are lords of his land,"

ELINOR PRESTON.

141

and so Ellen whispered as at early mom we stood to-
gether beneath the branches of that weird yew, the
growth of centuries, which shades the mouldering pillars
of the cloisters, and makes noonday dim as twilight
hour. " Sad, is it not ? " said the fair descendant of the
local princes, " to see such fabrics as this of Mucruss
hurrying to " ^cay, in silence and neglect, and the chiefs
who built them for the honor of God and the good of re-
ligion, driven as they have been from hearth and home,
wandering landless and friendless men over the broad
earth, while strangers, — upstart strangers, — revel in their
ancient halls — that is, if they be not too time-worn for
them — and lord it over their broad domains ! Ah ! El-
inor ! it was a strange doom that fell on the native ar-
istocracy of Ireland, — driven out to make place for
Cromwellian and Williamite troopers — ours, for instance
—the eldest branch of the great Milesian tree! But
hush — here they ;|ome! — don't you think Mrs. Dillon
looks fatigued ? "

This was the way in which Ellen usually turned the
conversation when we chanced to have our tete-d-tete in
terrupted.

That same evening we sailed over by moonlight to
Ross Island, examined at our leisure the ruins of its
stately fortress — the stateliest and strongest of southern
castles — the last great stronghold of the Confederate
Catholic nobles. By the time we had made the circuit
of the fortress, and given a sigh to the truth of the old
classical proverb — Sic transit gloria mundi — we were
well prepared to do justice to a cold supper, slily smuggled

142

ELINOR PRESTON.

in our boat by the joint contrivance of Arthur and Mr.
O'Shaughnessy, the best and most provident of travel-
ling companions. What moonlight that was, to be sure,
and what a scene was that over which it threw its silveir
beams — Killarney's blue water — the placid water of the
Lower Lake, dotted with its fairy islands! Killarney'a
dark, many-colored, tufted woods, and its world-famous
mountains standing like giant-sentinels around,^with
three ruined abbeys in sight, and the ancient keeps of the
Mac Carthys and O'Donoghoes, — the noblest of them all
overshadowing our heads, its ivy rustling in the soft night- ^•
wind as if in concert with the ripple of the waves at our
feet. Surely a fairer scene was never witnessed on this
earth, full of beauty as it is, and the heavens above were
covering meet for such a scene.

"Off in the "West where the lake's blue breast
Reposed like an angel of light at r«et»
And the rich rays there seemed sppllts of air
That wanton'd about in their silver hair."

Ah ! it was a scene never to be forgotten — ^'twas, in-
deed, " too lovely for earth " — too lovely, at least, to be
long enjoyed by us poor pilgrims of an hour.

The soothing influence of the scene was irresistible.
Even Maria, usually so gay and light-hearted, was, for
the time, quite subdued and almost pensive, and Mr.
O'Shaughnessy confessed afterwards that, he never felt
so queer in all his life {repose being something altogether
foreign to his disposition) as he did that night on Ross
Island. '

ELINOR PRESTON.

143

For iny part, I was, as it were, in a delicious trance,
wherein the past and present were softly, mellowly
blended. All was peace within and without. I could
have sat there for hours, listening to the wind sighing
amongst the surrounding foliage, like the spirits of the
departed, and the soft murmuring sound of the waters
as they playfully kissed the strand. Half unconsciously
I gave utterance to one of my thoughts :

** What exquisite taste they must have had who chose
such sitc3 for the homes of religion! On the banks of
these charming Lakes we have no less than three abbeys
— ruined now, to be sure, but grand and beautiful even
in decay."

" Yes," replied Mr. McCarthy, who happened to be
seated near me — "Yes, my dear young lady, I rather
think the sites were well chosen, on principles of the
truest, most refined taste — considering that the nobles
who gave them were ' mere Irish,' and the monks to
whom they were given were some of the * ignorant
drones ' of * the dark ages.' I should like to see a fra-
ternity of our modern literati^ now, making up a librf\ry
such as * those monks of old ' were wont to have, by the
labor — the hard, toilsome labor of their own hands,
when every single copy of a book had to be copied word
for word with the pen! I wonder how certain of our
dandified nineteenth-century men, who love to talk and
write of * the good-for-nothing lazy monks of the middle
ages,' would look at a ponderous folio of some of the
fathers, if it were given them to write out in clear, legi-
ble characters fr^m beginning to end with their own

144

ELISOR PRESTON.

hands — not to speak of those wonderful illuminated
characters and devices wherewith the laborious monks
of the olden time delighted to ornament their pages !
Oh ! wouldn't our fine gentlemen authors make wry faces
at the very thoughts of such an undertaking ! I suspect
it would make every hair of their * imperials ' or mous*
(aches stand on end." This was rather a long speech
for the old gentleman, and he drew a long breath when it
was ended, and quaffed a long draught of Guinness's XX,
as it were to refresh himself after so unusual an efforts

" I wonder had they as good wine as that in those old
days you speak of — shouldn't think they had, eh ? " and
Shaugh, as he spoke, held up his glass between his right
eye and the moon to catch the ruddy sparkle of the fine
old Burgundy, which his own golden key had drawn
forth from the most secret recesses of the Lake Hotel.
" I drink to your good health, Mr. McCarthy : by and
by m give you, to be drunk in solemn silence — faith !
its all solemn silence here ! — the memory of your ve/i-
erahle ancestors, — some of whom," he added, in a lower
tone, looking over his shoulder as he spoke, " some of
whom may be within hearing. It wasn't safe meddling
with them, I'm told, when they were in the flesh, and I
wouldn't take it upon me to slight them now that they're
dead, especially when we've the honor, ahem ! — of sup-
ping — maybe trespassing — on their grounds. Ladies!
— ^a glass of wine ! — there's some Mi>deira that the land-
lord passes his word for, so it must be good, eh ? ha !
ha! ha!"

Mr. McC^hy listened to this characteristic flow of

ELINOR PRESTON.

145

talk with a grave smile, bent his stately head slightly
at the mention of his own name, — lower by a good deal
at the allusion to his progenitors ; and when the lawyer
had fniished and set down his glass, he condescended to
say with a kind smile :

" Allow me to correct a slight mistake under which
you appear to labor, my good friend ! while acknowl-
edging as I do your very kind and polite attention —
Ross Island belonged not to the Mac Carthys, but to
their tributaries, the O'Donoghoes."

*' Oh ! well, it's all the same ; they were all chips of
the same block, you know, and followed the same busi-
ness — it's all one ! "

" What do you mean, sir 1 "

" Why, then, what would I mean, Mr. Denis McCar-
thy, only everything that's civil and respectful ? I know
what the Mac Carthys were as well as any man living —
high and mighty chiefs, every mother's son of them ; but,
npon my honor ! there were some very bad Irishmea
^amongst them for all that. Pooh ! pooh 1 man, don't
knit your browt that way! sure you know all about
Donough — Donough the Red — that was one of the first
to kneel and swear allegiance to Renry Plantagenet :
but what is that to you or me? — he was a great prince in
his day — a powerful prince — but ke^s dead, and Planta-
genet's dead, many hundred years ago, so what are their
doings to us now ? Take another glass of wine, and
we'll ijrink, as I said, to the dead Mac Carthys — I mean
to their memory. Now, sir — ^fill, if you please — I'm
waiting."
13

146

ILINOR PRBSTOir.

There was no possibility of keeping anger against a
man like this, and happily the old gentleman hud too
much good sense to take up so silly a quarrel, so the
toast Mas drank in solemn silence, as Shaugh said, and
very soon after we quietly left the island to its solitude
and silence, and returned (nothing loath, it must be con-
fessed) to the cheerful drawing-room in the hotel, where
all was light, and life, and gayety — strange contrast to
the scene we had just left.

On the following day we paid a visit to " Innisfallen's
lovely isle," gave our tribute of admiration to the re-
mains of its noble abbey — spoke of the literary labors
of its former occupants, their noble contribution to the
chronicles of the nation,* and the treasures of ancient
lore which for ages enriched the three abbeys of Kil-
larney, giving a name to the lakes themselves,f and
shedding a halo of supernatural glory even now over
the natural beauties of that romantic region. Whilst
we were admiring the effect of the luxuriant foliage which,
as it were, drapes the ruins, and gives them a character
of such peculiar grace, Maria slily asked Arthur whether
he had seen anything on his continental travels to exceed
that. The poor fellow blushed deeply. He was already
heartily ashamed of his former folly, and any allusion
to it was by no means agreeable. For my part, I was
sorry Maria put the question, but for herself its visible

* The well-known AnnaU of InnU/aUenf one of the most authentio
fragments of Irish historj.

t Loch-Lein, < r the Lake of Learning, bj which our fathers knew
tCillamej.

ELINOR PRESTON.

i47

effect only made her laugh. With all her other good
qualities, she was certainly, and at all times, deficient in
that delicate tact which saves the feelings of others. As
for Arthur, he had only to make the best of it. Shaugh-
looked at him through his half-closed eyelids, his parch-
ment countenance puckered into a humorous grin, while
the Mac Carthys listened with polite attention.

" Well ! really," said Arthur, " I can't say I ever did
see anything like it," — he cast a reproachful look on his
provoking partner ; " there are not many Innisfallens to
be met in foreign countries."

" Rather say none, my dear Mr. Dillon : I have seen
some of the finest — " Mr. McCarthy was here cut short
by an exclamation from O'ShaughnesSy, who had been
amusing himself like a light-hearted old boy flinging
pebbles into the still-lake and watching the expanding
circles they produced.

" Do you see that boat coming across from the hotel 1 "
Certainly we all saw the boat.

" Do you see the two stiff figures in Quaker hats sit-
ting bolt upright in the stern 1 " We saw them too.
" Well ! I shoudn't wonder if them were the Brothers
Fitzmaurice ! If it isn't them, I'll never hazard a guess
on any given subject during my natural life."

*• But, my dear sir, you don't mean the Fitzmauricea
of Tralee, do you?" inquired Mr. McCarthy,

"Who else ? I should like to know where else you'd
find a pair of brothers like that ! There, now, — look,
Elinor, look — look, Mrs. Dillon ! they have off their
Quaker hats now to you ladies — didn't I tell you ? —

148

ELINOR PRESTON.

? «

well! sure enough, that's lucky — we'll have some fun
now, anyhow ! " and the hilarious lawyer almost skip-
ped for joy as he returned the salutation of the brothers
— unmistakaljly our Tralee friends.

" Well ! this is really an odd coincidence,' " said Ellen
to me in a low voice ; " everywhere we have gone this
summer, we were sure to meet the brothers Fitzmaurice.
They are really a tiresome pair, and I must ask grand
papa to leave here to-morrow, just because they're come.
How very provoking ! "

" Why, what's the matter, my dear Ellen ?" I laugh-
ingly inquired ; " have they been making love to my
sweet friend ? "

• ** Love ! " she evasively replied — " why, if you knew
them better you wouldn't ask the question. I do be-
lieve they make love to every unmarried woman they
meet — either one or other of them as chance may be.
I wish they would get married, both of them, and then
perhaps there might be an end of their flying over the
country. I believe, Elinor, these two men are ubiquitous
— I give you my word I do ! They once appeared to
us quite suddenly on the very summit of a wild moun-
tain in Connemara, where we thought no more of meet-
ing them than if they had been sunning themselves on
the Mountains of the Moon. Just look, now — they're
going to land — the tiresome crejitures ! "

By this time I was laughing outright, and her grand-
father evidently understood her feelings, and was rather
amused by the strength of her antipathy to the inoffen-
five brothers, " ELen, my dear," said he, with hia

ELINOR PRESTON.

149

courtly smile, taking her hand as he spoke, *' here are
some old friends of ours — ^you will be delighted to see
them, I am quite certain. What ! you will not go to
meet them 1 — well ! you are a wayward girl." And he
glanced at me. " I must e'en go alone to bid them wel-
come. You see we are at present in possession of the
island — ^like Alexander Selkirk, *monarchs of all we
survey,' — so it devolves on us to do the honors on be-
half of the venerable religious whose home we have in-
vaded — good morning, Messrs. Fitzmaurice ! — I am re-
joiced to see you again, although I did not expect that
pleasure on the present occasion."

If he was pleased, the brothers were doubly pleased
to see the whole party — of course excepting Ellen and
myself — Shaugh was in ecstasies. If truth must be
told, he had found exploring ruins rather dull work,
little relieved, if any, by gliding over still waters or
bivouacing under forest trees amid the deep silence of
the woods. Change of scene was to him the end and
object of travel, and for anything else in the way of
^ghls he had little relish, save and except an extra fine
sirloin of beef, or a juicy, well-cooked quarter of the de-
licious Kerry mutton, or a brace of lake wild-fowl or
mountain-game, — these, or such as these, with the ad-
dition of some long-preserved wine of a favorite vintage
— ^he was rather a connoissev/r in wines — were the sights
that had power to stir the blood within our old friend's
heart, and make his small eyes twinkle with the cheer-
fullest of glee. Anything in the way of fun, too, or
oddity of character, was always keenly relished and

150

ELINOR PRESTOir.

made the most of by him. The Fitzmaurices had at
forded him rare pleasure in Dublin by the freshness of
their quaint simplicity, and they came now " in the nick
of time" when he was just getting tired of Killamey,
Extra-hearty, then, was the shake-hands, and the " How
d'ye do 1 " with which the worthy lawyer greeted the
landing of each brother. The Dillons, and myself, too,
were tolerably sincere in our welcome, and the frank
courtesy of old Dennis John almost compensated for
the visible coldness of his fair granddaughter. So we
were all in excellent humor — even Ellen was much too
geni'dl to let an idle whim throw a chill on the warm
glow of the hour.

" But what brought you here at all 1 " cried Shaugh
— " I mean, how did you know we were over here
— lovely spot, isn't it 1 " looking round with anything
but an admiring eye; "but a word in your ear — its
devilish lonesome. For your life don't tell these lovers
of nature and of art — ha — ha — ^ha! — what I said, or
they'd cut the acquaintance — they v/ould — they'd vote
me a bear or an ourang-outang before ever I left the
island ! But how did you know we were here — or did
you know it ? "

To be sure, the Brothers Fitzmaurice did know it.
They had seen our names in the hotel book imme-
diately on their arrival ; so as soon as they swallowed
their quantum sufficit of creature-comforts, vulgarly
called breakfast, they got a boat and were rowed over iu
d< uble-quick time " to the isle of the blest."

These last words from Mr. John — who did not often

ELINOR PRESTON.

151

l^enture on quotations — were pointed by a slftling bow to
us ladies, in which courteous act he was ably and promptly
assisted by his brother. Ellen, grossly irreverent to
the memory of poor Gerald Griffin, answered only by a
very disdainful toss of her pretty head, while Maria and
I bowed with what we intended for much graciousness.

As far as I myself was concerned, the arrival of the
Fitzmaurices made little difference. It is true I was in
no humor for quizzing at the time — the scene was far
too purely beautiful, the place too sacred for trifling, but
neither was I in a humor to be ruffled by anything ; so I
listened to the animated chit-chat going on among the
Ilillons, the Fitzmauricos, and merry old Shaugh, with
a sort of dreamy languor — a half consciousness that was
very soothing. While Mr. M«cCarthy and the brothers
were retracing some reminiscences of Connemara, hu-
morous not"; '^ travel, I was repeating to myself (and
by this time v • v/ere leaving the island) :

" Sweet Innisfallen ! fare thee well,

May calm and sunshine long be thine,
How fair thou art let others tell, —
To/eel how fair shall long be mine.

" Sweet Innisfallen ! long shall dwell
In memory's dream that sunny smile
Which o'er thee on that evening fell
When first 1 saw thy fairy isle.

** 'Twas sight, indeed, too bless'd for one
Who had to turn to paths of care —
Through crowded haunts again to run,
And leave thee bright and silent there.

152 ELINOR PRESTOir.

" No more unto thy shores to come,
But on the world's rude ocean toss'd,
Dream of thee sometimtis as a home
Of sunshine he had seen and lost."

Many a time since then I have thought of that " fairy
isle " and its air of unearthly peace, when the waves of
trouble have surged and boiled around me, and I felt
myself jostled out of the way by the busy, bustling,
thriving world.

We had now seen most of what was to be seen, or at
least what is usually seen by visitors at Killarney.
Most of us had climbed the steep sides of Tore and
Mangerton, and were amply repaid for our toil and
trouble by the magnificent prospect we enjoyed; we
had heard the traditional bugle of Killarney awake the
wondrous echoes of the Eagle's Nest,

" When the notes of the bugle had wafted them o'er
From Denis' green iale to Glena's wooded shore/'

and one and another began to think it time to return
homeward. There was nothing now to be gained by
delaying ; and people at home would begin to look out
for us. Great was the disappointment of the Fitzmaurice
Brothers when they found us about to start ; why they
had but just come, and here we were flying away.
Couldn't we stay a day or two longer? They could
show us many things we hadn't seen yet. But all in
vain : Arthur said his father and mother would be
growing anxious — Maria was dying to be at home again
— Shaugh knew very well his business was going to the

ELINOR PRESTON.

153

dogs for want of him, (very flattering, thought I, to poor
Geerge Preston ! ) and myself had nothing to say ; — be-
ing merely a hanger-on to the party I had, of course, no
voice in their deliberations. So, at least, I thought.

On the night before we left Killarney, I was honored
with a formal proposal for my hand from Mr. John
Fitzmaurice. Unfortunately for him (perhaps for my-
self in a worldly sense) my eyes were so darkened that
I could not see those qualities in him which I would fain
see in a husband, and I told him civilly that he must
excuse me : I did not think I should ever marry, but
even if I did, it would not be for some time — the troub-
les in my own family were too recent.

" Might he hope, then, that after a year or two — sup-
pose he waited—"

" By no means, Mr. John Fitzmaurice. I wish to
deal frankly with you — do not wait a single day on me,
for though I esteem you highly, I can never think of you
in the way you seem to desire. Do not wait, I beg of you ;
I shall be most happy to receive wedding favors when I re-
turn to town, if you can oblige me by sending them." And
with a saucy nod — I feel now that it was both saucy and
provoking — and an arch smile, I escaped from the room,
leaving good Mr. John to digest his disappointment at
his leisaro. How much he felt it at the time I really
cannot say, — but I should think it was not much, for in
the morning he and his brother saw us off, both of them
looking as well and quite as contented as usual.

While I think of it I may as well mention here that
honest John took me at my word, or rather acted on

154

ELINOR PREBTON.

my suggestion, for although the wedding-favors never
came to hand, we actually saw, only a few weeks after,
a flourishing account of his marriage in a provincial
paper sent to me by post. Happy be his wedded life
and smooth its course, for John Fitzmaurice was indeed
a man " in whom there was no guile ! " May his yoke-
fellow and he glide as peacefully and as inoffensively
through life as his friends could wish or he desire.
Whether Henry ever went and did likewise I am not
prepared to state ; I have a sort of notion that he did
not. One wife, one housekeeper was quite enough for
the two attached brothers, to whom, I am sure, the
thoughts of separate dwellings would be something in
the highest degree preposterous. So with Anastasia
Burke for a third partner, it is, I think, morally certain
that their moderate desires were fulfilled, especially if
Anastasia — I'm almost sure they called her Anty — is
anything of a "conversable woman" or talks in any
degree " like a book."

Peace be with you, then, Fitzmaurice Brothers, best
and kindest of Tralee merchants ! When I now think
of you, it seems as though you had been shapely, well-
proportioned, but rather quaint figures reflected across
my path from a magic lamp, flitting from before my
eyes on that sunny morning at Killamey, and withdraw-
ing, as it were, into that mythical world whence you
came forth on that other sunny day in Adelaide Place,
Dublin!

The evening after our arrival, I was summoned to the
drawing-room to see Geerge, who had just heard of our

ELINOR PRESTON.

155

the

return by the kind attention of Mr. O'Shaughnessy who
had called at his boarding-house for that purpose.

"And he found you in, George ? " I asked reproach-
fully! , for I had often begged of him to take more exer-
cise, and profit by his hours of leisure to snatch a little
recreation.

" Yes," he answered in a desponding, listless tone ;
" I was just sitting with a volume of Shakspeare in my
hand, but I wasn't reading — I was thinking."

" But why were you not out, George, enjoying the
beauty of the evening ? "

"Well! that's what I could hardly tell - ou, Elinor!
— I used to enjoy a good smart walk, or better still, a
ride — in days when I had a horse. You remember the
Shetland ponies that my poor father bought for Alfred
and me — how proud we were of them, and how we used
to enjoy a canter on the Rathmines Road. When the
days of the Shetland ponies were past away, and Alfred
left me alone, I had you or Carry to come out for a ride
— ^but now — I have neither horse nor companion — " he
stopped — he could go no further, and I, though sharing
his emotion, tried to appear composed.

"But couldn't you walk? — walking is even better
exercise than riding 1 "

George suddenly raised his eyes and looked me full
in the face : " Elinor ! " said he, " I am very lonely — I
make no companions — I am poor, and cannot afford to
spend money on amusements, which I think I could
not relish were they within my reach. No one asks
me to go on a tour, but, thank God, you are more

156

ELINOR PRESTON.

fortunate ! — do you know what I have been thinking 1 "
I answered, of course, in the negative, wondering all the
time that he asked me no questions about Killarney, or
my journey to and fro.

" I have been thinking of going to America."

" To America, George ! — surely you are not in ear-
nest!"

" I never was more in earnest, Elinor. Mr. O'Shaugh-
nessy says, you know, that I'm not the cut for a lawyer.
Now if that is the case — and I do rather think it is —
I'll try something else before I get any older. Any-
thing to obtain an independence. Here I don't like to
be making experiments, and perhaps failing ii^^ every-
thing I undertake. You see, Elinor, I have some of the
old Preston pride in me yet," he added, with a smile —
it was a sad smile too : " I'll go to America, where no-
body knows me, and I'll see then whether fortune, the
capricious jade! has declared irrevocably against me.
But she shall not conquer me, Nell ! for if all fails me,
I'll begin at the very foot of the ladder ! "

I would fain have remonstrated against this sudden
project, but I must confess there was something in it
that took my fancy. There was somewhere far down
in my heart or mind, a latent love of adventure — a de-
sire to see the world abroad ; and though I did not at
once say so, I made up my mind in an instant. One or
two faint efforts I made to persuade George that he had
better remain in Dublin, but he laughed them all to
scorn. Seeing this I threw off the mask, and declared
that I too would go to America.

BLIVOR PRESTON.

157

" What ! you, Elinor ! — you brave the perilous i cean
—you expose yourself to the unknown trials of an era
igrant's life ? — you, Elinor Preston, go seek your for-
tune in a strange laud 1 — no, no ! — ^you could never
think of it ! "

" And why not, pray ! — what prospects have I here ?
My funds have dwindled down to fifteen pounds, so I
must soon, or indeed at once, think of doing something.
In fact, it was against my own convictions that I stayed
here so long, for, with all their kindness, I cannot divest
myself of the feeling of dependence ; and, oh ! George,
but the bread of dependence is bitter ! "

" Well ! Nelly," said George, and his fine countenance
brightened up considerably, "I'm glad, and yet I'm
sorry that you have made up your mind to come. But
on the whole, I think, — I'm sure, we'll both be happier
together. So, in God's name, we'll see about it very-
soon."

" How soon ? "

"As soon as you like. We'll drive out to Clon-
gowes and to Cabra, and see Alfred and the girls. I
know Carry will be in despair "

"I think not, George. I have noticed latterly a quiet,
heartfelt resignation growing on dear Carry : if I'm net
much mistaken, the world has lost it's hold on her.
You remember what she told our mother on her death-
bed?"

" Certainly I do." '

" Well ! 1 think she has already made an offering of
her life to God, for worldly matters — even where you
14

158

ELIlfOR PRESTON.

or I arc concerned — seem to have now little or no interest
for her. Depend upon it, she will give us no trouble.
Her lot is cast."

Here we heard the shrill voice of Mrs. Dillon, senior,
coming scolding along the passage. She could hardly
command herself sufficiently to shake hands with George
when she did make her appearance. " I declare to you,
Mr. Preston ! it's enough to drive any sensible woman
mad to see how things go in this house. Why, there's
some people in it that have no more notion of saving
than if they were made of money ! Well ! at any rate,
it won't be Stephen or me that will come to the wall —
"we have enough with a blessin' to last us our lifetime.
So let them that makes the waste feel the want — that's
all I have to say ! — oh, dear me ! dear me ! ! "

Neither George nor I well knew what specific to ap-
ply to the good lady's wounded feelings, so we said
very little, and were well pleased when the entrance of
Maria and the old gentleman relieved us from our very
awkward position.

ILIKOR PRESTOS.

159

CHAPTER VI.

OTIIING could equal the surprise wHh
which the Dillons, old and younf^, heard
of our determination. " What on earth
would take us to America — hadn't we a
very good America at home ? " the old lady
asked.

" Nothing to depend upon, ma'am,'
was George's answer. " Elinor and I have
both to make out our living the best way
we can, and I think somehow we shall do
it with more energy and spirit in a new and strange
country where nobody knows anything of our antece-
dents. Here we have — at least my sister has — the gall-
ing trammels of aristocratic birth and gentle breeding
to operate against her when she comes to * take a sit-
uation :' the position she has lost will be as a wall of
brass before her, scathifig her energies and chilling her
hopes.' In a strange country there will be none of that :
people will take us just as they find us, and we can
humble ourselves to almost any employmcLt that naay

160

ZLINOR PRIBTOK.

offer d fair chance of success, without having to encoun-
ter tJie hollow pity of pretended friends.

When called upon for my opinion, I entirely coin-
cided with George ; and the matter was, of course, settled*
The most pertinacious resistance was offered by Mr.
O'Shaughncssy, but even he was at last convinced, though
much against his will. From that day forward W6
were gradually making our preparations, carefully hus-
banding our small means, and calculating almost to a
certainty on having a tolerable balance in our hands
after all the preliminary expenses. But such was not
the will of God. We were not to go forth with our
pockets as well lined even as we had expected. About
a week before the time appointed for our departure^ I
was summoned one day in great haste to Cabra to s^
Carry, who was " not at all well," the messenger said.
When I got there, I found her delirious : she had con-
tracted a pleurisy of some kind, most probably from a
heavy cold, and had been three days in a regular fever
before Emily would hear of my being sent for. She
had been hoping every day to see a favorable change,
but finding that the disease, on the contrary, became
daily more alarming, she was forced at last to give in.

'* God pity you, my poor sister," she said, as she met
nie at the door, " I fear there is another blow still await-
ing you: I know you will not murmur against the will
of Gt»d — and, besides, there is yet hope. Our sweet
Carry may get through : the doctor says she has youth
on her side, and a pretty good constitution."

" But, alas ! Emily's first words had struck . such a

ELIN m PRE8T0K.

161

chill to my heart, that I could not bring myself just then
to hope. Carry was ill — very ill — perhaps tl} iiig, so I
would hardly take time to answer Emily, hut ran as
fast as my limbs would bear me to the siek-room. Lit-
tle comfort awaited me there. The Carry who lay be-
fore me, moaning and muttering incoherently, with a
flushed face and a restless, unconscious eye — her fair
tresses, of which in happier days we had been all so
proud, already clipped and shorn by the doctor's orders
— ah! no, that was not the bright, beaming Carry to
whom I used to go to unbosom myself of my little sor-
rows, ever sure of finding consolation in her kind word
and kinder smile. Ah! no, that was not — it could not
be — my Carry, with whom I had been consulting but a
few days before on various little matters connected with
my outfit. But Carry it was, unhappily for me, and as
the attending physician began to apprehend that her mal-
ady might assume a contagious form, as oflci hap: ens
with bad pleurisies, Emily and I agreed that she must
be removed at once, lest the pupils of the institution
might be exposed to danger, or the interests <»f the
house be at all aflfected. The kind sisters were at first
very unwilling to let their favorite pup!l be thus re-
moved ; but George had now arrived — I sent R>r him a«
soon as I had seen Carry — and we were all tliree im-
movable in our decision. It was no easy matter to
procure a lodging for our poor unconscious patient, as
no one was willing to risk taking her in, for fear of
her disease turning out to be fever. A'i- length, how-
ever, George succeeded in finding a widow lady who

l1iinfl"ti!Bifillii

162

ELINOR PRBSTON.

had recently lost her last child, and, as she said, with a
n:eliuicholy smile, she had nothing to fear if it were a
fever, and a bad one too. " I have only myself, now,"
said she, in a voice scarcely above a whisper, " and life
is not sc very valuable to me that I should throw away,
for fear of losing it, a golden opportunity of doing good.
Bring the young lady here at once; — my accommoda-
tions arc none of the best, as you see, but you will find
my house perfectly clean, and I will have great pleasure
in doing what I can for your dear sister."

George thanked her with a full heart, and the tears
were in his eyes when he came back with his glad
tidings^

"Glad tidings," I repeated, and I fancy the smile
which accomp iiicd the words was anything but cheer
ing.

" Yes, to be sure," said George, with forced gayety ;
" isn't it glad tidings for you to hear that I have found a
tender, compassionate heart to minister to poor Carry —
ay ! and a door that is hospitable enough to receive her?
Go along now, you faint-hearted girl ! and help Emily
to get our patient ready."

But even when we had her rj^-dy, we did not get off
as soon as George had calculated. There was not one
member of the community who did not come to take a
parting look at the unconscious sufferer, and to print a
kiss on the burning brow where every vein was throb-
bing with fever. And thankful they were in after days
tliat they had done so, for it was the last sight they
ever had of Caroline Preston, when bhe was slowly

ELINOR PRESTON.

163

driven from their door lying on a feather bed sent by
good Mrs. Butler, with George at one side and me at
the other. Emily followed us down the little avenue
that led to the high road, and' when the carriage reached
the gate, she got up on the step, and had the door open-
ed to get another look and another kiss of her young
sister, the playir ate of her childish da^s. She had kept
up well till then, but nature for the moment triumphed,
and she burst into tears.

" Yet another sacrifice ! " she murmured, as she hung
over the stricken lamb of the flock. " Oh, Carry ! Carry ! I
hoped to have had you, at least, — you of all the world, but
it seems God w ishes to try me more and more : every hunmu
tie must be broken before the soul can reach to Him.
Farewell, then, Carry ! to Him I give you up— you are
His, and so am I, too. May His will be done in us •
Good-bye, Elinor, — good-bye, George ! you are a lonely
pair — you two. But remember you have a host of
friends in heaven, and a father and a dear mother who
can and w ill help you in your need ! Go on now ! — you
needn't speak — 1 know all you would say. Farewell,
Carry, till we meet in heaven ! "

She was gone, the door closed, and we driving slowly
along the high road before a word escaped either ray
brother or me, and very little was said on either side
till we turned down a bridle-road and stopped at Mrs.
Butler's door. Tt was an humble but very neat cottage,
with a small grass plot in front, a passion-flower, and
some luxuriant wood-bine, gracefully, though thinly,
shading its white- washed wall. It had the greenest of

I:';

ELINOR PRBSTON.

little hall-doors and the brightest of brass knockers, and
seemed as though peace, and order, and contentment were
sure to abide within. And they all three might be dwell-
ers there, if it depended on the presiding genius. It was
just the quiet, sheltered, humble home I would have
chosen even then ; and had Carry been restored to health
I might have been tempted to remain there. Mrs. But-
ler was, as we expected, both a kind and a skilful nurse :
and between her and me and our good old doctor. Carry
had no lack of care or attention. But it was all in vain.
Her days were numbered. Before the week was ended,
the Great Summoner visited our calm retreat ; and at
his bidding, the fever relaxed its hold, a brief interval
of consciousness, but of utter prostration followed — just
as though to give time for the final parting, and the re-
ception of the last sacraments : then the tongue lost its
function, the damp of death bedewed the pallid, pulse-
less brow, the failing hands were first extended to George
and myself, then clasped on the small ebony crucifix
which had been some time before placed on Caroline's
bosom — the glazed eyes were turned on each of us mourn-
ers for the last time, with their wonted look of uifection ;
— then the eyelids fell — the long lashes lay motionless
on the colorless cheek, but still the lips moved as though
endeavoring to articulate the responses to the Litany
for the Dying which George was reading, — a famt smiie
rested for a moment on the wasted though still lovely
features, a slight motion of the limbs was perceptible,
and then all was still. Another link of our chain was
broken; our loveliest, our brightest had taken wing from

ILINOR PRESTON.

165

this sad world ; yet no cry, no sob escaped us— our an-
guish was too deep for such relief — as we half-uncon-
.. Jously followed Mrs. Butler in reciting the Prayers
for the Dead. Alas ! we had thein almost by heart —
at least they were so familiar as to need no effort of
memory. A day or t vo aiore, and another grave was
added to the group in Glassnevin ; and, in a week or so,
the name of Caroline Mary Preston, aged 19, was added
to the inscription (now fearfully long) on the family
tombstone.

When about to leave the cemetery after the inter-
ment, when most of our friends and acquaintances were
gone— only the Dillons and O'Shaughnessy remaining — ■
who should we see but Susy Broadigan, advancing with
her accustomed waddling gate to the foot of the new-
made grave, and there dropping on her knees. Much
surprised to see her there, we all waited a few minutes
to let her finish her prater, but seeing that she still re-
mained motionless, George went over and laid his hand
on her shoulder.

" You had better be moving home, Susy," he said, in
a faltering voice ; " it looks like rain."

" Ah wisha ! Masther George, dear," said Susy from
under her deep hood ; " sure I can't go till I'm done my
prayers. Didn't I walk every inch o' the road on the
edge of my foot just to see the last shovelful put on my
darlin' Miss Carry, and to offer up a few pather an' aves
over her as soon as she'd be covered. Let me alone,
Masther George, dear, an' I'll be lor ever obleeged to
you." The toars which fell fast from her eyes attested

166

ELINOR PRESTON.

the sincerity of her words, and George begged her in a
soothing tone not to cry so — it would do no good

Susy cut him very short. " Not to cry, is i-t, sir ? ah !
then, sure it 'id be no wonder if it was tears o' blood I'd
cry, let alone what it is, — sure I know, Masther George,
it'll do no good — ochone, no ! but won't it take some o'
the heavy load off o' my heart ? — och ! asthore you war,
Miss Carry, an' is it you that's lyin' there under the could
clay this blessed and holy day, an' poor ould Susy Broad-
igan above-ground to cry you ! " A fresh burst of weep-
ing stopped the faithful creature's utterance, and before
she had again recovered her voice, George and Arthur
Dillon had taken her by force to the carriage and lifted
her in, for the clouds were, by this time, black and
threatening overhead. Much did she grumble and loudly
protest against this forcible injection, saying that "a
coach was no place for the likes o' her, especially with
the quality in it — sure its on Shank's mare she came,
an' she'd go back the same, please God ! "

Her remonstrances were vain, however, for Mrs. Dil-
lon would not suffer her to leave the carriage, assuming
her that " she'd be wet to the skin before she got into
town, and then they might have her death on them."
So poor Susy was forced to give in, and after a dry joke
or two from Mr. O'Shaughnessy, which she could not
refrain from answering "with her usual curt humor, sho
drew her hood further over her face and slunk back into
the corner of the carritige so as to take up as little room
as possible. George and Arthur returned to town on
horseback. That night, when we were about separating,

ELINOR PRE8T0N.

167

my brother laid his hand on my shoulder and his eye^
filled with tears : •* Carry is no trouble to us now," said
he, " what think you, Nelly ! — aren't our obstacles fast
disappearing ? "

" Yes ! " I answered, " death can do wonders in that
way. He is the true Faugh a balach.^^ My sorry at-
tempt at a jest made George smile, and wiCh that faint,
wintry smile on his lip, he left the door, too hastily as I
thought. He afterwards told me that he was afraid of
my asliing how our funds stood. He need not have
feared any such thing, for I could as soon have asked
him at the moment how much it had cost us to bury
Caroline.

Although our scanty funds were fearfully diminished
by our late expenses, yet our preparations went on vig-
orously, and in the course of a few days all was com-
pleted to our satisfaction. We thought ourselves in a
fair way of getting off, when Mrs. Arthur Dillon took
it into her head to make an addition to the family in the
person of a chubby little girl, whose arrival created such
a sensation, and was altogether so important an event,
that, of course, our departure was postponed for another
week or two. O'Shaughnessy and I stood for the little
damsel, who received the names of Margaret-Elinor :
" I wanted to have given you the name, my dear ! " said
Maria, " and have had la petite plain Elinor, but I found
from certain hints thrown out that it would have been
as much as the maternal favor was worth — I might have
taken myself and baby off to Canadian wilds with you ;
BO you must e'en be content with the half-compliment I

108

ELINOR PRISTON.

was able to pay you." Of course, I expressed my en-
tire satisfaction.

We had a great christening of it as soon as Maria was
declared out of danger. A regular Irish christening it
was, consisting of all the friends and relations of the
united families of Dillon and Delany. Mirth and joy
abounded, and many a costly gift was made the uncon-
scious little one : armlets and necklaces came showering
in, together with richly-embroidered caps, robes, and all
the other et ceteras which go to to make up a baby ward-
robe. " Humph ! " said Mrs. Dillon, senior, as she suc-
cessively put by the rich presents ; " Humph ! there's
the old story over again ! * he that has a goose will get a
goose ! ' — if baby hadn't a rag of its own to cover it, it
might be naked long enough, Vm thinking, for all the
presents it 'id get."

There was unfortunately too much truth in the good
woman's caustic observation, but, of course, it was not
meant for the ears of the disinterested donors.

A day or two after the christening, when Maria was
able to appear in the drawing-room, Mr. O'Shaughnessy
came one evening and gathered us all together "on busi-
ness." George had come with him, for as yet he had
been sharing the old man's bachelor accommodations in
the dingy little house in Dominick street.

When we had all taken our places, the worthy law-
yer looked with a complacent air from out his gold-
mounted spectacles. For a moment his keen glance
rested on me ; then it passed on to George's face, and
there rested. .

ILIKOR PRESTON.

" Master George," said he, " ahem ! — I trust youVe
prepared to admit that you'll never do any good at the
law."

" Quite so, my dear sir." We all looked at the speak-
ers and then at each other in blank amazement. George
smiled, but the old man kept quite grave and serious.

"Not the ghost of a chance at the bar, eh? — well,
you're going to America to push your fortune : what do
you mean to do there — tell me that, now ! "

"Do! why, ril do the best I can, certainly. I'll turn
scrivener, clerk, shopman, merchant — who knows " — the
poor fellow looked round and tried to smile, but this
time the attempt was unsuccessful.

" To be sure you will," gruffly said O'Shaughnessy ;
" I know you'll feel mighty comfortable measuring tape
and ribbons to the belles of Quebec or Montreal, prais-
ing up other people's wares, and wearing your life away
— your young buoyant life — ^behind a counter. Why,
man, the ghost of your Aunt Kate would be walking in
to you some day in its grave-clothes ; she'd be * revisit-
ing the glimpses of the moon,' depend upon it, to avenge
the outraged dignity of the family. And, another thing,
Master George ! you wouldn't stay at such a business
one month — / know you, my fine fellow ! "

George laughed — he was amused, but evidently not
displeased. " But what am I to do, sir ? — you say, and
I confess it, that I am only losing time at the law — what
am 1 to do ? "

" Go into the army ! " grunted Shaugh, and then he

drew his lips together in a way peculiar to himself.
15

170

KLINOR PRESTOir.

My brother started, and his face was crimson in a
moment. " That's easier said than done, Mr. O'Shaugh
nessy — beskies "

" Besides nonsense ! — none of your humbugging now
—you know you always had a hankering after the army
—you can't deny it ! "

" Well ! 1 own I had, sir, but that was in days when
the purchase of a commission was within the range of
probability — now, it were idle to think of any such
thing."'

" Not a bit of it, George, not a bit of it," and the old
man's eyes twinkled, ana he rubbed his fat hands to-
gether in a little ecstasy of mysterious enjoyment. " I
see you're all on the tenter-hooks, as the saying is; so,
George, the short and the long of it is that I've got a

commission for you. You know Lord D is an old

friend of mine, and through his interest at the Horse
Guards I got the commission — ^ay ! without paying one
penny." The old man said nothing about a certain long-
standing debt which would almost have paid for the
commission, and which he cancelled in favor of his no-
ble friend and former client. George said nothing, but
he seized O'Shaughnessy's hand and shook it warmly,
the tears standing in his eyes. But the next moment
his eye met mine, and his countenance fell.

"Never mind Elinor," said this true friend, "I didn't
forget her ; I managed it so that you're to exchange with
a young fellow whose regiment is now in Canada. 1
know Nell is tired of us all, and I want to let her see her
hobby out. She'll be glad to come back to us yet, bad

1_.

BLTNOR PRESTON.

171

:)n in a
Shaugb

ig now
e army

8 when
tnge of

such

the old
ids to-
It. " I
is; so,

got a
an old
Horse
g one

long.
>r the
is no-
?, but
rmly,
»ment

lidn't

with

a. 1

eher

bad

as we are. B«t to Catholic Canada she wants to go, and
there she shall go, if we fitted out a boat fur her own
self."

"But, dear sir ! how — how shall we thanl^ you — how
repay youl" I faltered out.

"As to thanks, keep them to yoursolf, children! — ^aa
to the payment, you have only to think now and then o!
roMgh old Sh:uigh, when you're far away among stran-
gers — and to let him know if you ever want a friend ! —
good evening to you all — George! are you coming home
— ha! ha! it will soon be a lonely home — I think I must
look out for a wife — eh, Mrs. Dillon ! — you'll help me,
eh ! — that's a decent woman — much obliged to you ! "

The days which intervened between that and our de-
parture were days of bustle and joy, and sorrow and
hope, all strangely jumbled together. There was so
much to be done and so many people to be seen and
taken leave of that we were all in a flurry, and I think
the Dillon stud, had they voices to speak, would have
loudly protested against the whole affair, for they were
almost constantly in harness. George was all at once
elevated to the seventh heaven of hope and expectation,
and 80 exhilarating wa» the effl'ct of the change in his
prospects, that not even the parting from Emily and Al-
fred could depress his spirits to anything like their re-
cent level. Neither Emily nor Alfred was at all pleased
with George's choice of a profession, and they said they
would only have to redouble their prayers for him, now
that he was about entering on a career of increased
peril.

172

ILINOR PRESTOir.

" Why, surely," sjiid George, with a guy laugh, " you
don^t consider the military professlou more dangerous
to the soul than the legal ! only think a moment, my
reverend brother, and you, as a son of Loyola, will
rather congratulate me on my choice. The path which
led your founder to perfection cannot surely bo unsafe
for me. Where can you point to a lawyer on the cal-
endar? whereas, you can't deny that it's full of soldiers,"

"You forget St. Alphonso Liguori — " said Alfred,
with ft sad smile.

" Oh ! well, what if I did — it wasn't by law he got on
the calendar either. Come, come, Alfred ! no more
misgivings — you know as well as 1 do that a man may
save his soul in the army, as well as at the bar or in the
senate—

))

" Yes, but his peril is greater — his temptations more
numerous : a man wilfully entering on such a career is
like one who commits himself to the raging ocean,
believing that he can stem and resist its force. Ah !
George, my dear, my only brother ! would to God that
you had consulted me before you to«>k this step ! As
for our good friend, Mr. O'Shaughnessy, I wonder at
him " ♦

" Not a word against him^ for your life, Father Alfred !
— he is a glorious old fellow, and hiis a heart as big as
an ox. Good-bye, my dearest brother ! companion of
my childhood ! we are certainly taking contrary paths
on Ciirth, but with the assistance of yc»ur prayers and
those of our dear Emily, even I will hope to meet you
aU iu heaven. We may meet again, evea here, but if

ELINOR PRE8T0X.

173

wo shoulfl not, he well assured th.it y^ur lirothcr, with
Gmrs help, will live and die as hernmcj* a Preston."

Durin<^all thisdisconrso I had sat in tearful silencQ with
my hand elaspcd in that of Alfrinl, and now, when tho
final moment was come, that dear brother transferred
my hand to George, saying in a low tremulous voice:
** There, George, to your care I confule our Elinor
— watch over her, I adjure you in GtxVs name, for in a
land of strangers she will have only you. You must
be to her more than a brother, George, since God has
deprived her of all but you."

" And so I mean to be," was George's answer — ho
could say no more. Then Alfred t«v>k a hand of each
of U8 and pressed them fervently within his own, raised
his eyes to heaven for a moment in earnest supplication,
then dropping the hands he held, he retired from the
room. It was easy to see that his strength was exhaus-
ted, for his pale cheek and bloodless lip could not fail to
strike even less interested beholders. Dear Alfred !
how spiritual he looked in that last sad moment with his
long fair hair overshadowing a brow of almost feminine
"whiteness, and his thin, delicate features already im-
pressed with the withering touch of the disease which
had broken the first clasp of our happy family. Ilia
deep blue eyes — my mother's eyes — were full of soul,
and in that moment of unrestrained affi-ction they looked
on us as tenderly as hers were wont to do : their ex-
pression touched our hearts, and as we drove away from
the gate, George murmured. "I did him wrong once,
poor fellow — he has a heart, and a good one too— •" we

174

ELINOR PRESTON.

both involuntarily raised our cyos to tho uppor wiinlows
at the momt-nt, ami at one, hastily thrown up, stood Al-
frod, lookinj' after us with tearful eyes, as we knew by
the handkerchief in his hand. Geor;^o made a parting
gesture, I another, and then the carriage swept round a
turn in the road, and t)ur brother was seen no more.

On the following day we embarkod in one of the Liv-
erpool steamers, there to take our passage in one of the
Black Ball Line of Packets for New York. A number
of our friends accompanied us on board, and when the
gangway was about to be removed, Mr. O'Shaughnessy
took us aside for a moment. Shaking hands with me
he squeezed a tiny parcel into my hand, tellinji^ me to
put it away carefully till I got to the other side, "and
now, once for all, 1 tell you, children," said he, "if you
should ever find yourselves in want — mind you in want
•^-don't hesitate a moment but write to mo, and we'll
see what can be done, although you are turning your
backs on me in my old age. And mind if you ever
come back to Ireland, come straight to my little place,
and if you see the name of Terence O'Shaughncssy on it,
go in, in God's name, sure of finding a warm welcome,
— if there's some other name on it, or none at all, you
may say, * God's will be done — poor old Shaugh is gone
home at last, and we may look elsewhere for a friend.
There, children, don't cry — what do you laugh at, Mas-
ter Oeorge! — because I'm calling you a chift/ still, I
suppose, and you feeling yourself already a soldier — I
will, then, George ! — for didn't I see you when you were
a child and a small child too, and that not so many years

XLINOR PRESTON.

175

Rgo either — so none of your nianish airs witli mo. But
as I live there's thti gangway going to be moved, and
here's Maria ami Artliur, and oM Stephen, and Madam
Dillon, all to kiss and shake hands — cut it short now,
friends all, un'ess you want to have a trip across tJvc
channel.' "

The blessings and farewells were all exchanged, the
last friendly iiand was shaken, the last *'God speed you"
Mas vibrating on the air, there was a hurrying of feet
over the gangway — it was snatched away with profes-
sional quickness, and the water already divided us from
tho warm-hearted friends whom we were leaviinx
perhaps for ever. There they stooti in a group,
watching us with tearful eyes, as wo watched them, and
when the distance between us had increased, waving hati
and handkerchiefs, until their forms waxed dim and
Tuisty in tho far distance, and finally disappearid from
our view. George and I looked into each other's eyes
by a common impulse — we had severed many a strong
tie — tho companions of long and happy years, ay ! even
those whom we had found friends in need, we had left
them behind, and were turning our faces to a land where
all was strange and untried — where we knew no one —
had no claim on any one — yes ! well might we gaze at
each other in silence and each in their own heart for a
moment doubt the prudence of the adventurous step.
It was only a moment, however, until George resumed
— perhaps I might say assumed his now natural gayety
and drawing my arm within his said in a cheerful tone :
** Come now, Elinor ! no despondency, if you love me !

176

ELINOR PRKSrOW.

— we're hi for it, in any case, so let us just i.iake the
best of it. For myself, thank God ! my path is plain,
it is only for you I would fear or doubt, but I do neither,
so mind and follow my example!" I smiled faintly,
and George rattled on. " Do you remember, those
lines which wo saw in a newspaper some time ago,
Elinor]"

((

As vanishcth the fleeting dream —
As leaves -hat part upon the tide —

So, 'tis our lot on life's swift stream —
(Perchance forever) to divide ;

Or meet perhaps in years to come
As cold as if we ne'er had known — "

Wall ! the former may happen, but I'll be sworn the
latter never will — Shaugh and the rest could never be
cold to us, nor we to them — that's one comfort."

Unconsciously I imbibed a portion of my brother's
hopeful spirit, and by the time the boat got out into the
Bay, we were both prepared to enjoy the wondrous
beauty of the surrounding scene. Often had we watched
the golden sunset fading across the lovely bay, lingering
among the white sails and tall masts of the shipping,
giving richness as well as beauty to the verdant tints of
field and grove, and crowning Ben-Ed ir's* brow as wHh
a gorgeous diadem of light, then shedding a parting
beam on Dalkey, and Lambay, and Ireland's Eye far
out in the waters, but never had all this seemed so
lovely as now, when we were leaving our native land, it
might bo for over. As we stood side V>y side I'ioking

* Ben-Edir,— the Irish name for the Hill of Howth.

ELINOR PRESTON.

1T7

out 1 the swiftly passing landscapes, the tears dimmed
our eyes as each familiar object was lefti behind. From
the far-off Dublin and Wieklow mountiiins, already
half enveloped in the purple mist of evening, to the
homely old Pigeon-House close by us, we breathed a
heartfelt blessing on all, and still more warmly did we
bless the guileless hearts, the true hearts who make the
real sunshine of the Emerald Isle,

I would gladly have remained on deck to see the
moon rising for the last time over those *' scenes of rich-
est bloom," but a strong breeze happening just then to
spring up, the boat began to heave and my head began
to reel, and it was ju^^t as much as I could do to reach
my berth, even with George's assistance. So there I
was, regularly sea-sick, and for the remainder of the
short voyage I was unable to leave my bed. What a
night of horror that was, to be sure, cooped up in my
narrow crib, suffering in every member, every heave
and lurch of the small steamer bringing an increase of
torture. Many a time did I wish from my heart that I
was quietly snoozing in my comfortable chan\ber in
Adelaide Place, where, with my present experience, I
should have been most happy to remain. Towards
morning I became somewhat better, and wlion 1 was
able to crawl out of the ladicvs' cabin, I met (ici»rgo just
at the door, and had the satisfiction of hearing that ho
had escaped the horrors of sea-sickness. The boat liad
just stopped, and even that was no sn^ill relief to my
diz^' head. But, better still, George hurried me off to
a h< tel, where I had the luxury of that best of speeifiC8

lilil

178

ELINOR PRESTON.

for such maladies, a good cup of tea, ami after that, s
couple of hours of refreshing sleep ; then I arose, if not
in renovated health and spirits, at least well enough to
accompjiny George on a sight-seeing expedition. Unfor
tunately there was not much to see except a wilderness
of black, smoky buildings, and a forest of masts, yards,
and flags, growing up in apparently inextricable density
and confusion from the bosom of the Mersey river. After
we had made the circuit of Nelson's monument, admired
the Merchant's Exchange, and the Music Hall, walked up
and down a few of the principal thoroughfares — in fixct,
the place is throughout one vast thoroughfare — we began
to find out that there was little beauty and loss variety to
be seen in that most dingy and ill-favored city. Never
was I so tired of a place, for the noise, the endless din
of commerce, was absolutely deafening, and, unlike other
cities, there is no part of Liverpool that you can call
quiet. It is the great market-place where the whole
world seems to transact its business. How any one can
live — at least, enjoy life — in such a Babel, I cannot un-
derstand. To me there is something oppressive in the
crowded thoroughfares of a great city, something that
awes and depresses me; in Liverpool this was especially
the case, and never did I feel a more overpowering sense
of loneliness than I did while its thousand, thousand
voices rang in my ears, and its multitudes hurried past
me to and fro in perpetual motion. Still we had only a
day to wait there, and when I had once regained the pi-i-
vacy of my front-chamber in the hotel, I felt compar-
atively quiet, and was well-disposed to ** take mine ease**

i ^

ELINOR PHKSTON.

179

in a hiVge faitteuil near the win«l<)\v, which happening to
overlook the street gave me an opportunity of studying
the various costumes and peculiarities of people from
almost every clime. George, on the contrary, preferred
to stroll at leisure through the streets, in order to see
everything that was at all worth seeing.

In the evening we went on board the packet^a noble
specimen she was too, of those stately sea-hostel ries
which have ferried millions of the adventurous sons and
daughters of the British Islands across the Atlantic in
search of fortune. ^lany packets belonging to rival
lines were drawn up along the wharves, like cabs and
omnibusc'3 in waiting for fares at boat landings and
railroad depots, but certainly there was none to exceed
our own, at least in appearance. Our gou.l opinion of
her was fully borne out during the voyage, when she
gallantly withstood more than one stiff gale, and we
learned from some of the oflicers on board that that was
her seventy-fourth trip across the Atlantic, in all which
time she had never sustained any serious injury. She
was a stately vessel truly, and for my part, I had such
confidence in her strength and power that my fears of
the sea were aln.ost overcome, as I looked with a feeling
akin to pride on her noble proportions while dropj)ing
down the Mersey with the evening tide , People may
talk of the wonders of this age of steam, and glorify
themselves on the increased facilities of communication,
but, as I am no merchant, and have, consequently, no
particular inducement to span Uic ocean with preternat-
ural swiftness, I am frer to admit that I would rather

•III

180

ELINOR PRESTON.

spend three weeks or so coming across beneath the wings
of the good (Ad " fiist-sailing " line-of-packet ships, than
* run the risk of being scalded to death, or blown to atoms
}>y the pretentious steam-monsters which shoot with
their passengers from Liverpool to New York at the
imminent risk of life and limb. All honor, then, to the
good old-fashioned, copper-keeled packets, who never
troubled their own or other people's heads with steam
or any such inventions, but plodded like patient mules,
week after week, over and athwart the mountain-billows
of NeptuiHi's kingdom, quailing only before the stonn,
and, in general, landing their passengers with whole
bones, just where they bargained for, instead of de-
•patching them to the regions beyond the Styx, which is
oft;en the case with their more popular arid more fashion-
able competitors of the hot water department.

Fortiuiately for me I was little troubled with sea/-
sickness on the passage out. It would seem as though
the disease had exhausted its virulence in that first grand
attack, for even the longest and heaviest swells of the
Atlantic wave produced no corresponding throes or
spasms in the region of my stomach. A little dizziness,
bordering at times on headache, was the worst symptom
I felt on shipboard, so that I had nothing to hinder me
from observing surrounding objects, and t«iking notes of
what was g(Mng on among my fellow-passengers. For
the first few days I seldom ventured on deck, at least
after we had cleared the British seas and lost sight of the
Irish coast which had been again visible for some time,
as we sped on towards the wide ocean. It was earl^

ILINOR PR88T09.

181

morning when we came in sight of our own dear island,
and it miide my heart bound with a thrill of sympathj
to see the rush from below when some one cried out
•' The Irish Coast ! " Instantly from stoerage and second-
cabin hurried an eager crowd, all urging each other to
be quick " for fear they'd miss the sight." But there
was no need, for there in full view lay the Mountains
of Wicklow bright in the morning sun, and we were
aailing so near the shore that we could easily dis-
tinguish the yellow corn-fields, and green pastures, and
stately sea-side villas. Many a fervent blessing was
wafted then over the waters, and as we above on the
quarter-deck leaned over the gunwale to murmur our
own fond farewell, the depths of our souls were stirred
by the many-v<l!ced wail which arose from the deck be-
low. Never did I feel so intense a sympathy as at that
moment — never was I so sensible to the mighty strength
of the bond whi(;h binds together the children of one
country — that country, moreover, an " island of sorrow."
When the broken line of the Irish coast was, at length,
waxing dim, and " the Green hills of holy Ireland "
were fading into mist, it was pitiful to see the heavy
sorrow of the homeless multitude. Gray-haired men
and women strained their failing eyes to catcli the last
sight; mothers and fathers hel<i up their little ones to
look at their ' icherland once again, and fix the fleeting
vision on their minds, ere it vanished i'or ever. Strong
men stood leaning in moody silence against the vessel's
■ide, regardless of the trickling tears which, at another
time and under other circumstances, thev would have

182

'BLIMOB PRKSTOK.

been ashamed to shed. Half unconsciously I murmured
some versofi of an old song which I had loved in happier
hours :

" The last breeie from Erin

IIos passed o'er mj broW| *

The gale of the ocean

Is over me now ;
I leave thee, mj country !
Farewell ! though thou art
^ The life-pulse that stirs me,

The veins of my heart —

Erin, mavourneen, farewell t

I gaze "vvbere the bright scene

Falls back to the west,
And tinges the blue clouds

That hang o'er thy breast :
The bark bears me from thee

To sail o'er the deep,
While on thy green bosom

I gaze, — and I weep ;

Erin, mavoumeen, farowell t

*' Farewell I for no longer
I gaze on thy shore ;
The mists are between us— >

I view thee no more !
Perhaps to my country

I breathe the last strain ;
Perhaps I may never
Heboid thee again;

Krin, mavourneen, farewell !

By the time I kad ended, we had seen "the last
glimpse of Erin/' and with a f?*:^lin^ of utter desolation,
1 tcik George's arm, and said, * Let us gt in — we have

BLINOR PRKSTON.

1S3

nothing to look at now." So there wc wore — far out al
sea — with no speck of land in sight, nothing but the
boundless firmament and the green, billowy oc(\in — the
earth's mighty girdle stretching round and r(»und, without
bejr'dminjj or end, like the vaster ocean of eternity. Tho
evening came on with mist and shadow — cold, dull, and
gray ; the gull and the curlew still hovered around in
the eddying circles, shrieking as it were in concert, and
flapping their wings by way of accompjiniment to their
own discordant music. It was a cheerless evening, as it
ought to be when so many hearts were weighed down
with sorrow, and hope itself was for tho moment ex-
tinguished. Tho night was calmer and passed off better
than we expected, however ; and with tho morning's light
the elastic spirit of tho passengers seemed to spring up
again, and in little groups they began to appear on deck
gazing with curious eyes on tho new little world in which
they found themselves.

184

ILIKOR PRK8T0N.

CHAPTER VII.

HE twenty-four days of our voyage
possod away more pleasantly than we
could have expected. Some of our
fellow-passengers in the cabin wore both agreeable and
entertaining, especially one old gentleman from the
north of England, who with his son and daughter were
going to New York on a mission partly commercial,
partly official. No people can be more courteous or
more afliible than the English, if you happen to please
them, and somehow this family seemed to take to us
from the very beginning of our acquaintance. Even
when our luggage was being taken on board, Mr. Wort-
loy contrived to make room for it in a certain convenient
little nook wliich he had obtained for his own by special
priviU'i^c, the captain and ho having, it appeared, been
schoolboys together. The captain's wife was also on
board, a neat, tidy, thrifty Englisliwonmn, who made
herself generally useful in providing for the comfort of

She was a straightforward , mat-

passe

nffers.

ter-offact little body, very good-tempered, and well

ILINOB PRS81 »N.

185

disposed to he pleased with every one. Among th«
other cabin-passengers, mulo and female, thiTc wore but
few who had any marked characteristics, with tho excep-
tion of one eldtrly gentleman who was wofully afraid
of injuring his hiulth, and whoso greatest amusement
seemed to consist in experimenting on the strength of
his own constitution, and its capacity for enduring drug-
ging. This good man hud quite a little mi'dieine-ehest
with him, and to do him justice, if ho si t a high value
on its contents himself, he was exceedingly gi iiorous in
dispensing tht-m to all who choso to use them. It was
matter of surprise to all of us how well this poor gentle-
man seemed to thrive on his pills and medicaments.
There was not a man on board in better condition ; but
it would have been no small affront to tell him so, for
he was, or siemed to be, fully convinced that he was
wasting away day by day under tho action of some
strange, unknown disease, which baffled the skill of all
the doctors. Good Mrs. White, the captain's wife, was,
strange to say, tho only one on board who systematically
annoyed poor Mr. Hampton, and this she did in her
oblivious kindness, regularly insisting at table on his
being helped off" some good substantial j<jint, giving as
her reason that it was just some nourishing food he
wanted. "A big stout man like you, Mr. Hampton,
can't live without eating, and eating well ! If I were you,
my dear sir ! IM throw the doctor's stuffs overboard,
and take to the beef and mutton."

This well-meant but mistaken kindness usually stirred
up tho good man's bile, and more than once ho lefl tho

186

KLINOK PRISTOH.

tabic ill high <lii«lgcon, ax\(\ wouM hardly spoak to Mrs.
Whitt' r«>r soiiu! hours after, till a bowl of arrow-root,
or water grinl, or some such panacea was sent to his
berth as a peace-* )flrfring. Many a tinuj did the captrun
and others lu'g of the good lady not to volunteer her
advice to the soi-diaant invalid, and as otlen did she
promise to act accordingly ; but afliT a meal or two at
most her memory would lapse again, and the sight of
Mr. Hampton's large, fleshy countenance at the further
end of the table would suggest the i<lea of the greasy
aliments on which hons vivants usually fatten. She
never could remember, apparently for any length of time,
the existing connection between that prototype of Dick-
ens' fat boy and the infantile slops with which he chose
to fdl his " fair round belly."

This was all capital fun to the rest of us, but apart
from ♦, hat we had entertainment on board of a widely
diflerent kind. George and myself often sat for hours
listening to the conversation of the steiTage and second-
cabin passengers as they lounged on the main-deck, and
aroujul the gangway stairs. Gradually we learned to
know them individually and by their names, and by
close attention we obtained an insight into many of their
peculiarities, togtiith* r with snatches of their "simple
story." Many a little romance of real life might be
fabricated from the affairs of those three hundred emi-
T*ants, some of them Welsh, some of them Scotch and
.linglish, but the greater number Irish. Among these
there was an endless variety of circumstance and con-
dition. There were families of two generations— a ven-

KLINOR PRBSTOjr.

187

erable grandfather or grandmother, apparently tittering
on " lifc*s narrow verge," yet breaking asunder at the
voice of strong afTcction the ties of country and of home,
to follow the son or daughter and their family into their
voluntary exile. Some of these families were large—
quite largo enough to form a busy little comnmnity
within tlu'inselves. These, we obser\'ed, were lively
and cheerful, buoyed up with hope and expectation,
caring little, apparently, for the unknown dangers and
trials which might await them, so long as they were all
together. Ot^k rs there were — lone men and women—
who had been sent for by their children in America, and
were going, full of hope, to share the good fortune of
those who had preceded them to the El Dorado. Well
for them that the veil of the future was impenetrable to
their eyes, else had they not been ^ianguinely cheer-
ful in quitting their old home. These were in general
an interesting class to us ; but we specially singled out
one Widow Mahony, a tall, thin old woman, whose
scrupulous neatness, and evident superiority to those
around hcT, could not fail to command respect. She
had two daughters in Philadelphia — " all she had in the
world," as she said herself; ** and as God put it in their
hearts to send for her, she was venturin' out to them,
though it was a hard thing to crDss the sea at her time
of life, when in the coorse of nature she hadn^t long to
live : but sure if God only spared her to get to the
girls, she'd be the happiest poor woman alive, an* if it
was his will to take her to himself the next day she'd be
well content." Poor Widow Mahony ! her resignatioD

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188

ELINOR PRESTOir.

was severely tasked. The very day befcre we reached
the banks of Newfoundland, we saw her frail body com-
mitted to the deep. She died thanking God that she
had been to her duty the day before she left home.
Next to her grievous disappointment in not living
to see her daughters, she appeared most depressed
by the thought that she was not to have Christian bur-
ial. It was unnatural, she said, for a Christian to be
thrown out into the sea like a dead dog, instead of being
decently covered up in the ground among their own
flesh and blood ; but, sure, after all, at the last day, the
sea would have to give up its dead as well sm the land,
and what difference would there be then ? But och ! och !
if she had only lived to see Jane and Ellen — and them
losing the money they sent to bring her out — *' God
comfort them," were almost her last words, " for they'll
have the sorrowful hearts when they hear that the old
mother they hadn't seen for six years died a-shipboard,
and was thrown out into the sea. O ! Blessed Virgin !
you were sorrowful, too, — you'll comfort them, then,
on account of your own heavy sorrow an' mine ! "

Poor Mrs. Mahony's hard fate was much lamented,
for she had made for herself many friends on shipboard ;
and there were few dry eyes amongst the Irish passen-
gers when her body was consigned to its watery grave.
Hers was the only death that occurred during the voy-
age, and it gave us an opportunity of witnessing that
very solemn and affecting sight, a burial at sea. ^

Another most interesting class of the emigrants were
the young girls, many of whom were there wholly un

EUNOR PRESTON.

189

protected, some of them very pretty, and many the pio-
ture of guileless innocence. To say the truth, however,
the great majority of them were both stout and sturdy,
well fitted for battling with the world, judging, at least,
by the courage and resolution which they displayed in
fighting for their turn at the common fire on deck. It
was really amusing to get within sight and hearing of
what went on there during the process of cooking the
meals. There was a general scramble for the fire on
these occasions, the rule, of course, being " first come,
first served ;" and as the sea air usually sharpens the
appetite, hunger gave a corresponding keenness to the
temper of the eager expectants. Sometimes the spar-
ring was confined to a few, but at other times it assumed
a more general character, and was carried out on na-
tk)nal grounds. Happily the parties never came to
blows, or I know not what might have been the con-
sequence, the belligerents being armed with such mis-
siles as saucepans, frying-pans, and gridirons, not to
speak of other more deadly weapons. It was curious
to see how the bolder and more confident — the bluster-
ers and the swaggerers made their way there just as they
do in the world, while the modest and the timid were
thrust aside and compelled to wait till the clamorous
disputants had each served their turn.

Among the prettiest of the young girls whom we no-
ticed on board was one whose name we found to be
Margaret Gilmartin. She was about nineteen or twenty
—not more at the utmost — and was evidently unskilled
in the ways of the world, for, with all her beauty,— -and

190

ELINOR PRESTOir.

she was really beautiful — there was about her an air
of almost childish bashfulness — a shy, gazelle-like ex-
pression of countenance that excited your pity and in-
terested you at once in the gentle, modest creature.
She had not a soul on board belonging to her, and it
was, from the first, matter of surprise to me how she
had been suffered to tempt the dangereous ocean all
alone — so young, so innocent, so timid as she was.
Surely, I used to think, she must have some friends at
home. I soon found myself mistaken. The only one
on board who knew anything of her was a respectable
old man named Rafferty, who was from her own place,
and in whose care she had been placed by the family
in whose service she had been living. Her story was
very simple, and withal very common in the history of
emigration. She was an only child. He father had
gone out to America several years before, leaving his
wife and daughter in their little cotttage near the foot of
one of the Gal tee mountains, expecting to send for them
within the year, if God prospered his endeavors, Alas !
he was hardly a month in his employment — ^he was a
mason by trade — when he fell from a scaffold some
forty feet to the ground, and was all but killed. He
was taken up insensible, with a leg and arm broken, and
for three long months he lay in an hospital, hovering
for weeks of that time between death and life. That
was only the first of a series of misfortunes ; several
times he had had sufficient, or nearly sufficient, to bring
out the wife and daughter for whom his heart yearned,
and as oflen had some untoward accident occurred to

XLINOR PRESTON.

191

scatter his little hoard, and postpone the meeting so
fondly desired by all three. He had occasionally sent
home money, however, and this kept hope alive. But
the dismal year of the famine came on, and the neigh-
boring farmers who had given employment to Norah
Gilmartin and her little daughter were, with their fam-
ilies, reduced to beggary and starvation. No more
spinning, no more weeding, no more "dropping" or
" gathering " of potatoes — ^nothing to be got even for
charity, so at lasl mother and child were forced to go
into the poorhouse in order to escape starvation. A
dismal resource that was, for the food was hardly suf-
ficient, either in quantity or quality, to keep body and
soul together. Mother and child, too, were separated,
kept in different rooms, and when they did meet for a
moment, it was in the presence of strangers, when they
were not allowed to converse. Under this heavy pres-
sure of affliction, the mother's heart soon gave way :
her body — never of the strongest, and much worn lat-
.terly ly sorrow, and privation, and hard work, — soon
became the prey of disease, and she " died gray-haired,
in youth " — the beautiful mother of beautiful Margaret
Gilmartin. After a while the desolate orphan waf sent
out to service, and fortunately for her she fell into good
hands. For the last three or four years she had been
tolerably comfortable, being treated by the family with
great kindness, and her work made as light as possible,
but still she had pined ^or a sight of her only parent,
to be near whom was her heart's fondest wish. When,
at length, her father sent for her, she got ready with all

102

ELINOR PRESTON.

possible alacrity, and was now on her way to Boston,
where he resided, hoping to find in his love and pro"
tection, all and more than all she had lost.

Half the young men on board were evidently at-
tracted by Margaret's pretty face and her air of maid-
enly reserve. She appeared, in fact, to create quite a
sensation, although she was, or seemed to be, wholly
unconscious. Latterly, however, I had noticed her
somewhat paler and more dejected than usual. On the
day of poor widow Mahony's death, I was sitting alone
towards evening on the quarter-deck, when old RafTerty,
partly ascending the gangway steps, made a sign that
he wished to speak to me. Touching his hat with re-
spect, the old man said, in a low voice, as I approached
him : " I made bold, miss, to speak to you about a thing
that's troublin' me, because I know you take an interest
in us all."

"Certainly I do, my good man! — what is it that
troubles you now? "

" Why, it's all about that poor gersha, miss, that the
master and mistress at home gave me in charge. I'm
afeard that purty face of hers isn't for her good."

" Why do you think so ? "

" Well, you see, miss, she's a soft, innocent sort of a
colleen^ with no sharpness at all in her, an' there's some
of these chaps hereabouts that's puttin their comeiker
on her."

** And what if they do ? " I asked, with a smile ;
" didn't somebody put a cotaether (as you say) on her
mother before her. It might be well for her, after all, if

le;
ler
if

ELINOR PRE8T0K.

193

she and some decent young man made it up together to
'be married as soon as they'd come to shore. Sho'U be
sure of protection then, you know."

" Oh ! but that isn't what I mean at all, miss, — I wish
to goodness it was only that."

" Why, what in the world is it, then 1 " I asked in
some surprise.

" It's one of the mates, miss," and the old man drop-
ped his voice to the lowest pitch, and looked cautiously
round at the same time ; " it's one of the mates — I think
the first mate — that's makin freer than I'd like with
little Margaret. I didn't mind much at first, so long as
she kept him at a civil distance, but I'm afeard, miss,
she's beginnin' to give too much heed to what the fel-
low says to her, an' he's a fine likely fellow, too. Now,
I'm sure an' sartain he'd never think of marrying a poor
bit of a girleen like her, but he'll make her b'live any-
thing he likes, and the longer she's in his way it's all the
worse. So I just thought I'd ask your advice, miss, for
I know you have the knowledge an' the understandin'
that me and the likes o' me hasn't, God help us ! "

I candidly told the old man that his fears were far
from being unfounded, and I promised — with a heavy
heart, I confess — to do what I could. I knew well
enough there was no use talking to the girl herself. In
such a case as that, the only thing was to keep her out
of harm's way if possible. I went straight to Mrs.
White, the captain's wife, and told her the story just as
I heard it. Cool and passive as she usually was, she
got quite excited before I had come to the end.
17

194

XLINOR PRESTON.

" Oh ! the villain ! " she exclaimed ; " he has a wife
and three children over on the Cheshire shore of the Mer^
sey. Wait till I get my eyes on him — if I don't expose
him, never trust me for an honest woman ! "

I hastily explained to the good lady that any open in-
terference on her part would in all probability make
matters worse, and I told her if she wished really to
serve the girl, she would take her as a servant at once,
and keep her so constantly engaged under her own eye
that the enemy would have no further chance.

" Well ! I really have no need of her "

" No matter, my dear madam ; a week or so will
bring us to land, and when she is once sent off to her
father we have no further care of her. Only let us keep
her out of the fangs of tiiis serpent while on shipboard,
for she is young, artless, and inexperienced ; and I have
heard many a sad tale of unprotected creatures, such as
she, being seduced and corrupted on their passage to
America. For God's sake take her into the cabin, ap-
parently to wait on you, and 1 will pay you whatever
you think it rigllt to pay Aw."

My entreaties prevailed. That very evening Mar-
garet Gilmartin was taken into the cabin as Mrs. White's
servant, to the great dissatisfaction of all the other
young girls on board who were disposed to regard her
promotion with envy. The girl herself, though evidently
proud of the distinction, was still very fond of straying
to the forepart of the vessel, visiting the main-deck (os-
tensibly on her way to the steerage) much oflener than
we could wish, and I had another cautious, st^lthjr

ELINOR PRBSTOH.

195

visit from old Raflferty on the subject. After this I
SAW that we must go a step fUrther, and I accordingly
got Mrs. White to bring in this Porter's ramo and men-
tion his wife and family, one day at the dinner- table,
just when I knew Margaret was within hearing. The
captain, though knowing nothing of what was going on,
took up the subject at once and spoke in very high terms
of Porter's wife, saying that he had known her since
she was no higher than the table, for her father was a
brother-tar of his own — they were mates together for
years not few on board the old North Briton. Just
then a sound as of some one sobbing made Mrs. White
and myself exchange glances. The sound was from my
room, so I made a sign to her not to move, and with-
drew from the table as quietly as I could. Sure enough
when I entered my little room and closed the door after
me, there I found poor Margaret bathed in tears, and
as pale as a ghost. I sat down by her and tenderly in-
quired what was the matter. For some time I asked
in vain — the poor girl doing all she could to suppress
her tears and sobs for fear of being heard in the .cabin.
But the effort was too much for her, and when I again
repeated my question, she murmured in a broken whis-
per that told the shame and anguivli of her heart : " Oh !
Miss Preston, dear, isn't that the villain of the world ? "

"Who, Margaret?"

" Oh ! Mr. Porter — who else ! Sure didn't he tell
me all along he'd marry me when we'd get to shore ;
an' it was* only last night he made me promise that as
soon as we got to New York I'd go with him to the

196

EUNOR TRESTON.

priest's house ! Oh ! God help me this day ! what 'id
become of me at all if I had gone with him ! Miss
Preston dear, an' jewel, hadn't I the blessin' of God, an'
some poor body's blcssin' into the bargain ? But do you
think, miss, that there's no mistake in it — is he — is he —
married ? "

"Why certainly, Margaret! I heard Mrs. White
speak several times of him as a married man ^"

** Well ! the Lord be praised anyhow that I found it
out in time ! " She sighed as though her heart would
break. "But och! och! who'd think he could have
such badness in him ? — he has sich a smooth tongue an'
sich a deceitful way with him ! "

" But now that you have found him out, my poor girl,
I hope you will carefully avoid his company for the few
days that remain of our voyage 1 "

" Oh ! never fear, miss ! — ^never you fear that ! " she
whispered with an energy that startled me, it was so
unexpected ; " if he ever dared to say a soft word to me
again, I'd expose him before all the passengers — ^no! no!
I'm so much ashamed of myself now for listenin' to him
at all, that I hate myself a'most as much as I do him !
Avoid him, indeed ! — you'll see if I don't — he took me
for a fool, but he'll find himself the greatest fool of the
two. It's the best of his play for him to keep out of
my way for the time to come."

She then requested me to say nothing to any one of
what had happened, and I cheerfully promised what she
desired, as a few w Drds to assure Mrs. White of the suo

BLINOR PRESTCK.

197

cess of our innocent stratagem was, I knew, no betrayal
of trust.

Next day I was uncharitable enough to be well pleased
when I overheard my good old friend, Mr. Wortley,
asking the captain what in the world had happened to
that good-looking first-mate of his.

•* Faith ! I don't know," and the captain smiled with
the easy good nature of a jovial Englishman, " I see he
has his arm in a sling to-day. He shyed off so when I
asked him how he got it, that I rather think he must
have been larking among the girls below ! "

" The deuce he was — serve him right, if so ! " was Mr.
Wortley's half-jocular answer. "That will teach him
to * let the girls alone,' following the advice of an old
song I once heard, I believe in Ireland ! "

When I was next alone with Margaret I asked her if
she knew anything about the wounded arm, whereupon
she significantly upraised the broom she was then using,
and pointed to its handle with a blushing cheek and a
knowing smile, accompanied with a shake of her pretty-
head, as much as to say : " / gave it to him — I did —
much good may it do him ! " Then and there I shook
hands with the spirited little Tipperary lass, and from
that moment I took a heartfelt interest in her welfare.

From this incident I clearly saw the fearful dangers
to which unprotected emigrant girls are exposed in their
transit from Europe to America. My heart swelled
with indignation as I thought of the manifold snares laid
for their innocence, both on board the emigrant ship and
on the foreign shore to which they are hastening in

108

ELINOR PRESTON.

search of a homo, and I could not help saying to Mrs.
White, — whoso kind heart was much aflbcted by this
occurrence : " What would I not give to bo able to warn
all young girls about to emigrate of the numerous dan-
gers to which their virtue is exposed before they reach
their destination, and even after they do reach it — dan-
gers much more imminent than those of the ocean in its
wrath. If they only knew how many defenceless crea-
tures of their sex and country fall a prey every season
to these human monsters, they would cling to the
ruined homesteads where their parents, perhaps, died of
famine, — ay! cling to them till death, and be buried
with honor and decency by kindly hands in the old
churchyard whore their fathers sleep, rather than cross the
ocean to become foul and loathsome things, the prey of
the vilest passions, the disgrace of their country and their
race ! "

The good-natured, placid Englishwoman could by no
means understand the warmth with which I spoke, but
she said it was really too bad, and wondered that girls
would expose themselves to such danger — " they ought
certainly to stay at home," said she, ** if they have no
near relatives to come out with." In which opinion I
quite concurred. On the whole I found Mrs. White so
kind and so motherly in her way that I really felt sorry
when the time of our parting came, the more so as there
was little probability of our ever meeting again. The
Wortleys, too, and even our good-natured hypochondriac,
Mr. Hampton, had each and all contributed to beguile
the te(fium of the voyage. Our vessel anchored ovei

ILINOR PRR8T0K.

190

night in New York Bay, right in front of Staton Island,
and while tho captain and his wife entertained us in tho
cabin with a farewell supper, whereat appropriate songs
"Were sung and appropriate toasts given with right good
will, our ears apprised us that tho passengers below
were making merry in their own fashion. There ap-
peared to bo more than one violin among them, — as
indeed we had found out at an early period of the voy-
age — and if they were neither of them Cremonas, nor
any of the players likely to make their fortune by fid-
dling in the New World, they had the effect of making
the people forget for a while their cares and sorrows and
gloomy forebodings. Dancing was kept up down there
all the evening with little intermission and with such
spirit that the boards of the good ship creaked respon-
sively. There is no knowing when the farewell soiree
might have ended had not the signal been given for put-
ting out the lights — I rather think somewhat before the
usual time, owing to Porter's stirred-up gall ; whereupon
the hundreds of weary exiles who had been for a brief
space so happily oblivious of their lot, consigned them-
selves to their various berths — few of them to sleep, as
I could tell by the experience of that night — but to con
over in their restless minds all their preconceived ideas
of the tei'ra incognita on which they were to land by
the morrow's light. That night was, as it were, the
threshold between two stages of life. It was neither of
the past nor of the present, but a solitary measure of
time, separating them one from the other.

Early next morn'ng commenced the great bustle at

200

ELINOR PRESTON.

tending the breaking up, as it were, of a huge house-
hold. There was little time for either thought or speech,
or it might have been a general leave-taking. When
the doctor, from on shore, had made his professional in-
spection, aud pronounced us all in a healthy condition—
(I wonder would his report be couched in different terms
h'\d he been able to examine hearts !) we were at once
declared " free to go," and then, as if by magic, the pas-
sengers were all in motion, all tired of the sea and eager,
apparently, to get on shore, all scanning with curious
eyes the coast which they were rapidly approaching,
with the great, shapeless, promiscuous mass of ships and
houses rising up on the near horizon right before us.
Very indifferent substitutes for wharves are those whjeii
serve that purpose in New York — very discreditable,
too, to so great an emporium of trade — ^but such as they
are we were very glad to get alongside them at that
particular time. Just as the vessel made her last lurch
and was elbowing her way into her appointed place,
George had lefl me alone for a few minutes while he
went to look after our baggage, and I was beginning to
feel rather awkward standing alone at the wheel-end of
the quarter-deck, when old Mr. Wortley very oppor-
tunely approached and offered me his arm. ^' We shall
be going ashore presently, William!" he said to his son
who came up at the moment, " so you can go down for
Rebecca now that you have got the baggage together on
deck."* Poor William repressed a rising sigh, and with
a glance which I well understood, he left us to do his
father^s bidding.

ELINOR PRESTON.

201

" Miss Preston ! " said the old gentleman after a short
pause, " it will be long before my boy " — he always
called him "boy" though he was six or eight-and-twenty
at least — " it will be long before my boy forgets this
voyage — it will indeed — and as for myself, my dear
young lady, I never thought I should live to regret the
loss of a Popish daughter-in-law — ^pardon me, my dear !
I only say so in illustration, as it were — I used to think
it would break my heart to see a son or daughter of
mine wedded to one of that persuasion, but I do assure
you. Miss Preston ! I have lived to see my error — ^I
should be very, very glad to give William a Popish rib
now ! I know you have positively refused him — at least
the poor boy tells me so — ^but take a little time, my
dear ! — only think of it, — think of William's worth —
for indeed, indeed, there are few young men like him —
think of the independent position you at once secure, and
think, too, of how anxious his old father is to have you
for a daughter — think of all this. Miss Elinor ! and you
will not — you cannot hold out ! "

" I must, my dear sir — I cannot do otherwise," I spoke
with some difficulty, but I tried hard to appear quite
composed — " I have told yow, sir, and what is more, I
have told your son, that if he were of my own religion,
I should bo only too happy to become his wife and your
daughter, and to find a sister in your sweet Rebecca, but
William is a staunch Protestant, and I am, I thank God
for it ! as staunch a Papist — as you say yourself — so
you see there is a yaw^ning gulf between us, and such bo-
log the case, we can 2ome no nearer than we are. B&

202

BLINOR PRESTON.

lieve me, my dear good sir ! I regret our separation,
perhaps fully as much as you do, but the fault is not
mine — in all probability I shall never marry, but if I
do, the man of my choice must be a Catholic."

" So this is your final answer ? "

"My final answer ! — ^may God bless you and yours—
for your sakes, I will ever think kindly of your nation,
little as I have hitherto loved the English name. Say
nothing more on this subject before my brother, I beg
of you, for he is disposed to censure what he calls my
bigotry — ^never, though, was a term more grossly mis-
applied — I act solely from a sense of duty, convinced
chat I am doing the will of God ! "

The old man had only time to squeeze my hand when
Gdorge made his appearance and was quickly followed
by William and Rebecca. Ever since I had positively
declined his generous proposal, young Wortley had kept
studiously out of my way, and I respected him all the
more for this manly exertion of self-control. Had he
been a Catholic, I should have chosen him from a thou-
sand, for I saw him in possession of almost every quality
I could have desired in a husband — ^as it was, I could
not help regretting the obstacle which I felt to be insu-
perable, and I was well pleased that he prudently shun^
ned my company. Lonely as I was it was very tempt*
ing to be ofifered such advantages on the eve of landing
in a strange country, but I knew it was a temptation,
and I prayed for strength to resist it. Strength I ao*
cordingly received, and the heart that would otherwise
have been torn with anguish at the final parting was so

ELINOR PRESTON.

203

isa

wonderfully soothed and quieted by some invisible
power thtat I appeared perfectly calm and composed. I
have no doubt but the dear trio whose lot I would will-
ingly have shared considered me at last as cold and
heartless. Well ! be it so — if that wrong estimate of
me contributed to lessen their disappointment — to heal
his heart — why should I regret it ? Peace be with them
wherever they go, and may no thought of the lone wan-
derer whom they would have sheltered so fondly ever
obtrude itself on their recollection. And yet it will — ^I
know it will ! theirs were not the hearts likely to forget
those whom they once loved.

When this parting was over all the rest was easy.
Hampton was sorry to part with George because the
droll fellow had made a great parade of compassion-
ating his infirmities, and was in the habit of condoling
with him on the hard necessity which confined him to so
poor a regimen.

" Good-bye, Mr. Preston ! good-bye ! " said he, " I
regret that we must part company soon. Should we
ever meet again — and I have my doubts about that in
my present state of health — ^I hope to be better able
to enjoy life. Were I of a more robust constitution, I
should certainly travel northward with you and Miss
Elinor, for I have a sort of notion that the bracing nor-
thern air would be just the thing to suit me. But of
course now that is out of the queston. I have a sister
here in New York who will take good care of the poor
invalid. Goodbye, once more, and my best wishes go
with you ! "

204

SLINOR PRESTON.

'•Confound the good-natured hosthoon^^ said George,
with a burst of exuberant mirth, after Hampton was out
of hearing ; " he looks the very picture of health and
strength. I do believe he might face either the polar
ice or the tropical sun, without the smallest apprehen-
sion. If you only saw that fellow, Elinor ! as I havo
seen him, hard at work at a dish of rare beef-steak, ad-
mitting the while that the sea air gave him something
of an appetite, then you might talk of eating. You
wouldn't wonder either at the coat of fat he has on
him. But I forgot to tell you that Mrs. White's girl —
Margaret I think you call her — is in the next room wait
ing to see you."

" Waiting to see me ! why, I thought she was half
way to Boston by this time with her father — you know
he met her at the wharf.

" I know he did, but it's pretty clear that they haven't
started yet. I'm going out now to try and find our
friend Mulligan — he is partner in a large wholesale
house in Pearl street. If I find him, he will, of course,
show us the city — that is, unless he has lost his good-
nature — if so, we must do the best we can ! "

When Margaret made her appearance I was perfectly
astonished, and her first words were not at all calcula-
ted to enlighten me. " You see I have come back to
yow, after all. Miss Preston ! an' if you'll only take me
with you wherever your goin', I'll not ask a penny of
wages, and I'll work for you night an' day."

*' Why, Magaret, I don't understand you at all. I

BLINOR PRESTON.

209

thought yeu were gone home with your father to Bog
ton ! "

" Home ! " she repeated, with bitter emphasis, " ho
has no home for me. He has a second wife, it seems,
" an' it's what he said to me : * Maggie ! your mother
an' you will get along well together, — ' my mother, says
I, * why, isn't she dead years ago, to my heavy grief?'
— * oh ! to be sure, to be sure,' says he, * but I don't
mane Acr, I mane your new mother ' — * my new mother !
and who is she % ' * Oh ! I see you didn't get the letter
I sent you about two years back with an account of my
second marriage. I was so lonesome, you see, after
I heard of your poor mother's death, that my health it-
self was getting low enough, so I though I'd get some-
body to keep me company, an' see to me if sickness
came on. fihe's a clane, dacent girl from near our own
place — a daughter of ould Barney Dwyer's. * So you've
put another in her place already. An' have you any
family ? ' — * we have,' says he, ' one little fellow about
a year old.' ' Well, father !' says I back again, * I sup-
pose Nancy Dwyer would be well pleased to have me
to mind the young one, but I tell you plainly I'd sooner
beg my bred from door to door. If I had got the letter
you were speakin' of, I'd never have set foot in America^
God be with you, father ! you may go home and tell
Nancy Dwyer that you have good news for her, for I'll
never darken her door ! I'm able and willin' to earn
my own bread, an' please God I'll do it ! ' Well ! he
tried hard to persuade me to go with him, but it was
all no use ; so he went off at last, afther givin me this
18

206

ELINOR PRESTON.

ten dollar bill, an' God forgive me, miss ! but I'm sure
he was right glad at bottom that I didn't go."

In my heart I could not help sympathizing with the
poor motherless girl, although my reason condemned
her course. I thought of my own mother, and how I
would have felt had my dear father taken another wife
but one short year after her death. Still I could not
openly approve of what Margaret had done, and I told
her I was surprised at a girl of her good sense refusing
to go home with her father when he came so far to meet
her.

This brought a gush of tears from Margaret's eyes.
" Ah then. Miss Preston dear ! you woudn't blame me
for it, if you only knew what a mother I had — sure there
wasn't the likes of her, myself thinks, on Irish ground,
an' that's a great word entirely. I'm only just gettin'
over my throuble now, an' if I went into the house with,
the woman that's in her place, I'm sure it 'id soon be
the death of me. God forgive me if it's a sin, but some-
how I haven't the same love or likin' for my father since
he told me of it. Won't you take me with you, miss?
' — ah do ! "

" But, my poor girl ! what would you do going with
mel I shall be, most likely, living in some family as
governess, or something of that kind, — however, I may
do something for you here— or if not, why you can come
with me to Canada and seek your fortune there. Don'*
cry now, Margaret — I will take you up to my bed-roonr
and you can stay there for the present till I see wha
ca: be done." Thus consoled, Margaret dried her tear^

ELINOR FRE&TON.

207

n't

and followed me with alacrity up stairs where, to her
great satisfaction, I gave her some sewing, and left her
with an injunction to be of good heart.

With this additional source of anxiety in my mind, I
awaited George's return, which was delayed longer than
I had expected by some weary hours. He came at
length, and to my very agreeable surprise, was accom-
panied by Edward Houlahan and another gentleman, in
whose embrowned, foreign-looking features I, after a
moment's careful scrutiny, recognized a still older ac-
quaintance. The latter was no other than Redmond
O'Rourke who had been for years and years my poor
father's confidential clerk, though, like ray brother, he
turned out in the end to have no vocation for the law.
Houlahan had been for several years in Mr. Delany's
employment, and was still deeply interested in the for-
tunes of the sole survivor of the family, my friend Mrs.
Arthur Dillon, It was whispered in Dublin circles at
the time that Edward, had he dared, would have aspired
to become the old man's son-in-law, and the memory of
that forgotten rumor rushed vividly across my mind as
I marked the faint flush on the sallow cheek of the ap-
parently middle-aged man before me while I spol^e of
Maria, her husband, and the little one for whom I had
answered at the font — almost the last thing before I
left Ireland. Houlahan, it appeared, was still unmar-
ried, but not so was it with his friend O'Rourke who
rejoiced, he said, in the possession of a wife and four
children. " Altered times," said he, " Master George,
sinoe I used to be gallanting the three Miss O'Sullivans

21^

ELINOR PRESTON.

every Sunday out to Lucan Spa and the Strawbcrrr}
Beds. Poor Lucy — my flame, — I hear she died of con
sumption a year or two after I left. Well ! those wer
pleasant days after all; and, I must confess, notwith
standing the high value I am at all times disposed t€
set on Mrs. Redmond O'Rourke and the youngsters—
not to speak of certain dollars and cents which I have
succeeded in putting together — I do often catch myself
humming with undoubted feeling.

Oh ! would I were a boj again ! "

You know I was never much given to the sentimental,
and on the whole I am well contented just now, but I
assure you there are times when memory travels back
to the pleasant shades of ancient Cullen's Wood and
sports along the Rathmines road at a deuced smart pace,
too, just as this body of mine, now so lank and business
worn, used to canter along on my hired pony in the
bright summer Sundays •* long, long ago " when I was a
gorsoon^ and poor Lucy O'Sullivan a fair-haired little
belle in her teens ! heigho ! — But I say, Master George !
—I beg pardon," he added, correcting himself with some-
thing of his former humor, — "I beg pardon, Ensign
Preston ! you must not think of leaving us, at least for
some days. You must see the city, let your military
hurry be ever so great.

"As far as two days go, Redmond," said George
with a smile, " we can devote that time to your Empire
City. But tell me candidly — ^you are both half-Amcr

ELINOR PRBSTOK.

200

icans now — have you anything here that will interest us?
For my part, I am inclined to doubt it."

O^Eourke laughed, and Houluhan pulled up his shirt
collar by way of gaining time. " Ha ! ha ! Master
George, youVe putting English airs on you already,
in virtue of the livery — that is to be. You think we
have nothing here worth a look from European eyes,
but wait till to-morrow, my fine fellow ! and let our city
speak for itself. I want to take you and Miss Preston
home now — my old woman will be delighted to have you
for guests." To this we did not immediately consent,
but we agreed to pay Mrs. O'Rourke a visit.

" Your old woman ! " repeated George, as I left the
room to prepare ; *' is your wife, then, approaching the
vale of V ears?"

Houlahan laughed, and slapped his ftuend on the
shoulder : " There now, O'Rourke ! you boast of pre-
serving your Irish phraseology — how do you feel
now % "

" Poh ! poh ! " said O'Rourke, " that's nothing. No,
George, no, she aint much over thirty — she's young
enough for that matter — it's only a familiar way we
have of mentioning a matrimonial partner in this young
country."

" Yes ! " put in his companion, " men and women are
old here as soon as they put their heads in the noose-—
that's one reason why your humble servant always shirk-
ed it, being desirous to keep on the bright side of life as
long as possible."

When we made the acquaintance of Mrs. O'Rourkei

210

ELINOR PRESTON.

ve were so repelled by the listless coldness of her ej
terior that her very faint invitation, seconding that pre
viously given by her husband, gave us no desire t(
make her house our home even for two days. We in-
stinctively felt — both of us — that even a hotel was bet-
ter than the house of a woman like that whose heart and
soul were evidently circumscribed by the limits of her
own family. No ! no ! there was no companionship
there for me. The woman actually seemed to fear that
we might possibly consent to trouble her for a day or
two — perhaps with that prospect in view, namely, the
uncongenial society and entertainment of Redmond's
Irish friends for two whole days — she might have put
on an extra coat of ice ; but whether or not, we civilly
declined her " Won't you stay 1 " excused ourselves to
Redmond as well as we could — in confidence be it said
that even he was not so pressing as we might have ex-
pected ; — alas ! for the changes that hearts undergo in
foreign climes ! — and even declined tresspassing on his
valuable time by accepting his services as cicerone.
Poor Redmond seemed somewhat hurt, especially when
he found that Houlahan was to be our guide, but even
that feeling was not expressed with the honest warmth
"which it would have had in former days, and Redmond
left us at the door of our hotel, apparently quite satis-
fied by our promise to dine with him on the following
day. '

Houlahan accompanied us up stairs and I could not
help remarking to him that I was disaapppointed in his
friend's wife, and even in himself — as fai as his recep

ELINOR PRESTON.

211

IS
€.

n
n
h

tion of old friends went. Iloulahan smiled — " I am
afraid, Miss Preston, you would never do for this me«
ridian — that is, you would find yourself wofully mis-
placed here. That heartiness which was a reality at
home — a recognized fact in the social circle, is hardly
known here even by name. Society here is, for the
most part, a meretricious glitter ; it has in it little of
that genial warmth which diffused so pleasant a glow in
our little sphere at home : people in these parts are
straining might and main to outshine their neighbors —
show — show — show — that is the idol before which young
and old bow down, and the consequence is that society
is hollow and heartless — empty as the prophet's gourd.
Money we make here, but happiness and social enjoy-
ment are myths — mere myths — very pleasant to think
of, at least for a poor fellow like me who has a dim re-
membrance of such things — but not to be had for love
or money."

" Well," said I, " I am particularly sorry to find Mrs.
O'Rourke so very cold, for I have a girl in charge whom
I hoped to consign to her care when leaving."

Houlahan inquired what I meant, and I barely told
him that the girl was one to whom I had taken a fancy
on our passage out. I also told him of her refusing to
go home with her father on account of his second mar-
riage,

" By George ! " cried Houlahan, " I admire her spirit.
I had a step-mother myself once upon a time, and I gave
her and my father leg-bail for my honesty one fine
mornhg. It was that very thing that first sent me to

212

ELINOR PRK0TOX.

Dublin. I have a good many acquaintenccs here, and
I'll make it my business to speak to some of them —
that is, of course, my lady acquaintances — this very
evening about yoxxr protegee. Never fear but we'll find
her a good berth."

Iloulahan was as good as his word. On the fbllowing
day I had the satisfaction of seeing my little Margaret
very comfortably settled in the domicile of a certain
Mrs. Brady, a widow lady with a large family of grown-
up sons and daughters, having plenty of means, and the
heart to divide them in a measure with those who had
none. This was certainly a great load off my mind, and
to make me feel still more at ease, one of the young
ladies very kindly promised to let me know occasionally
how Margaret got on, for the family were quite prepoa-
sed with her appearance, and expected to find her very
useful.

With Margaret Gilmartin disappeared the last of my
marine acquaintances, and never again did one of
them cross my path. They have all fallen back into
the dim world of shadows, ay ! even the fleshy bulk of
Mr. Hampton has dissolved into thin air. Of the
Wortleys (^ly the recollection is still vivid, and it seems
they have not even partially forgotten me. Kebecca
and I kept up for some years a correspondence, which,
broken and irregular as it was, still served to fan the
flicikering flame of memory. After a year or two Wil-
liam went home to England on business for the firm,
and, while there, married a young lady whom Rebecca,
in her subsequent letters, described as very accomplished

ELINOR PRK8T0V.

213

and very amiable, '* (hough no beauty," added my
friendly correspondent, "nor even one-half so handsome
as one whoin we ail remember but too well ; still she
makes a good wif«'. and a kind daughter-in-law — though
my father has hardly )eL forgiven her for stopping un-
wittingly inlo a certain pair of shoes which he had been
hopefully keeping for a tiny little pair of Irish feet that
are wandering in ghostly guise somewhere in your di-
rection."

But why digress in this unpardonable way to give a
partial glimpse of the future, when Mr. Houlahan is ac-
tually waiting hat in hand to do the honors of " New
York City " to George and myself, a pair of expectants
not over eager, for, to say the truth, we were rather in-
credulous as to the sights of the Empire City.

" Well, well ! " said Houlahan, " never mind — I may
probably undeceive you before we part — I have a sort
of notion that I shall. ^'

When our friend had kindly shown us through the
city, and pointed out everything that he thought calcu-
lated to interest us, we were agreeably disappointed.
Though necessarily wanting in the monuments of art
which make the European cities grand and venerable,
there is still much to admire in the commercial capitiil
of the United States. Contrasted with Liverpool it is
both beautiful and magnificent, although the traveller
would hesitate to compare it, in any way, with Paris
London, Dublin, or Edinburgh, each distinctive in their
own character. As you walk between the stately rowa
of brick or brown stone houses in the countless streets

214

ICLINOR PR£8T0N.

appropriated to private dwelliogs, you feel that you aw
in an American city. The abodes of wealth are around
you — many of them of almost palatial magnificence;
but they want the stamp of antiquity, they are all **bran
new " — to use a vulgar Irish phrase — and their newness
takes from their grandeur in European eyes. To a
native of Dublin, for instance, nothing in New York can
make up for the want of public squares planted at inter-
vals through the city, and with all the ground that is
to spare in the vicinity, it struck us as singular that the
City Fathers have never provided a decent park for
the recreation and pastimes of their municipal children.*
But no Phoenix Park have they, nor even a Regent's
Park. The little triangular grass plot which they fa-
cetiously call the Park, though prettily planted with
trees, and ornamented with a fountain, is neither more
nor less than a burlesque on^arks in general : it might
do for " the Park " of an ambitious country town, but
for a city like New York it is a mere toy park much
like the Swiss villages fabricated for the amusement of
children. Neither are the public buildings of New
York at all what we might expect — at least I thought
so, yet I was agreeably surprised to find over twenty
Catholic churches,! few of them, it is true, possessed of

* The reader will see that this was written before the Central Pi.rk
was commenced. Never more can the traveller reproach New York
with the want of a real Park* Few cities can boast of one such aa
the citizens of New York now possess.

t There are now about thirty churches, together with several re*
ligious bouses in and around the citj.

ELINOR PRESTON.

215

Pwk

York

ich aa

much architectural beauty, but all valuable as monu-
ments of faith and piety.

" For many of these," said Houlahan, " we may thank
the pious liberality of our own people, here as well ai
at home, fond of erecting temples to the Most High. I
assure you their hard earnings are the main support of
many a church in our proudest cities."

"Well! whoever put them up," said George, "or
whoever worships at their altars, they are highly cred-
itable to them, not, to be sure, for their beauty or mag-
nificence, but for their number ! — and that, after all, is
the main thing, — the architectural pomp will come with
time. But now that we have made the grand round,
Houlahan, what are we going to do with ourselves?
We do not start for Montreal before six in the evening."

" Oh ! I have a few sights to show you yet," said
Houlahan, whereupon it was agreed that we should first
secure our dinner and then see the remaining lions.
Amongst them was the American Museum — Barnum,
the great American humbug — the prince of humbugs —
unequalled, perhaps, in any age, — the Battery, that
woody fringe tacked on to the sliirt of Manhattan Island,
and the really magnificent view it commands over the
bay of New York, its fortified islands, and its endless
variety of shipping from the great ocean steamer and
the stately first-class packet to the tiny fishing-smack
and the miniature steamers which ply the numerous fer-
ries around the vast city. On the whole, we were much
pleased, and not a little entertained with what we saw
in New York j and although we had discovered but few

2iG

ELINOR PRESTON.

_ of the many friends whom we expected to meet, still
\ our recollections of the Empire City were rather pleas-
ant than otherwise; and as we were facing a country
whore weT knew no one, we both of us bade farewell to our
kind friends, Houlahan and O'Rourke, and even O'Rourke'a
cool little wife, with hearts much depressed. Facing
northwards we seemed leaving our " known world " be-
hind — we were steering, like Columbus, for regions be-
yond our ken ; and our minds were occupied with many
a problem of thrilling interest to ourselves as we steamed
up the bold North River — " the mighty Hudson," famed
in song, — after waving a last salute to Houlahan and
O'Rourke, the two links which had hitherto kept the
past before us. With them we again lost sight of Ire
land — at least we felt so ; and not even the noble features
of the country on either side — the wild grandeur of the
Hudson Highlands — the fantastic forms of the steep
rocks which overhung the stream, nor the fairy beauty
of the river itself, reflecting all these objects on its sil
very surface, could divert our minds from the dim un
iLnown future about to open before us.

BLDTOB PRSBTOW.

217

CHAPTER VIII.

HATEVER amusement or pleasure
we might have found in the all but
matchless scenery of the Hudson, dull-
ness and dejection settled down on us
lone wanderers when at Troy we ex-
changed the cheerful airy deck of one
of its best steamers for the dreary pen called
a canal-boat, — for those were the days of
canal-boats — that safe but most intolerable
of all lumbering water-machines. We mod-
erns may turn up our noses at the cumbrous
stage-coaches of a by gone day, but what was
their tedium to that of the canal-boat 1 True, it is one
of the safest of all conveyances, and mahy thousands of
valuable lives would in all probability have been saved
to society within the last few years, had human science
never gone beyond them, but still we cannot help ad-
mitting that in the present age of the world, travelling
by canal is about the same with regard to speed as trav-
elling on ass-back — ^I beg pardon for the irreverent al«
19

218

ELINOR PRBSTON.

lusion to that much slandered animal. In fact there are
so many points of similarity between the two — dull and
heavy, slow and sure, as they both are — that we may
not uniiptly style the canal-boat the ass of the waters.
If ever any human being was sick of weariness it was
my poo- self during the twenty-four hours, I think it was,
that it took us to go from Troy to Whitehall. The
country through which we travelled had nothing in it to
interest a stranger — we had no society on board — ^not a
soul worth speaking of, and the weather was of that kind
that depresses both mind and body— dull, gray, and
sultry as weather could be. So there we all sat the
live long day on two rows of red cushions, looking at
each other, such as we were, across the long table, until
I verily believe we could have painted every face of the
cabin passengers from the tablets of memory at any
given time after our landing. Well for us if they had
been even a good-looking company — ^agreeable pictures
for reminiscence, but to the best of my knowledge they
were as ill-favored a set of people — ^as dreary and un-
sociable, as ever formed parallel lines in the cabin of a
canal-packet. Oh ! that weary, weary journey — what a
leaden hue it wears away back among the varied scenes
of my life !

Happily we were soon to have a change. At White-
hall, the bleakest of all bleak villages, we got on board
a very trim and tasteful steamer to make the voyage of
Lake Champlain, and it was life to find ourselves once
more afloat on a broad clear sheet of water with a brisk
autumn bra ze agitating its surface, the Green Mountains

ELI19«>R PRESTON.

219

^hite-
)oard
re of
once
Ibrisk
itains

of Vermont and the far-off Highlands of New York on
either side. The scenery on Lake Cham plain is very
fine, especially as we approach the Canadian frontier,
where it begins to narrow in, and its picturesque aspect
contributed not a little to dispel the thick clouds of des-
pondency from my mind and the dark misgivings which
had begun to haunt me. The rich, many-colored woods,
and towering rocks and silvery surface of that lovely
lake did more to give us a favorable impression of Can-
ada than any amount of reasoning could have done. A
couple of hours ride from St. John's — at the northern
extremity of Lake Champlain — brought us to the village
of La Prairie, in the most sedate, ambling, quiet rail-
road-car we ever put foot in — a perfect match for the
Troy an4 Whitehall packet, if ever there was one to be
found following in the wake of an iron horse.

Lapra. e was certainly a discouraging specimen of a
Canadian village — ^whatever change may have taken
place there since, there was no appearance of taste, no
order, and no cleanliness to boast of then.

" Well I " said George, with sly meaning, as we trav-
ersed the wooden pier leading out to where the ferry-
boat lay waiting for us — " what do you think of this, ma
belle Elinor % lliis village of the prairie makes but a
sorry impression on behalf of your beau Canada,

" Well ! considering that it is so near the capital, I
must own it is somewhat of the shabbiest, but don't be
too ready to judge by appearances — let us wait till we
have seen Montreal — that will be a fair test."

So saying, I seated myself on the side of the boat

ELINOR PREiTON.

facing the north bank of the river, and looked eagerly
out for the first appearance of the city which, in all
probability, was to be my home in the New World. At
length it appeared above the heaving surface of the river,
and although it presented a strange and foreign aspect,
still the picture was a fine one and it somehow cheered
my drooping heart. Stretching apparently for miles
along the margin of the great river, lay the fair city of
Montreal — the chosen city of Mary — with its tin roofs
reflecting the midday sun, and a stately mountain
wooded to the summit, rearing its giant bulk behind for
great part of the city's length. Gloriously conspicuous
about the very centre rose two massive Gothic towers,
crenellated and surmounted by graceful minarets at
every corner. This my heart told me was a Catholic
church — most probably dedicated to the mother of
Christians. So uplifted was I at the thought that it was
with an anxious heart I asked a gentleman who, by his
clerical costume, I judged to be a priest, what that was,
pointing to the square Gothic towers.

" That — oh ! that is Notre dame de Montreal —
commonly called here the French Church. It is the
parish church of Montreal, and was built by the Semin-
ary of St. Sulpice."

" Thank God ! " I fervently exclaimed. The gentle-
man looked at me and a benevolent smile lit up his dark,
sun-bronzed features.

" So, my good young lady ! you have a different
feeling in regard to yonder towers from that expressed
by a», minister of s )me sect who crossing here from the

ELINOR PRESTOir.

22]

mtle-
lark)

[rent
Issed
the

States just as we are now, and struck by thj noble as-
pect of the parish church, asked like you, what towers
those were. On being told he raised his hands and eyes
in holy horror, and with a deep groan ejaculated : * Alas !
alas ! the horns of Babylon ! ' "

" Poor man ! " said my brother, who had now joined
us, after exchanging a courteous salute with the clergy-
man, " poor man ! I shouldn't wonder if had a fit of dys-
pepsy lafter that — a Catholic city rearing such monu-
ments as those churches to the sky," pointing as he spoke
to the many cross-crowned buildings which we could now
distinguish, "was rather too much for his highly re-
formed stomach to digest."

The good priest was much pleased with George's man-
ner of speaking, and during the short remainder of the
voyage he attached himself exclusively to us, inquiring
with the kindest interest as to where we came from,
and what our prospects were in Canada.

"Ah ! " said he, " I might have known that you were
from Ireland — there is a warmth, a simple fervor about
the Irish in matters affecting religion which distinguishes
them from all others. I must confess I have not often
met persons of your stamp coming direct from Ireland—
my experience of your people has been chiefly with the
lower and more uneducated classes, but even vith re-
gard to them, my remark holds good. I am a French
Canadian myself, but I must say I have a great respect
for Irish Catholics."

The cordial welcome of this good gentleman when wd
landed on the wharf— -and magnificent wharves Montreal

222

XLINOR PRESTON.

bas, loo magnificent for her present commerce— was
very encouraging, and when he lefk us to go to the Sem-
inary, where there is open house at all times for priests,
he promised to come and see us at our hotel with one of
the clergymen belonging to the city, whom it would be
well for us to know.

" Before you go, sir," said I, " permit me to make one
remark. I had always understood that Montreal had no
commerce at all commensurate to her fine position, mid-
way, as it were, between the great Lakes and the Gulf.
It is an agreeable surprise to me to see such a goodly
display of shipping," and I pointed to the long line of
ships, many of them evidently from beyond seas, nearly
all with the union jack floating from their yards.

"Ah ! ah ! " said the priest, " you must not judge from
that — it is September now. Mademoiselle, and we have
the fall fleet ' in — ^at least part of it. There are seasons
when we have very little shipping here — before many
months go by, there won't be a sail to be seen at all
along the St. Lawrence." At first I was simple, or for-
getful enough to express my amazement, whereupon
the good priest laughed heartily, and George laughed
too. ^

" Why, you simple girl," said he, " have you forgot-
ten that the ice-king keeps his Christmas in these parts,
and in very sport enchants the rivers into highways 1 "

I was amused at my own forgetfulness, the more so
as I had been wont to look forward to the snowy, icy
w tnter of Lower Canada as something new and fresh.

The priest m; de his bow and retired, and we stepping

ELINOR PSESTON.

223

ipon
rhed

[got-
irts,

so
icy

nng

into an omnibus, (the only omnibuses used in the Ca-
nadian capital are those belonging to the hotels,) were
driven to one of the first-class hotels, " for," said George,
" my hotel-life is ended for the present, ^d you will, of
course, seek some other place of residence as soon as
possible, so the depth, or rather the shallowness of our
common purse is of no great consequence." Poor
George could never get over his reckless disregard of
money. He was made for either of the two arms of the
United Service, and nothing else.

A few weeks saw George quite at home in his new
profession. It is never hard for a dashing young fellow,
such as he was, to get to the heart of a militry circle —
if he be of the right stuff, one meal at the mess-table is
quite sufficient to make him one of the family, as it were.
In fact, George was very soon the prime favorite of the
mess-room, and when he walked the streets in the hand-
some uniform of the gallant — th, he was" the admiration
of all that numerous class of young ladies who have a
partiality for red coats — especially when there are
" bowld sojer boys " in them. He was happy, for such
a life exactly suited his disposition, naturally bright, and
very much averse to care or application of any kind. As
for me, although I could have wished to see him in a
quieter and more settled way of life, I had only to rec-
oncile myself to it as well as I could, and I prayed for
him — oh, how fervently ! — that he might be preserved
even as were the three young Hebrews in the fiery fur-
nace, for I could not, or did not conceal from myself^
that he, too, was in a fiery furnace little less dangerous

224

ELINOR PRESTOK.

than that of the Assyrian tyrant. For myself I was
tolerably well situated. Through the kind offices of
Mrs. Colonel I had obtained a situation as compan-
ion to the wife of a superannuated general officer settled
in Montreal. The duties of my office were very lights—
merely to amuse my patroness as I best could, and in
my own way, when we were alone, and to assist in the
entertainment of company, which was by far the heavi-
est of my functions, for the dear old lady was never so
well pleased as when she had her house full. She was
very deaf, and, as is usual wth deaf people, spoke in a
loud, harsh voice. Se was, notwithstanding her infirm-
ity, given to " much talking," but that made my task all
the lighter, for I had only to listen, and pay just is much
attention as enabled me to retain the thread of her dis-
course. Of the general we saw but little, for he still
held some government office which kept him moving to
and fro over the province. When he did pay us a visit,
it was very welcome to the entire household from Lady

down to Martha the housemaid, and Jenny the

cook, who had been for years in the family, nay ! Ponto,
the old Newfoundland dog, was gladdest of all to see
his master, for he, too, had grown old in the service, and
had *' roamed through many lands " in the suite of the

worthy Brigadier. Lady always made it a point

to celebrate Sir Henry's arrival by a grand party,
though it often happened that she had had one within
the week. It was plain to see that the stern old officer
took no particular pleasure in these gay assemblies, and
he always appeared like a fish out of water. He was

BLINOR PBIBTO.

225

very good-natured, however, and use to saj irhen re-
signing himself with a sigh to the gc/ieral (. ninot n
excited in the house by the approaching event : " 1 or
Dorothy ! I wish she could devise some other met >d
of welcoming me home ! — ^but parties are her life, and
always were ever since I knew her, so she can't under-
stand, or never could, that they're a positive bore to an
old soldier like me who has been buffeting the world for
a good part of a century. Dorothy must have her own
way, however, — we're both too old to begin to quarrel
now. But oh ! Miss Preston, if she'd only let me rest
when I come under the shadow of my household gods ! "

I, of course, commiserated the good general's distress,
especially as I very soon grew weary myself of the con-
tinual bustle, and began to long for quiet. Still I could
not find it in my heart to leave the kind old lady who
was really interested in my welfare, and showed it in a
very substantial way, though occasionally I came in for
a lecture on my " tiresome melancholy," and for a cer-
tain " nasty habit " which Lady said I had " of

falling into reveries^'* or " brown studies," I believe she
termed them.

" Have you been crossed in love, my dear ? or what's
the matter with you that you are always thinking ? "

" You forget, my dear madam, that I' have lost within
a few years my nearest and dearest — "

" Poh, poh ! child ! is that all — doesn't every one lose
their friends and relations some time or another ? I've
been an orphan myself these many years ! "

" I should think y )u had," thought I, " for half a cen-

226

ILINOR PRISTOir.

tury at least.** The thought made me smile, and the
smile restored the dowager^s good-humor for that tiuie.
Two years passed away pleasantly enough at Lady
's. Notwithstanding my general aversion to large

parties, I began rather to enjoy the great variety of vis
itors we had, and the equally great diversity of their
characters. Among these I particularly relished the
unctuous and sweet professors of the word, who with due
regard to her souFs welfare, and (of course) a certain
consideration for the good things so freely dispensed at
her table, availed themselves of many opportunities to
share her hospitality, and shout their several systems
of theology into her ear in a way that was quite dog-
matical. These gentlemen professed a great horror of
military society in general, so they were seldom found

at any of Lady 's grand entertainments. They made

up for it, however, during the short intervals, and I soon
observed that, under one charitable pretence and another,
they were no small drain on the old lady*s purse.

I had not been long in the house before I discovered
that nearly all the clerical visitors belonged to what they
called the French Canadian Missionary Society. The
ostensible object of this association was the conversion,
as they termed it, of the Catholic people of Lower Can-
ada ; so I kept my eye on them from the first, and many
a hearty laugh George had at their expense, as I care-
fully treasured every choice morceau of their intelligence
for his private instruction.

Lady appeared to take quite an interest in the

afl^irs of the Society, and she was in the habit of boasti

■LINOR PRESTON.

227

rered
they
The
l-sion,
ICan-
lany
ire-
rence

the
>asti

Ing to me of the good which her money did in the way
of diffuBing religious light among the benighted popula-
tion of the country. I generally answered with a won-
dering " Indeed ! " for I very early found out that argu-
ment had not the slightest effect on the good lady^s mind.
I had told her over and over again of the age-long sys-
tem of temptation brought to bear on the po(>r starving
Catholics of Western Ireland, with the vain hope of draw-
ing them away from the faith of their fathers. It was
no use — she would cram it down my throat that Exeter
Hall had done wonders in the way of converting Irish
papists, that the latter were " coming forth from Baby-
lon " by hundreds and thousands, and for that very reason
it was that she encouraged the efforts of the F. C. M.
Society. What could I say to such reasoning as this ?

I observed all along that the affairs of " the Society "
were never brought before the General, and for some
time I could by no means understand why his Protes-
tant sympathies should not be worked upon for the
greater advancement of the noble object which his spouse
and her satellites had in view. For the first few months
my presence was no obstacle to the discussion of evan-
gelical matters — a latent hope being entertained, as I
afterward found, that " the young lady from Ireland "
might be happily " snatched from the burning." Lat-
terly, however, this hope seemed extinguished — in gall,
it must have been, for the extinction made the ministers
as bitter towards me as such blandly apostolic men ever
eould be. The worst of it was that I lost all the solemn
farces in which they and Lady were the actors.

228

ELINOR PRESTON.

One day when the old lady was waiting in the draw-
ing-room for the carriage to be brought out for the a^
temoon drive, who should make his appearance but Mr,
Prioff, one of the managing men of the F. C. M. Society ;
and as neither the lady nor gentleman was aware of my
being within hearing — I happened to be in the music-
room copying a piece of music which George had bor-
rowed from the band-master of his regiment — the zeal-
ous missioner proceeded at once to business.

" I see your ladyship is just going out," said the very
obsequious big man — for he was a big man — a big, raw-
boned man — " so I must not detain you. Our funds are
very low indeed at the present moment, and I have
brought you a list, humbly hoping that you will do
something for us amongst your friends."

" I can't promise you much from my friends," said

Lady , in so gruff a tone that I actually started and

dropped my pen ; " they're not over favorable to your
— ^I mean our society ! "

" Why, how is that, my dear madam 1 "

" Well, I'll tell you ! — ^they say, most of them, that
it's a regular humbug to be thrusting the Scriptures
down people's throats whether they will or no. Some
of them tell stories of Canadians, who politely received
tracts and even testaments, lighting their pipes with the
former and throwing the latter into the fire — others sell-
ing them for a few coppers if they could get them. So
you see I can hardly bring myself to ask money from
them for providing books for such purposes,"

ELINOR PRESTOK.

229

*• But there are our schools, my dear lady — think of
their usefulness ! "

" Oh! for my part I am fully convinced of the Society's
eniire usefulness, and am quite willing to do what I can
myself to forward its views, but the General is so op-
posed to it, and, as I told you, most of our guests make
merry at its expense." While I was chuckling over
this response, I heard a third voice in the drawing-room
— it was that of the General, who, like myself, had been
an unwitting listener, and now stepped in.

"Certainly, my dear, and why should they not?
This society has to my knowledge been several years in
operation, and has expended vast sums of money on
speculation. Where are its fruits? is Lower Canada
more Protestant — less Catholic than it was when these
gentlemen started their wind-machine 1 ^ ^or my part,
would be willing to affirm that they have never sent a
single soul to heaven "

" Oh ! fie, Henry, fie ! "

" Fie yourself, Dorothy ! — I hope I am as good a Prot-
estant as any of you, but I can't swallow confounded
sham like this. You heard what young Delaval told us
yesterday evening of his experience among the Cana-
dians."

" Certainly I did, Henry, but there is no use repeating
it now. The carriage is waiting,^-excuse me, Mr. Price !
— ^another time I shall be happy to see you "

" But, my dear madam, permit me to explain to the
General "

" I too must beg to be excused, my very good sir,"
20

230

ELtKOR PRESTON.

ill;

said the bluff old soldier ; " my time is too precious for
long-winded harangues on a subject that never could in-
terest me. You will oblige me by taking yourself off.
Wilson ! " to the servant who answered his ring, " show
this reverend gentleman to the door ! "

I suppose Mr. Price found it his wisest course to do
as he was bid, for I heard his voice no more ; and afler
a hearty laugh from the Brigadier, in answer to a re-
monstrance from his wife, the two vacated the apart-
ment, and I was left to laugh at my leisure over the dis-
com.fiture of the unlucky deputation from the F. C. M.
Society.

Being anxious to learn all I could of the people among
whom my lot was likely to be cast, I took the liberty
of asking the General what had been the nature of Dela-
vaPs experience among the Canadians. Now Delaval
was a gentlemanly young Englishman — a frequent visi-
tor at the General's — who had been sent out on an offi-
cial Survey by the provincial government.

" Well ! " said the General, " you must know that
Deleval is — or rather was — a bit of an evangelical-
much given to polemical discussions — I'm not sure in-
deed but he used to figure occasionally in Exeter Hall ;—
however that may be, when he came to Canada, as he
says himself in his solemn way, he rejoiced in the oppor-
tunity of giving light to the natives in these dark regions,
and provided himself accordingly with a goodly stock
of Bibles, with any amount of savory tracts cooked ex-
pressly for papist digestion. So out he went among the
habiianSf doing business in a twofold capacity, but it

»«■'

ELINOR PRESTON.

231

that
leal—
Ire in-
JU;-
he
Ippor-
;ions,
Istock
Id ex-
the
lut it

iecms when he came to grips — religic as grips, of coursa
— with Monsieui Jean Baptiste, he got the worst of tha
battle — he found, to his great surprise, th.it Jean knew
as much of religion as he did himself — yes ! and more
too, I fancy, for he says the very children were inti
mately acquainted with the great truths of Christianity,
and, in fact, knew them more thoroughly than he did.
After meeting a few rebuffs of this kind, his zeal began
to relax, and his evangelical fervor cooled down wonder-
fully. To make a long story short, as you Irish say, he
speedily cleared his trunks of the pious rubbish collected
for the conversion of Canada — rather detrimental it was
to his fine English clothes, having been the cause of sun-
dry creases in his glossy broadcloths. How he disposed
of the lumber is more than I know ; but my own pri-
vate opinion is that the tracts went for lighting cigars,
and King James's Bible — God knows how ! That was
a dead loss to the ranters, for Delaval has opened not
his mouth in their favor from thaj; day to this. In fact,
he's death on the F. C. M.'s, and all that crew. I think
his story had quite an effect on my good wife — I hope
so, at least."

The General seldom laughed, but he chuckled gleefully
at the denouement of his own story, as, taking up a news-
paper, he retired to the garden.

It was just about this time.^at I had another trial to
undergo, George's regiment was removed to the West
Indies, and, independent of my engagement at Lady

^'s, I would have felt extremely awkward to travel

with the regiment — a sort of camp-follower. George

232

ELINOR FRESTOir.

^'1

had precisely the same idea, and he was also unwilling
that I should expose myself without necessity to the dan-
gers of a tropical climate : " Stay where you are, my
beloved sister," said he ; " stay, in God's name ! better
the keen steady frosts of Canada than the enervating
warmth and the deadly miasma of those Indian climes
You are now in a fair way of doing well : you have a
good home, and friends powerful to assist you. Stay,
then, where you are ; it would be madness, or little less,
to follow my poor fortunes. I go to the land of the wild
tornado, where the fetid marshes generate pestilence
from year to year ; — should I sink, as many Europeans
do, beneath the fiery darts of that tropical sun, your lot
will be a lonely one. Promise me that if the worst
should happen, you will go home to Ireland and tell Al-
fred, if you ever see him, that George was — not a bad
brother, and did not forget his promise "

I interrupted him somewhat sharply: "I will give you
no promise on such a probability ; I hope in the mercy
of God that we shall soon meet again. Embitter not our
parting, I beseech you, by such gloomy forebodings ; it
is bitter enough, God knows ! "

" Weil ! well ! we'll say no more about it ; let us talk
of something else."

George dined at the General's that last day, and the
kind-hearted Brigadier,*who had all along taken an inter-
est in him, took occasion, before he left Montreal, to re-
commend him for early promotion. One solitary com-
fort I had in this sad separation, and that was that
George prepared himaslf like a Christian for his voyage.

ELINOR PRESTON.

233

d the
inter-
to re-
com-
that
>yage.

That thought alone has given light and peace to a sc»ul
that would otherwise be dark and troubled.

It was a gay sight, and yet a sad one, to see the long

column of the th moving along the wharf, and over

the gangway to the deck of the Quebec steamer, their
band playing the well-known parting air, "The Girl 1
Left Behind Me " — one of those wonderful Irish airs
wherein gayety and sadness are so mingled that you can-
not tell which affects you most. Who has ever heard
that air under such circumstances without emotion? how,
then, must I have felt its power when the brother I so
loved, my last earthly stay, was moving away at the
moment — marching to those very sounds — leaving me
perhaps forever! Many a pleasant acquaintance was
snapped asunder at the same time, and I was left alone
in a land of strangers. A mist came before my eyes as
I caught George's farewell look, and the last wave of his
hand was lost to me ; it was seen and answered by the

General, who with Lady and one or two other

friends had accompanied me to the wharf to see the regi-
ment off.

Left thus to myself, and with a heart crushed and
bleeding, I could no longer enjoy, as 1 had done, the fash-
ionable bustle of Lady 's mansion. The churches

were my sole refuge, and, as much of my spare time was
spent within their hallowed walls, I saw many things
that passed unnoticed bef )re. It is not without justice
that Montreal is called the Rome, of America, for surely
it is a city of Catholic associations, of Catholic institu-
tions, and, to a great extent, of Catholic morals. From

234

ELINOR PRESTON.

the great church of Notre Dame and our own St. Pat-
rick's, which occupies one of the noblest sites in the
neighhorhood, down to the little chapel of Our Lady of
the Nativity, situate at one of the extremities of the city
in a sweet secluded spot not far from the river edge,
there are churches of every size, many of them remark-
ably fine specimens of art. No city that I know of has
so many religious confraternitits as Montreal, and on
the Sunday within the octave of Corpus Christi, when
the entire Catholic population is formed into a proces-
sion in honor of the Blessed Sacrament, it is consoling,
and at the same time surprising, to see the vast number
of persons of both sexes who belong to these associa-
tions.

Not to speak of the different confraternities of Our
Lady established in the various churches, there are So-
cieties in honor of many of the Saints. First and great-
est of these are the St. John the Baptist Society — the na-
tional association of the French Canadians — and the St.
Patrick's Society, comprising a large number of the
Irishmen of the city : — then there are the St. Michael's, the
St. Joseph's Society, the Society of Za Bonne Mort^ and
the Society of the Holy Family.

I happened to be present, in the parish church, one
morning at an early Mass. It was the last Sunday of
March, when the entire Society of St Joseph, chiefly
young men and boys, sang during the service, with much
taste and feeling, several popular hymns appropriate to
the occasion ; and never did I hear music with greater
pleasure than those sacred melodies sung with such sim-

3t. Pat
in the
ady of
ihe city
r edge,
emark-
of has
md on
when
Droces-
soling,
umber
ssocia-

f Our
ire So-
great-
;he na-
:he St.
)f the
I's, the
•/, and

h, one
ay of
ihiefly
much
ite to
'eater
i sim-

NOTRE DAME, MONTREAL.

(See page 284.)

ELINOR PRESTON.

237

pie fervor, and forming so full a choir. What was still
more touching was to see all the young men, from the
oldest to the -youngest, approaching the Holy Commun-
ion, and that with the most edifying piety and recollec-
tion. Happy are they who thus remember their Crea-
tor in the days of their youth. Happy, too, the city,
whose young men enroll themselves under the banners
of the Saints, for, faithful as they must be to their relig-
ious duties, they cannot fail to be good and useful citi-
zens.

On another occasion, when I went to Vespers in the
parish church, 1 was surprised to see a large number of
the congregation provided with long wax tapers. While
thiiiking what this might mean, the Vespers were draw-
ing to a close and persons began to move through the
aisles, lighting the tapers in the different pews. In a
very few minutes the vast church with its two tiers of
galleries was twinkling all over with star-like lights,
which wrre kept burning during the Benediction. The
spectacle was unique and very beautiful, but it puzzled
me no little at the time. I afterwards found that it
was the assembly of Za Bonne Mort, (The Happy Death,)
which is held on the third Sunday of every month. Such
scenes are only to be met with in Catholic cities, and
they make us forget that we live in an age of reason, not
of faith.

Then to see the clergy, secular and regular, walking
abroad in the habits of their different orders — the Sulpi-
cian and the Jesuit, the Oblationist and the Christian
Brother — the Congregation nun and the Grey nun, and

238

ELINOR PUESTOlf.

the Sister of Charity, appearing here and there in the
moving diorama of the crowded streets. All this was,
of course, new to nne, and it had an indescribable charm
for one who, though brought up a Catholic and among
Catholics, had never seen such public manifestations of
Catholicity. I began to say to myself, like the Apostle
on Thabor: "It is good to be here," and I resolved
henceforward to consider this favored country my home.
** What though I be alone and desolate," said I to my-
self; " \ will endeavor to forget my sorrows in the peace*
ful joys of religion."

But still I could not help feeling the want of Catholic

tociety. Lady was as kind as ever, so was the

General when at home, but that was neither often nor
long at a time ; there were a few agreeable persons of
both sexes among their visitors, but not one of my own
creed or country, not one with whom I could speak of
home or of religion — at least, my religion. My spirits
sank from day to day, and I began to sigh for some
quiet spot where I might be free from the ceaseless
clamor of fashionable society. There was one thing that
tended not a little to my increasing dejection. It so

happened that Lady *s house was situated in St.

Antoine street, a fashionable suburb, consisting for the
most part of handsome and elegant private dwellings ;
a very pleasant locality it was, — but in it was situated
the Catholic Cemetery for the whole parish, and many
a sight of sorrow daily passed under our windows that
persons in other quarters of the city did not see. Now
the two great component parts of the Catholic popular

ILINOR PRESTON.

230

the

tion of Montreal are the French Canadians ai^d the Irish,
the latter swelled from year to year by the arrival of

new emigrants. I had not been long in Lady 's

when I began to notice the funerals as they passed, and
I had no great difficulty in distinguishing to which of the
two races they belonged. Funerals in general were
pretty well attended, but occasionally they furnished
pictures of such utter loneliness that it made my heart
ache to see them, especially as I all along noticed that
the loneliest and most affecting were of the emigrant
class — mournful fragments of what has been called the
Irish Exodus. Time after time I have sat in the shade
of the damask curtains, when some light-hearted visitors

were entertaining Lady with their frivolous chat,

and watched through blinding tears these gloomy ep-
isodes in the great epic of human life — scenes which
others saw not, or heeded not if they saw. At one time
it was a solitary figure — a worn-looking man in a cos-
tume too familiar to my eyes — following to her foreign
grave the wife of his youth — the partner of his life.
Again, I have seen the v/ife, with one or more children,
walking close behind the poor-hearse, perhaps the hood
of a once decent blue cloak drawn up over the woman's
head, as it were to screen her anguish from the observa-
tion of the cold, mocking stranger. Once or twice I saw
a little family of emigrant children following the corpse
of a father or mother — the elder leading the younger by
the hand, and occasionally checking by a reproachful
look or gesture the childish curiosity of the little ones,
who, happily unconscious of their desolate state, would

240

ELINOR PRESTOir.

fain have a look at the fine houses on either hand. All
this was sorrowful enough ; but there was yet another
stase of loneliness in these funeral scenes — it was that
of utter and most complete desertion. Many and many
a corpse I saw borne to the grave during my stay in that
neighborhood, without one human being to shed a tear
or breathe a prayer over the departed. Yet this, after
all, though deeply touching, was not so painful as the
sight of the bereaved husband or wife, or the orphan
children left friendless and alone on a foreign shore
where they knew no one, or no one knew them. How
often did the sympathetic sigh escape me, as I wished
from my inmost heart that they had never left their own
green isle, where, even if poverty had been their lot,
they would at least have had friends^ that choicest bless-
ing that heaven can bestow on mortals ! At home, they
would never be altogether destitute — abroad, they oft;en,
very often, are.

About a month after George's departure I received a
letter from Mr. O'Shaughnessy, giving me all the news ;
among other items were the following : " Who do you
think I met the other day in Grafton street ? — now I
know you'll be thinking * what took the old curmudgeon
there — gloves and ribbons, eh ? ' — no, it wasn't, but, as
] was saying, who should I meet but Denis John — our
old Killarney hidalgo^ looking as like a first-class grandee
as ever you saw him. Maybe I wasn't glad to see him, and
to do him justice, he was just as glad to see me. To be sure
he asked very kindly for you all, and was sorry to hear that
you had left our little island — he's no friend of emigration.

ELINOR FRESTOir.

241

&ws;

reon
b, as
)ur
idee
land
mre
that
lion,

I sec plainly. And to be sure I asked very kindly for Miss
Ellen. * She's not Miss Ellen now/ says he, with his
princely smile, * she has become a matron since you saw
her ; she was married last autumn to young O'Donovan,
whom you may remember to have seen at Killarney.' Of
course I did remember him — a dashing young fellow he
was too — but it never came into my head that he and Miss
Ellen were pulling a cord. Neither they were at that
time, the Don said, but the acquaintance made in thd
Lake Hotel came to that in a short time, and though the
marriage in which it ended left him lonely, yet he
thought Ellen could not have done better, either on the
score of blood or fortune. I was glad to hear this, and
insisted on the Don's dining with me that day, that we
might drink the health of the joung couple in a bottle
of Champagne that was innocent of the contamination
of cider — sparkling, and bright, and fresh, like the fair
daughter of the MacCarthys. The stately old man
grew young again as we drained the generous cup to his
favorite's health, and the ice once broken his thoughts
flowed free as a mountain rivulet, and he made quite a
little speech about you, — wilful little runaway that you
are ! — and you may be sure, we poured another libation,
as Byron says, to your health and happiness. After
dinner we adjourned to Dillon's, and had a right merry
evening of it, although our mirth was clouded, at times,
by the * memory of the dead ' and those from whom seas
divide us. Bless my heart, Elinor ! if I don't stop, I'll
grow quite soft and sentimental. I have one thing to
say, however, before I leave off. How are you getting
21

■»

242

ELINOR PRKSTON.

on? — I mean yourself, for I heard from George not
many weeks ago. He's quite in love with his profes-
sion. So far, so good. He tells me you're in a capital
situation, but I want to hear from under your own hand
how you are settled. It seems you have swaddlers even
in Canada — wonder the frost don't kill all such white-
livered animals out there. Give me some account of
them when you write — manners, habits, general appear-
ance, and so forth. 1 want to compare your ffenus with
ours, though I suppose they are all the same species.
The Dillons are about the same as usual. Your god-
child is very fat, and quite a precocious little woman —
they'll make her out a prodigy, depend upon it. On
occasion of my last visit, the old madam communicated
to me the gratifying intelligence that *baby had cut her
eye-teeth,' and, as though that was not sufficient to com-
plete my happiness, she further added, ' and, only think,
Mr. O'Shaughnessy, she can walk alone, quite across the
nursery.' Whether it was this accumulation of good
news, or the constituent part of the bill of fare being
some degrees better than usual — and you know the
Dillon dinners are famous — I certainly dined heartily,
and felt exceedingly comfortable all the evening. . .
But now, Elinor, to come back to our affairs — are you
well settled — are you contented, or are you not? If
not, don't despair ; try another situation, and if that
doesn't do, come back to the maternal arms of Mhe
world's Cushla machree.' You know

^ffer gates open wide to the poor and the stranger^'

ELINOR PRESTOir.

243

but you are neither, Nell ! — friends, and perhaps e\ en a
trifle of fortune, await you. If Canadian skies are gloomy
for you, come back to your home, for you have one
here : so long as the big brass plate on the door in
Dominick street bears the name of Terence O'Shaugh-
nessy you're all right, as I told you once before. People
are advising me lately t<) retire on account of a certain
asthmatic affection which annoys me now and then ; but
I won't retire — that's the fact, — as long as I'm able to
crawl into Court, I'll still be T. O. S., Attorney-at-Law,
for if I weren't that I'd be nothing, and the sexton might
prepare me a new house as soon as he pleased. God
bless you, Elinor ! God bless you — if I never see you
again, I love you as a daughter — you needn't laugh now
— that's just the plain truth. I never was ass enough to
think of you in any other way, though Maria, in her
wild days, used to quiz me on the subject. But those
days are all past : I think Maria has never been so gay
since you lefl, at least she seldom indulges in merriment.
Yet believe me it isn't Arthur's fault —

\e you
? If
that
'the

* For she hath been a happy wife — the lover of her youth
May proudly claim the smile that pays the trial of his truth :
A sense of slight — of loneliness hath never banisb'd sleep.
Her life hath been a cloudless one — then wherefore doth she weep f

Mind, / didn't say she wept — Haynes Bayley might
have had her in bis eye for all I know, when he wrote
those lines ; but if Maria doesn't weep, she certainly looks
sober — old madam's doings, I'll be bound. The old
hare ! if it was she that carried off or squeezed out

244

ELINOR PRESTON.

Maria's piquant drollery, I could find it in my heart to
leave her standing for a night in solitary grandeur a-top
of Nelson's pillar. But, nothing of this, mind ! when
you write to Maria. Farewell ! once more — by-the-
bye! give my compliments to that old Brigadier of
whom George speaks ; tell him if ever he comes to
Dublin, to be sure and pay old Shaugh a visit — if I'm a
living man, he'll be sure of as good a dinner, wine in-
cluded — as he'll get from this to himself — I've a notion
that hearts are trump when he turns up. As for his *
rib, I fancy she's a spare one : tell her if she'd only leave
off her swaddling propensities, she'd be welcome as the
flowers in May, for I think, from what George says, she
has treated you rather kindly. There now — ^1 protest
I'll not write another word — ^yes, I will — Ally, my old
housekeeper, sends her love and best respects to you
and Master George. She bids me tell you that she says
the beads for you once a week. Let us know did you
ever see or hear anything of Larry and his yoke-fellow.
Adieu."

I gave my old friend's characteristic invitation ver-
batim to the General, who received it very kindly :
" Upon my honor, Miss Preston, if ever I do visit the
Emerald Isle, which is not at all beyond the range of
probability, I'll certainly avail myself of your friend's
very kind invitation. I've an idea that he's a brick —
pardon the vulgarism, but I can find no word better
adapted to convey my conception of old Shaugh, as he
pleasantly calls himself! "

I then ventured to repeat that portion of the message

BLINOR PRESTON.

245

which related to her ladyship, at which the General
laughed heartily. " Well, really now, that's good-
capital, I should say. Swaddling propensities ! — that's
just the word, but it wouldn't do to tell her so, for she'd
never forgive jolly old Shaugh — never, in the world. /
know the canters — I do— charity is always on their lips,
but confoundedly seldom in their hearts — they're the
bitterest crew living. But, I say. Miss Preston ! have
you heard from George lately 1 He'll be bringing you
a Creole sister some of these days. He'll captivate an
heiress, or I'm much mistaken. What would you think
of that 1 "

" I have not the slightest objection, sir, provided he
secures his own happiness. I'm pretty certain that
George will never marry for money alone ! "

" I should hope not, indeed ! " said the General, very
eiously ; "marry for love and work for riches, as the
old proverb has it ; that's what we did ! eh, Dorothy 1 "
to Lady D — — , who just then entered.

" What did you say, Henry 1 "

I say we married for love, not for riches, my dear,"
raising his voice ; then to me in an under tone, " That's
true enough. Miss Preston ! and notwithstanding her
swaddling propensities, as Shaugh says, I have never had
cause to repent my choice : even the canters haven't been
able to spoil Dorothy." I loved the good old man at
the moment for the affectionate pride with which his eye
rested on his aged wife. She had not caught the full
meaning of his words, but she well understood the accom
panying glance, and to it she replied : " Yes, to be suro^

246

ELINOR PRESTON.

we n^arried for love ; and ¥m proud to say our marriage
has been a happy one, excepting the loss of our children ;
but love supported us even through that. I'd be dead
and in my grave years ago, Miss Preston, my dear ! if it
hadn't been for that hard-featured, grey-headed old man.
He's not so hard as he looks, I can tell you."

" Upon my word, Dorothy, you're very complimen-
tary as regards my outward man. But never mind, I
won't retort. We've got an invitation to Ireland, my
dear ! "

" An invitation to where 1 "

" To Ireland ! " He then told as much as he chose
of what O'Shaughnessy had said. She seemed rather
pleased, and smiled very graciously.

" Well ! now, do you know, I should like very much
to see something of Ireland, if I ever went home to Eng-
land. I have a great desire to visit the Lord's vineyard
at — what's that place in Connaught "

" Achill ! " I suggested, in my loudest voice.

" Exactly ! I have heard so much of the wonderful
regeneration effected in that neighborhood by the word
of God, that I should like of all things to see it. It ap-
pears there have been thousands converted from Ro-
manism in that locality alone."

" 1 am sorry to contradict your ladyship," I said, " but
it is my duty to do it notwithstanding. The accounts
which you have seen are those returned to their patrons
and employers by the agents of the Church Missionary
Society. In justice to the poor people whose faith they
were commissioned to buy up, I must candidly inform

ELINOR PRESTON.

247

but
I lints
troll s
par/
Ithey
form

you that their statements are wholly unfounded. Not
/^' only have we the testimony of the Catholic hierarchy and
/ priesthood to that effect, but even that of Protestant

visitors who penetrated to those remote regions for the
express purpose of investigating the matter. It is lat-
terly pretty generally understood that what your lady-
ship calls the wonderful regeneration of the Achill isl-
anders is a pure fiction."

" So the golden bullets of Exeter Hall have not an-
nihilated Popery after all," observed Sir Henry, with
his dry, inward laugh ; " what a tough hide that mon-
ster must have — excuse me, Miss Preston! I do but
borrow the language of the conventicle." *

"Nonsense, Elinor," screamed her ladyship, "there is
no sort of use in denying the fact that the gospel is
making rapid strides in Ireland."

"I do not mean to deny it, Lady . The gospel

is making, and has made such rapid strides that it rules
and animates the entire country. In fact, it has done so
for over fourteen centuries. St. Patrick himself gave
the Gospel to the people ; and if they haven't taken good
care of it since, no people ever did."

The Brigadier laughed at this unexpected turn, but
Lady waxed somewhat angry.

" Pshaw, Elinor, I don't mean that form of Christian-
ity which has hitherto prevailed in Ireland — it is next
to none."

I acknowledged the compliment by a bow, and was
preparing my verbal thanks, when a loud ring of the
<1cor-bell echoed through the house, and immediately a

248

XLINOR PRESTON.

servant entered with a handful of letters. This exciting
incident sent the conversion of Ireland to Jericho, or
any other remote station, for the time being ; and it so
happened that the subject wa< never again brought up
for discussion during my remaining stay in that house.

My share of the package was a letter from George,
written in very good spirits, and one from Rebecca
Wortley, announcing her approaching marriage. This
was all very satisfactory, and furnished me with a fresh
stock of cheerfulness, which Lady — persisted in as-
cribing to certain " good news from home " of a par
ticular nature, as she emphatically said.^ In fact, she
went so far as to hint her conviction that I had still a
tender connection with my native land. Unfortunately
she did not confine this notion to her own mind, but was
pleased to communicate it rather freely to her visitors,
to the great discouragement of two individuals who had
been saying soft things to me for some time past, when
opportunity served. One of these was an antiquated
beau who, if he had not "walk'd the world for fourscore
year," had at least been half a century on its stage in
one capacity and another. Like the Nabob in the

song,

" His guineas were yellow, but so were his cheeks/'

and there was, moreover, a look of jaundiced melan-
choly about him that was anything but prepossessin^qr.
The other admirer was a dandified young gentlem^ ,
some two or three years younger than myself — one of
those creatures who haunt ball-rooms and other such
places of public amusement, d ^ing the amiable to ladies

ELINOR PBESTON.

249

lelan-

W .
of
Isuch
Idles

in general and to rank and what they consider fashion in
particular. This rare specimen sported quite a stylish
imperial^ dressed in the most approved style,, and af-
fected a most supercilious tone towards those whom he
judged below the mark. However it happened that
Lady 's humble companion found favor in such fas-
tidious eyes, I am not prepared to say ; but such was ac-
tually the case, and notwithstanding the extra coldness
with which I made it a poin*^ • treat him, he still hung
on, doing everything he could to make himself agree-
able, and producing an effect diametrically opposite to
what he intended. Neither of these two gentlemen had
ever " declared his intentions " — as speculating mammas
are wont to say — so thit I had no chance of ridding my-
self of their very disagreeable attentions. But all at

once came Lady 's broad inuendo — I really believe

she meant it for the very purpose — and quick as light-
ning dropped off my junior admirer! The senior held
out a week or so longer, and might actually have ven-
tured to inquire whether the Irish affair was or was not
an obstacle, but luckily for me somebody told him that
I had said he wore a wig ; it was a fur fabrication, to be
sure, but it served me well, for afler that my old beau
could never look me straight in the face. His sweet-
ness, as regarded me, was thenceforward turned into gall
and wormwood.

Lady , just as I supposed, called on me for a

large measure of gratitude, which I certainly w-as quite
willing to render, notwithstanding the circuitous route
by which she had effected my deliverance. " I don't

250

SLINOR PRESTON.

know," said she " whether there's any Ulysses in the
case, but you were certainly besieged as close as ever
Penelope was. It takes me to make a clear riddance."
I, of course, expressed my obligation, and with a smile
which I felt to be melancholy, assured her ladyship that
she had no secret to learn with regard to me.

XLINOR PRESTOK.

351

CHAPTER IX.

BOUT six or eight weeks after,
when the winter had just set in, and
tl)||.t8treets were musical all day long with
the tinWing of-the ** merry sleigh bells," I
receivecNinother letter from George, inform-
ing me that his regiment was under orders
for Bengjd, but that he would, if possible,
obtain leave of absence in order to pay me
a visit before he left the western hemisphere.
He also hinted that he had formed a new
and tender tie in Jamaica. " The daughter
of a wealthy planter," said he, " the dearest and love-
liest of her sex, has deigned to take an especial interest in
my welfare — hor father, who is of Spanish descent, ap-
pears as though he would have no objection to Elmira's
choosing an Irish Catholic for a husband — in fact, I have
smoked myself into his good graces, as I sang myself
into his charming daughter's — what do you think of that,
Elinor 1 — I know you never gave me credit for much
vocal talent, but you see tastes are diiTerent, as I have

352

ELINOR PRESTOir.

found — to my profit. So do not be surprised, should 1
bring a sweet Creole bride to visit you and Canada-—
both of which Elmira longs to see — you especially. You
will love her, I know, and she will love you, for you
can appreciate each other. Farewell, then, for the pres-
ent, my dearest sister — when we meet again it will be
in joy — mingled alas ! with sorrow, for the long separa-
tion that is to follow. I will write to you again when
all is decided."

While I was looking out with strangely mingled feel-
ings for the promised letter — it came — it was on Christ-
mas Eve, I well remember — it was directed in a small
feminine hand, and — bore a black seal^,^ It was from
the Signora Elmira Mendez letting me know that my
brother had taken a violent fever If few days after writ-
ing to me, and was carried off inside of a fortnight.
Few and short were the words of this mournful letter —
evidently dictated by a breaking heart — the only refer-
ence the writer made to herself was a touching admission
that she had loved George Preston with more than a
sister's love — " though 1 know," she added, " you will
hardly believe that possible. But no matter which of
us loved him most — he loved us both — he was good,
and high-hearted, and generous, and God has taken him
from us. Thank our good God with me, dearest Sig-
nora, that our loved is not lost — he died full of faith,
hope, and charity, fortified with all the helps of religion.
He, let us trust, is gone to a better world, but who can
console you — who can console me ? — only God alone,
and our common Mother — to their tenderest protection

ELINOR PRESTON.

253

Lith,
lion,
lean
>ne,
on

I commend you, my more than sister ! Need I tell you
'on what noble brow the inclosed curl wj.s wont to rcsf?
Your own heart will tell you. Write to me, I beseech
you, as soon as you are able ! Would that we were
together to lighten each other's burden ! "

Thus then was my last prop taken away. For some
hours after the receipt of that letter, I was so stunned

that Lady , as she afterwards told me, feared my

senses were gone for ever. But no — I recovered grad"
ually as from a dream — recovered to the full conscious-
ness of my loss. Then it was that I bitterly repented
my leaving Ireland, and in the first paroxysm of my
sorrow I determined to go home again. " Here I have
no one," thought I, " to mourn with me — I will go home
to Emily and Alfred". I cannot bear this loneliness of
sorrow ! "

My next thought was one of real consolation. I re-
membered Emily's words : " You have a host of friends
in heaven." In pursuance of this happy suggestion I
brought my sorrows to our Lady's feet in her shrine of
Boris SecourSy a quaint-looking old chapel dating from
the earliest settlement of the French on the island of
Montreal. There in the silence of the holy house I
poured out my soul in prayer for the repose of the be-
loved dead, and that I might receive that strength and
succor of which I stood in need, I invoked Our Lady of
Succor, and besought her powerful assistance. My
prayer was heard — the crushing weight was suddenly
removed from off my heart, and I could look my pros-
pects in the face. After all they were little changed,
22

254

ILI90R FRBSTON.

but J had somehow conceived a desire for change, influ«
enced in part by the fearful blow which had made me
sick of foreign climes, and stranger-friends, if one may
be allowed the term.

To Ireland, then, I had made up my mind to go, no^
withstanding the urgent entreaties of my good, well*
meaning patroness, and I had just communicated my
intention to the young Signora Mendez, when a letter.^
arrived from Mrs. Arthur Dillon which again changed
my plans, though why it did so I can hardly tell.
Among other news of far less serious import to me,
Maria — evidently trying to write cheerfully when her
heart was sad and heavy — ^informed me that poor
O^Shaughnessy had departed this life some three days
before the date of her letter. " I can hardly tell you,
Nelly, how much we miss him even now," she went on,
** what then will it be when the various occasions come
round (in the natural course of time) which used to
draw out his many endearing qualities. Upon my
word, Nell ! I cannot write without shedding tears, and
even Mamma Dillon has her eyes * like two burnt holes
in a blanket ' with the fair dint of crying. As for you
and George, you have good reason to cry too, for you
have both of you lost a warm and steadfast friend.
During his last illness — it was not very long — at least
from the time he took to his bed — only eight or nine
days — he often spoke of you, and the very day before
bis death, he told me to tell you that your promised
home in Dominick street was no longer there — * tell her,*
•aid he, ^ that it^s gone with old Shaugh to the other

BLINOR PRBBTOff.

255

world. As I can't welcome her here, I'll give ler a
hearty welcome there, if I'm so lucky as to ineot her.
Tell George to bo a good boy and take care of Elinor—
by the bye ! I had a queer enough dream about him
last night I thought he came in with tlie brass label
of my door in his hand, and another with his own name
on it, and told me we were going into partnership. I
hope there's nothing wrong with the poor fellow. I
don't mind dreams, you know, but somehow I can't
help thinking of this one.' Dear old maii, his end wa«
peaceful and happy, just as iL ought to be, and he lefl
his love and blessing for George and yon. Alfred came
to see him a few days before his de^ th. He is buried
close to your father in Glasnevin, and his i phew, whtt
is supposed to inherit the bulk of his fortune, into xls to
erect a handsome monument over h'm.' Maria kindly
inquired whether there was any chance of my going
home again, but I had now as little desire to go back to
Ireland as though I had neither sister nor brother there.
"I suppose," said I to myself, with a strange feiling of
bitterness, " if I did make up my mind to go home, I
should hear on my arrival, or perhaps before, that I had
neither one nor the other left — death seems to have our
utter extermination in viev' - I will not buoy myself up
with the hope of seeing Alfred or Emily, and it may be
that death will spare thf;m. It is something to know
that I have them f>till in life, and to feel that there are
yet two hearts in this world to share in my feelings, to
mourn and to rejoice with me. I will remain in Canada,

ln^

256

ELINOR PRESTOir.

but not in Montreal — I am sick of city-life, and must
have quiet, at any cost."

Such was the state of my mind when, to my great
and ple«asing surprise, I received a letter from the worthy
Canadian priest who had crossed the river with George
and me on our arrival in Canada. The object of his
lettc^ was to ask whether I could reccomend to him a
young lady capable of teaching both French and English.
He had tried advertising, he said, and had had sundry
applications, but none of the applicants seemed to suit —
some were more or less incompetent and others were so
extravagantly high in their expectations that it was no
use to think of engaging them for a country school in a
remote parish. " True," said he, " the locality is a
pleasant one. We are right on the St. Lawrence in the
midst of a smiling country. We have quite a pretty
little village, too, and a very good church. Our school-
house is passable enough, but what of all this when we
are all quiet country-folks, have no society fit for " highly-
educated young ladies," and worst of all, are full fifty
or sixty miles from your great centre of civilization.
Still I thought that you might be acquainted with some
young lady of very moderate expectations who would
not altogether despise our poor place. It would be easy
lor me to find a French teacher, but many of our vil-
lagers are anxious to have their children learn English,
and our Seigneur's wife pv)sitively insists that the new
teacher must both speak and teach English well, as she
has a family of daughters who must know that langnago
let the r own do as it may. If you can do anything for

XLINOR PRBSTON.

251

me in this matter, my good young friend, )ou wiH
oblige

Your respectful friend and well-wisher,

Le Comte, pretre.
Cure de St.

isy

ril-

Ish,

lew
she

[go
(or

As I read this letter my heart swelled with gratitude,
for in it I recognised the answer to my fervtnt prayer
addre^ssed before her shrine to Our Lady of Bons Se-
cours. " A thousand thanks, most dear mother," I ex-
claimed aloud in the fulness of my heart — to St. .

I will go — there at least may I hope for peace, as far fia
retirement can give it — there will I merge the past in
the present, and in the daily discharge of my humble
duties, endeavour to sanctify my soul in preparation for
the final hour that will restore me to those I have lost.
There, unknowing and unknown, 1 can glide through the
remnant of my life — it may be short, it may bo long,
but it cannot be feverish in a place like that, where the
busy world is shut out, and peace, like the halcyon,
sits and broods forever.

The preliminaries were not hard to arrange, the friendly

reluctance of Lady to let me go being my greatest

obstacle. But even that I managed to surmount, and
as soon as the navigation opened, I went to Su —
with the full determination of making it my permanent
liomc, if such were the will of God,

Four tranquil years have rolled away since I settled

:ik

258

ELINOR PRESTON.

down in this quiet nook, and yet I only begin now to
feel myself at home. It is true I found peace here from
the very first — indeed I could not choose but find it, for
it pcrva(ios the very atmosphere. Stir or bustle of any
kind there is none : even the few store-keepers who sup-
ply the simple necessaries of village life go through their
business in a quiet, mechanical sort of way that seems
strange (at first) to one who has all her life be>en accus-
tomed to the professional alacrity and dapper civility
of first-class metropolitan houses. As for society, 1
might as well have been in the centre of the Great
African Desert — with the single exception of the good
priest and mademoiselle his sister, a lady who calls her-
self thirty, but appears as though she dropt some ten or
fifteen years somewhere in the calculation. She is very
hospitable, however, and very pious, and alas ! very si-
lent — which latter qualification is by no means common
amongst her countrywomen, who will chatter away for
hours together on subjects of little importance to any
but themselves, their tongues rattling on in such a shrill,
voluble way, and with so much rapidity that strangers
find it hard to understand them, at least until they are
accustomed to their peculiar intonation.

For some time, indeed a long time, I felt very lonely
in my new position, utterly isolated as I was amongst
a people with whom I had little in common ; but grad-
ually that feeling woi c away, and I began to relish the
soothing stillness of all around. The very trees were
at first strange to me, and it was not till my second sum-
mer in St. that I could feel satisfied to have my

ELINOR PRESTOK.

259

home shaded with the tamarac, the maple, and the dark
Canadian pine, instead of the familiar oak and ash and
the broad- leaved, graceful sycamore. The birds that
people tk 'ir branches, too, are not the tuneful songsters
of my t>\vn dear native land — they are gay and gaudy
in their plumage, but there is no music in their voice.

no warblings sweet from their throats arise,

Like the wood-notes wild of my native skies."

At early morning or late evening when I walk abroad,
I miss the warble of the linnet and the thrush, and the
musical whistle of the blackbird. Even the " corn-creak '
of the meadows — that most inharmonious of birds — would
be thrice welcome to me ; for the bull-frog who generally
sings out " the parting day " in Canadian lowlands, though
there is certainly some similarity in their tones, cannot
possibly serve as a substitute. But most of all the
winged choristers of the air, I missed and do still miss
the gentle cuckoo, the herald of the spring, whom some
one happily calls ** the hand-maid of the opening year."
Of old we used to vie with each other as to who should
first hear the cuckoo's note, but now 1 hear it not at all
— even that is with the past — one of childhood's sounds,
destined to linger in the darkened heait so long as it has
a pulse.

Be our lot ever so happy in the land of our adoption,
still it can never be to us like the land of our birth,
where the days of our youth lie smiling behind us, in
their spring-time freshness — where every scene around

l' I

260

ELINOR PRE8T0V.

our childhood's home is a precious piature hung up
within that pwture-gallery of the mind, commonly called
memory. Yet other and more tender ties there are to
bind us to our native land :

" The grMB that iprtngs on our fathers' graves,

Full many a thought endears, —
There's a spell in the humblest shrub that wavei

Near the home of our infant years.
Tea, tht simplest leaf doth our fondness share

If its parent bud expanded there.

•* Oh thus ! — tho' far on a foreign strand

My lonely lot is cast ; —
Still, still for thee, my Fatherland I

The pulse of my heart bjiats fast ;
While many a yision, soft and bland,

Bears me back to thy shores, my Fatherland t "*

Soon, however, I became attached to my pretty rural
home. I got an old Canadian woman and her daughter
to keep my little house and the adjoining school-room
in order. As for the cooking, I generally did that my-
self — it was little I required, but even that little I wished
to have done in my own way, and, for the first time in
my life, I got up to my elbows in flour occasionally, to
the great discomfort of old Marie, who insisted thafe her
bread was of prime quality. It might have been, for
all I know, but to my taste it was rather dark in color
and had a habitual tendency to the acid which my palate
could never relish. When I first began my culinary
experiments, the old woman used to get quite ruflled at

• Capt T. G. Smith, 27th Regiment

ELINOR PRESTOir.

261

my obstinate perseverance in what appeared to her, new*
fkngled plans. It was no uncommon thing fur her to
lecture me well and soundly.

"I tell you, Ma'amselie, that's not the way to make
bread ! "

" Well ! never mind, Marie, let us try, at any rate : I
can only spoil it, you know ! "

" Nonsense ! you just know as much about making
bread as that cat by the fire j — it's a sin to spoil good
flour ! "

Great was her surprise, and, indeed, my own, when
my bread turned out not only eatable, but tolerably
good.

With regard to the soup I had still greater difficulty, —
in fact I never could succeed in persuading my old duenna
that beef or mutton made better soup than pork which
she prized in proportion to its depth of fat, for that and
all other purposes. No one can tell her mortification,
when after displaying all her culinary skill in pre-
paring a mess of this kind, with the tempting addition
of red beans, — partly, I suppose, for color, partly for
*lavor, — I left the sole enjoyment of it to herself and
Laure, her pretty daughter. Her muttered comments
on my singularity of taste were anything but compli-
mentary. Poor old body ! she is truly faithful, but re-
quires as much humoring as a petted child. Still, on
the wh(>le, she and I get along well together. Notwith-
standing my fancied inferiority in the culinary art, she
shares the common feeling of the villagers in regard to
my great learning and so forth j and I believe Ma'am

'Ttl

■M

262

XLIHOR PRISTOK.

Longre is i.ot a little proud of being my Grand Vizies.
I am teaching Laure both French and English, permit*
ting her to Uike her place regularly in the school-classes,
and that has won for me the old woman^s heart. It is
true Lnure makes but a poor offer at the English, but
to hear her attempt reading it is both joy and pride to
her mother's simple heart.

My school consists of about fifty girls, some of them
almost " women grown," while others are l)arely able
to toddle along with the help of an older sister's hand.
As I sit in the midst of them, painfully striving to fix
the letters of the alphabet in the minds of some, drilling
the others in the art of spelling, and witnessing on all
sides the cruel torture of my own language, writhing in
the mouths of those to whom it is new, and strange, and
uncouth — sometimes sending one "juvenile " or another
out to the kitchen to wash her hands before she can com-
mence her lesson, I ask myself: " Am I indeed Elinor
Preston ? — have I known life in its higher and more pol-
ished circles ? — was this the aspect which the future wore
when in youthful dreams I saw it?*' What wonder if I
doubt my own identity.

When at twelve o'clock the forenoon school was dis-
missed, and I took my seat at my lonely board, with
one solitary plate and one dish before me, I felt pretty
much as Robinson Crusoe musthave done before his soli-
tude was broken by the company of his man Friday.
As memory glanced over the gay and sparkling reunion$
of former years — the elegantly and plenteously-spread
table to which I had all my life long been accustomed,

ELINOR PRESTON.

263

di»-
with

•ettjr
solU

[day.

iion$

Iread
Led|

and the loved companions who would have made even
poverty cheerful — ah ! the change was very, very strik*
ing, and many a time, during the first month, 1 would
leave my meal untasted, to the grievous disappointment
of poor Marie, and walk abroad in the forest till the
hand-bell, rung by the eldest girl, summoned me back
to my weary post.

Seatcnl once more at my little desk, flanked on one
side with a pile of blotted copy-books and one of slates
on the other, my wayward imagination would soar over
mountain, sea, and river to the busy haunts of men.
Again, the noise of a great city was in my ear, its cries,
its bustle, its confusion : every sound, even to the grind-
ing music of the street-organ — all were there, mingling
oddly enough with the monotonous hum of young voices
near me, as the children prepared their afternoon lessons.
Ever as I wrote the head-lines and set the sums, would
that rcsvless faculty before-mentioned amuse itself with
sketching by-gone scenes, summoning the very dead
from their graves to play their parts over again in the
recesses of my brain. Aunt Kate was there, with her
harmless pride of lineage — how she would have looked
had she seen me at my task ! — my mother, with her
calm, intellectual countenance wearing a pensive smile
— ^my father's hearty, cheerful laugh echoed through the
sorrow-stilled heart — Carry and George were there, in
their life-hues warm and bright; and Alfred and Emily,
with their chastened look of love. There, too, was old
Shaugh, merry and light-hearted as ever — and there, too,
were figures which will hold their place on the world'i

264

KLINOR FRBSTOir.

Stage as long ns history lasts. O'Connell and Sheil, and
honest Tom Steele, and many another public character
passed again before my mind, until I was almost bewil-
dered with the crowd of ghostly phantoms.
" What you call dat word, Ma'amselle ? "
At the s(nmd of the little childish voice, striving hard
to get out so much English, off in a troop went the shad-
owy visitors from the past, yea! even the Liberator
himself — the mighty Atlas who carried all Ireland on
his shoulders — and back I came to the full consciousness
of the present — its dry, unvarying, monotonous details
were all before me, staring me full in the face.

Few are the incidents of these four years. In general,
the days have flown by, "uncounted in their flight,"
bearing such a family likeness to each other that there
was no distinguishing them when they were once past.
Going down to the presbytery to tea. or being driven
over by Mademoiselle Le Comte to the manor-house —
which was, indeed, nothing more than a respectable
farm-house — to spend the evening, these were notable
occurrences, though they took place, perhaps on an aver-
age, once a week. Weddings and christenings were,
after all, the great " foot-marks of time " — for I was, in
this regard, public property, and could no more think of
refusing such an invitation than I would of going by tele-
graph to Montreal. There was no merry-making com-
plete without ma^amselle^ and nothing could exceed the
easy, graceful deference with which the villagers treated
me when among them. Those who have never lived
among the hahitans of Lower Canada can form no idea

FT.TNOR PRE8T0K.

265

}, in
ikof
Itele-
join-
the
lated
ived
idea

of that natural, unsophisticated politeness wh" th distin-
guishes them from all the peasantry I have ever seen.
There is a suavity, even a refinement in their manners,
which makes their society very pleasant.* I soon began,
accordingly, to reckon events from "Ma'am Dubois'
christening," or "Auguste Lacroix's wedding," and it
used to amuse me no little to find myself making up a
calendar out of the domestic history of my neiLdibors.

My rarest enjoyment, however, was in the society of
the good vicar, who alone, of all my present associates,
knew anything whatever of Ireland. True, his knowledge
of that most neglected country was not very extensive,
but he was really anxious to know something more of
it, and the few I^-ish books which I had with me were a
source of real pleasure to him. Having read these over,
the good man began to think himself quite master of the
subject, and it was amusing to hear him floundering
away in the troubled waters of Irish affairs for the
special enlightenment of his friend, Monsieur Garneau,
our Seigneur, whose head was somewhat of the thickest,
and who took about as much interest in the subject as
the pipe he habitually smoked.

" How is it, sir," I one day asked the vicar, " that
even the educated among your people take so little in-
terest in the history of Ireland ? They seem to ignore
my poor country altogether, wholly overlooking the fact

* In the towns and cities this natural refinement is in a great
measure worn off by the rude contact of rowdies and loafers of erery
origin. It is only in the country you will see Jean Bapti^te in hit
normal state; theft and many other city vices being there wholly
vnknowD.

266

ELINOR PREBTOir.

that she is one of the oldest Christian nations — perhapi
the vrry oMcst — of Western Europe, and has more
Christian antiquities to show than any otlier country in
the world for her size. Has she not been fighting the
battle (»f Christianity in peace and in war, since il
was first planted on her soil over fourteen centuries
ago?"

The priest shrugged his shoulders — admitted Ircland^s
claims, but could not account for her l)eing so little
known or tiilked of among his people.

•*Is it because she is unfortunate and reduced in cir-
cumstinccs?" I went on; "if so, the Catholic nations
who nej^lected her shall have their neglect to answer for.
If Ireland be poor and powerless to-day, it is because of
her fidelity to God and His Church ; — bad she yielded
to either threats or persuasions — to torture and per-
secution or wily promises, she would be now and long
ago the petted darling of the British Empire instead of
what she is, — the hardly-used step-child of a Protestant
government — the *Niobe of nations,' as she has been
aptly styled."

Mr. Le Comte smiled at my warmth, but his Catho-
lic heart felt the justice of what I said ; and he applied
himself more than ever to the study of Irish history and
Irish hagiology. It was a real pleasure to me to en-
courage the good pastor in this new pursuit, by verbal
descriptions of such of our ecclesiastical remains as I had
myself seen. He has not yet attained any proficiency
in English conversation — and what is more — I feai he
never will. It is in French, therefore, that I am obliged

E'^^OR PRESTON.

267

j]!

ho-
led
tnd

50-

»al

lad
cy
Ibe
^d

to describe tlic places nave seen ; and n\y ilcst riptions,
though highly interesting .o Monsieur le Cnri:^ ure, I
fear, tircsonie enough to poor " Mii'niselli'," wlio tries
hard to keep up appearances in the way of listening, till
her simple mind is fairly overtasked, and she will put
fciome ludierously -irrelevant question in the nndst of
some highly-colored account of a baronial castle or a
stately abbey. Thus I have known her to raise her
eyes suddenly from her sewing or knitting, after listen-
ing attentively — at least to all appearance — while I told
of the princely chieftains who of old ibught for their
country and their faith, — the O'Neills, perhaps, or
O'Donnells — and ask, with much earnestness, whether I
had noticed that new breed of hens in Madaiue Garncau^a
/arm-yard. Not at all disconcerted by her brother's
hearty laugh, or my subdued smile, the gotjd lady would
go on to descant on the peculiar properties of the new
importation, in a way that would secure her a place in a
Natural History Society, had there been such a thing in
our village.

The calm current of our daily life was but seldom

ruffled by any remarkable incident. Lady had

kindly sent me, a few weeks after my arrival in the vil-
lage, a choice collection of books, containing many ap-
proved Catholic works, together with sundry volumes of
good poetry, a set of Shakspearc, a Douay Bible, and
the Pilgrim's Progress. Poor John Bunyan ! worse even
than thine own Giant Despair would have been to thee
the company of that unholy book on which King Jamie
never smiled — the knowledge of such a freight being

208

XLINOR PRK8T0N.

on bo.irel, would have plunged thoc forthwith in the
Slough of Dt'spond ! Happily John's Pilpri>>'. waa not
80 sonsitivc, — like a staid, sober man, as a pilgs ..i ought
to be, he ki'pt his opinion of the Rhemish fathers to him-
self, and kept the peace with their obnoxious book during
the entire voyage, to the great comfort and edificatior.
of their ungodly travelling companions, Will Shaks-
peare, T(>ni Moore, and divers other mirth-loving and
mirth-moving book-men. Need I say how welcome this
goodly company was to me in my all but solitude, — the
Pilgrim was, of course, an exception. Well for me that
the kind donor never thought of asking what I did with
poor Bunyan. In confidence be it told that I made an
auto da fe of him, having no mind to cumber my shelves
with such Pharisaical rant.

I was sitting one evening in early summer, just within
the open door of my school-room, reading a volume of
Fieury's Ecclesiastical History. I had taken refuge
there from a certain house-cleaning fit which had all day
long kept Mother Longpre and her daughter on the
stretch, and left me not a spot whereon to rest. After
a while the book dropped from my hand, and, dreaming
of the past, I fell into a gentle slumber. Ail at once I
was roused by an approaching footstep, and looking up,
1 perceived a stranger in the act of crossing the thresh-
old, lie was a short, thick-set man, well clothed with
fat, and over that a rusty black suit which must have
originally encased some notable preacher of the word.
A broad neck-tie enveloped his throat, and in its folds
reposi'd a \mv^ Bcshy chin, surmounted by a large, coarso

iLtNOR PRBSTOlf.

200

mouth, which with a pair of full round » yos, pn>^octing
consideniljly from their sockets, gave (piitc u siiisual
cast to the dull countenance, lliere was a l)ii?sl\, busi-
ness air about the nian^s whole figure that contrasted
very oddly with his clerical garments. Nud(lin<; to me
with a *' Fine evening, miss ! " ho passed on to the centre
of the room, and there deposited on the table a bulk/
parcel which he had hitherto carried under his right arm.
lie next proceeded to take off his hat, (wliich 1 observed
was crammed with printed papers,) laid it on the table
beside his parcel, and very leisurely established his own
cumbrous body on u neighboring chair. Tic iIkii hon-
ored me with his attention, and I suppose the man^s as-
surance brought a rush of the old Preston blood to my
face.

" May I ask what it is that brings you here, sir ? " I
at length asked. The visitor answered in tolerably good
English.

" I come on the part of him who sent Paul to preach
to the Gentiles."

" Oh, indeed ! and for what purpose, pray ? "

" To give you that which is beyond all earthly treas-
ure^ — yea, young woman! even the saving knowledge
of the truth which is in Him ! " and he turned up the
whites of his eyes with a very pious air, indeed. I had^
often heard from my old woman and others of the vil-,
lagers how certain religious colporteurs paid them a visit
at times, but never till now had I seen one of the tribe
in his proper person. 1 was rather pleased to see such
a moral curiosity, and in order to draw him out, I very

270

ELINOR PRESTON.

demurely thanked him for his good intentions, where*
upon he was mightily encouraged, and talking a small
Bible from his bundle he presented it to me with a smile
which he meant to be very gracious. But my Gentile
hand was not forthcoming to receive the gift, and the
man of grace opened his eyes very wide indeed.

" Will not my sister receive the word of God, — yea,
even the Book of books ? "

" No, thank you, I have a Bible already — one is quite
sufficient."

He was evidently taken aback, but quickly recovered
himself on a new tack : " Oh ! Ma'amselle has already
seen the light — I thought there was a precious germ of
grace within — within '* he was evidently casting about
for a compliment, " within that—"

My good friend," said I, cutting him very short, " if
you have no other business with me, you will oblige me
by retiring, as /have other matters to attend to."

"Alas ! " he sighed, or rather groaned, *' this is the
business of life — the one thing necessary ! "

" What is, may I ask ? " Wholly unprepared for this
cross-questiuiiing, my pious visitor began to wax what is
vulgarly called fidgety.

" Why, this— the affair of salvation," he hesitated^
"you know we are told to search the Scriptures."

"I know we are," said I, "but not in your sense.
Have you anything more to say 1 "

"Yea, woman, I have. You are proud of your
■worldly knowledge, — but you have not learnt to know
God and his Christ."

ELINOR PRESTON.

271

I I

"if
me

the

snse.
rour

lOW

"Indeed! — I ftin sorry to hear it," I said, beginning
to turn over the leaves of my book — "and pray, when
am I to have my first lesson ? "

He shook liis head with a puzzled air. "Ah, sUter !
you speak as one who has but little relish for the things
of God ! Yuii sit in darkness, and in the shadow of death ! "

"Thank you onee more! — you are really quite flat-
tering. Have you got anything more to say, for I cannot
listen much longer ? "

" You could listen to the priest, that man of Belial,
that trader in human souls. Alas ! poor dupe of priest-
craft and superstition ! — why will you close your ears,
yea, and your heart, against the sweet words of salvation
—why will you turn aside from the living water of the
Hock, and quench your thirst with the muddy water —
the rotten, filthy water offered by an idolatrous priest-
hood ! I once drank of it myself, as my people did be-
fore me, but the good God called me forth from Baby-
Ion, and I answered : * Here I am ; Lord, what wilt thou
of thy servant? * Since then I have walked in pleasiint
pastures, by running waters. I have cast off the bridle
from my understanding, and rejoice that I am a free
man — free in Christ the Lord." I rose suddenly, and
he rose too, but manifested no intention to move.

" Be good enough to walk out, sir ! " said I, holding
the door in my hand, **0i I shall be obliged to call for
aid. And mark me, Mr. , what's your name ? "

" My name is Jacques Larue ! "

"Well ! mark me, Mr. Jacques Larue — an apostate I
presume you arc ! — never, while this house belongs to ros^

I i

. ' :i

272

ELINOR PRSSTOir.

take the libertj of crossing the threshold again.** Tfco
fellow glanced around with a sly, mocking expression of
countenance that was not at all in keeping with his previous
sanctimony. I understood the glance.

"Don't depend on my being alone!" I said, "for if
you ever set foot in here again you may find a recep-
tion that you will not relish."

By this time the children were coming in to the after-
noon school, and my strange visitor was bolting through
the door, leaving his Bible behind, whether intentionally
or not 1, of course, knew not.

" Have the goodness to take that book with you,
friend!" I said, pointing to it; "else I might find it
stated in the next Missionary Record that you had left
it in the hands of the school-teacher of this village, at
her own request, and had great hopes therefrom of her
spiritual regeneration."

Muttering to himself something about Jezabel, and
Popish darkness, ho took up his l)Ook, and passed out
into the street. When once beyond the door, a thought
struck him, and turning back with a face of comical in-
tensity — if one may say so— ho asked : " Ma'amselle,
where did you come from 1 "

"From a country," I answered, "where the like of
you is well known — where the people are all wide awake,
and have their eye on wolves who come in sheep's cloth-
ing. Excuse me, sir, if I am impolite, but you drew it
on yourself in the first place by your most unwarrant-
able intrusion, and again by your scurrilous attack on
my rel'^ion and its ministers,'*

SLIKOR PREBTON.

273

[

That was the first and last visit I received from Mon
sieur Jacques Larue. On going into the house, how-
ever, I found that he had been there before I saw him,
and gave Laure two tracts, one entitled The True Way to
Worship God^ and the other, Virgin Worship^ or Rome
Exposed. The former was in French, the hitter in Eng-
lish, Thankful to receive the gift, and little imagining
what it really was, the girl had laid the tracts on a shelf
till she should find time to read them. Great was her
surprise and that of her mother, when I made her tak«
them pflcr the pedlar, who was still in sight, charging
her, if he refused to tiike them, to tear them in pieces
before his eyes. The latter she really did, wondering
all the time what it meant. When she returned I irave
herself and her mother such an explanation of the pros-
elytfng system — as far as they could understand it—
that I think they will hardly ever open the duor to a
colporteur whether I am out or in.

Next day, when the children came to school, they were
all full of the colporteur. He had visited almost every
house, and many of the girls had a whole budget of
news concerning him. In one house he had called the
priest a liar, and was belabored by the w^' icn with their
broom-handles and other such utensils, for his pains.
In another place he had been caught by the man of the
house urging his doetrine on his bonne femme in a way
80 impressive that it stirred his old Norman blood, and
he despatchi'd the pious interloper with a very iwjpi(»us
kick on a certain unmentionable part of his coifm^
threatening; still morf active measures if he ever sho\vi:'i

ELINOR PRBSTOK.

his face there again. One little girl, with that mi»
chievous Ijlaclt eye so often found among the Canadian
women, (whose beaux yeux are so proudly extolled by
their admiring countrymen,*) had a laughable story to
tell of h«;w she and her three little brotliers had fright-
ened away the pedlar by calling their old dog Loup,
agreeably to their mother's instructions. How he rau
off puffing and blowing ; how he dropt his bundle, and
dare not return for it for fear of Loup. That was tha
height of fun, and seemed to tickle the youngsters might-
ily. This story carried the suflrages of the assembly,
and the merriment to which it gave rise was fast growing
into anarchy, when my bell restored the little folks to
order, and Hermine's story was left standing over for
the mid-day recess. In one or two places it appeared
that Jacques had succeeded in having a talk on religious
subjects, though the story went that he got the worst of
it. Travelling on down the street, he met some boya
playing just in front of the church, and on them Mon-
sieur Jacques made a dead set as I afterwards learned.
The dialogue, it seems, was something in this wise:

*' Young boys, come here ; I wish to tell you some-
thing that you will like to hear."

Boys gathering round, with ears and eyes wide open :
"What is it about 1"

♦ ** Vive la Canadienne, et ses beaux jeuz,
Mt aea beaux yeux tous doux,
fit tea beiuix jcux."

— Chorus of the National Song —

V%v€ la OanaditnM.

ELINOR PRKSTOir.

271

** About the beginning of the world — how God made
all things/'

" Bah ! that's nothing new — dont we know all about
It?"

" No, you don't."

" I tell you we do. And if that's all the story you
have to toll us, we won't listen."

"Well! then, I'll tell you all about the good Saviour
— how he came into the world."

" Yes, yes, he was born in a stable on Christmas night,
and the BKssed Virgin and St. Joseph and the ox and
the ass were with him "

"And his mother wrapped him in swaddling-clothes,"
interrupted another, "and laid him in the manger. Why,
sir, we knov/ it all ; even little Paul there, tha*^'s only
five years old, can tell you all about the Holy Infant
Jesus "

" Yes," suiil the gaffer alluded to, "if you'll come
home with me, I'll show him to you. Mother has him in
a crib, and wo all pray to him every night and moming."

" Well ! well !" said tlie baffled professor of Christian
doctrine, " kt me tell vou how he died on the cros^ to
save sinners." «

Tiiis made the boys iudisrnant: "Is it that we don't
know that 1 — why, even the crucifix tells us that story.
You're a nice man to be calling us from our play to tell
us what we all know."

" Poor children ! " grunted the pitying pedlar, " yoc
are in darkness, and you don't know it. The priest will
not teach you himself, nor let others teaeh you."

276

ELINOR PRESTON.

" That's not truo," said one of the elder boys, manfully ;
" Monsieur le Curi has catechism every Sunday. I think
ke tells us many things that you couldn't tell us. Come
along, boys ! — who has the ball ? "

The pedlar stopt them again, and began searching his
pockets for tracts to give them. " Bah ! where's the use —
most of us can't read — besides, the priest says your books
are not good. You'd better give them to Annette La-
marche ! " This was the- woman who made the pedlar's
shoulders ache on the previous day ; and the sly piece
of irony so disconcerted the devoted Scripture-raonger
that he took himself off without another word.

On the whole, his visit to St. was a dead failure ;

yet I was not at all surprised when Lady sent me

h .umber of the " Missionary Record " soon after, to
ge(» an elaborate account of '* the devoted labors of our
beloved brother, Jacques Lnrue," in the village of S. B.,
(evidently meant for ours,) how he conversed with divers
persons of both sexes, and, he trusted, implanted the
germ of grace in their hearts. He had met with much
opposition, and even some abuse, but rejoiced that ho
was accounted worthy to suffer for Christ's sake, in
niakiiiir TTis n-'imc known to those who knew it not."

I was strongly tempted to write rn account of Larue's

visit for the benefit of Lady and her friends, but

on secoiid consideration I came to the conclusion that it
would be of no earih-y use. How could I make those
see who would not choose to sec ? The Record was, I
knew. Gospel, and my annotations would be worse than
heresy. Still, I could not help wishing that my kind but

ELINOR PRESTCK.

277

iivera
the
luch

it he

[e, ia

Irue's
I, but
hilt it
those
as, I
I than
but

much deceived patroness had been present in my school-
room when I questioned the children on the subject of
Larue's summary expulsion from the "arious houses.
Tlie answer almost invariably was : " Why, Ma'am-
selle, because he spoke bad of the Blessed Virgin.
Mother says it would be a sin to listen to him."

"To be sure it would," said another; "wouldn't our
Lord be very angry with any one that spoke ill of his
Mother ? There's Pierre Larocque gave Jean Brousscau
a good pounding the other day, because he said his
mother was a liar. And doesn't our Lord love his
Mother as well as Pierre loves his ? Yes, and a great
deal better, too, for the Blessed Virgin was far better
than any other mother."

It was a great consolation to me to find the entire
population of the place so thoroughly devoted to our
common patroness, before whose image, in our little
quiet church, so many of my hours were happily spent.
The faith and piety of the people endeared my retire-
ment more and more to my world-corroded heart, and I
daily thanked tliat divine Son who has given us such a
Mother to be our solace in this world of sorrow. Lat-
terly I am more and more drawn to the miraculous
Presence ever abiding in the sanctuary. The pale, flick-
ering light of its solitary lamp is as the star of hope to
my soul, raising it unconsciously above the things f f
this world, and, with it in view, I can gaze unmoved even
on the heaviest sorrows my heart has known. Well for
me thht the joys and loves of earth have relaxed their
hold upon my heart, for I have heard within the past
24

i'i!

4 • ■■•'

278

ELINOR PRE8T0K.

year of Alfred's death. Consumption — my molhcr'i
fatal legacy — blighted his early manhood, and before he
had completed his twenty-fifth year he was called from
this world to enter, I trust, upon the joy of his Lord. A
year or two ago this would have been a severe affliction,
but now I have a sort of melancholy pleasure in th«»
thought that another of our little band is gathered into
the hertv<nily fold. It was Emily who informed me of
Alfred's happy passage to eternity, and I believe I caught
a portion of her sweetly tranquil resignation. She told
xne that our brother had fallen asleep in Christ, and
asked why we should sorrow. lie died as he had lived,
for the last few years, honored and esteemed by his
brethren in religion for those early virtues which had so
soon ripened to their eternal fulness, and clothed in the
habit of an illustrious order specially devoted to our
dear Redeemer. " Why, then," said Emily again,
" should we mourn his early death 1 Let us rather
praise God, my sister, that he obtained grace to fight
the good fight, and trample on the vanities of this world !
— and let us pray that we too may, each in our respec-
tive states, follow his bright example, that, with him and
our loved ones gone before, we may enjoy the eternal
blessedness of the just made perfect." Still, nature had
her rights, and my soflened heart was keenly sensible to
the feeling of increased loneliness. Often did I retire to
a favorite seat under the shade of an old elm by the
churchyard wall, and there, alone with the dead, my
tears flowed freely for the beloved brother who had so
lately joined that shadowy host. Before these natural

ELINOR PBSSTON.

279

and most refreshing tears were dry uj xi my cheek I had
another trial of a most ludicrous kind.

It so happened that for the last twelve months, Mr. Le
Comte having been unable to procure a suitable teacher
for his male school, I had voluntarily taken charge of
all the boys under eight years old, in addition to my
own school. The amount of my daily labor was, of
course, considerably increased, and, in order to get
through with all the lessons, I was, moreover, obliged
to keep the school open an hour longer. This I felt
the more sensibly, as I have for some months past
been much weakened by a distressing pain in my right
side.

One day during school-hours I had a visit from the
priest, who, after his usual kindly chat with the children,
informed mo with a smile that he had at length found a
male teacher in whose competency ho had the utmost
confidence. I said I was very glad to hear it.

*• So you ought. Mademoiselle, since it will lessen your
labor considerably."

" Oh ! I don't so much mind that, sir, as I do the want
of secular instruction on the part of your larger boys,
and the great difficulty of finding a really good teacher.
When does your gentleman commence his school 1 '*

" Him ! — oh ! he is ready any time, if we can only
agree upon the terms ! " he added, with a smile that
rather puzzled me ; but I made no remark, and there the
matter ended.

Next day, just as I had dismissed my noisy little
flock, and was preparing for a quiet stroll in the com-

* ii

380

ELINOR PRESTON.

'i.- .«J

pany of quaint old GeofTrcy Chaucer, my egrtss was
impeded by the sudden apparitic»n of a Wy'ing /ac-sim He
of that venerable individual, as my imagination loves to
portray him^jld almost to decrepitude, yet not de-
crepit, notwithstanding the "shrunk shanks" which
seemed to bend beneath the weight of the body, frail as
that was — a countenance that might be called fresh, when
compared with the rest of the body, and an eye still full
of intelligence, keen and observant. This, with the ap-
propriate finish of some gray elf-locks falling from under
a large, old-fashioned, quaker-like hat, was the picture
that now occupied my doorway. There was no going
out now, I clearly saw, for the visitor was no Icf^ a per-
son than the Seigneur's younger brother, Mr. Edouard,
as the villagers Ciilled him. Uncle Ned ho would have
been in another country.

** Good-evening, Ma*amselle," said the cheerful and
somewhat polished old man j "you were going out, I
perceive."

*' Oh ! that is of no consequence, Mr. Edouard," I said,
"your visit Joes mo honor. Pray be seated." He was
seated accordingly.

" Good-evening, Mother Longpre, " he next said ; " al-
ways busy, I see ! "

"Why, yes, sir; there's nothing to be made of idle-
ness. I'm glad to see you down so far, Mr. Edouard.
How's the rheumatism, sir?"

** Pooh ! pooh ! it's gone long ago — quite gone. I
haven't pain or ache now, thank God ! "

•* Indeed, I'm glad to hear it, sir! — sure enoi.gh, you

ELINOR PRESTON.

281

al-

lie-
rd.

do stand it well for a man of your age. I think iff
growing young you are

f »♦

For some reason or other this compliment had a con-
trary eflect to that projected by the old woman. Mr.
Kdouard took her up very shortly.

" Why to hear yoa, Mother Longpre, one would think
I •• as very old indeed ! "

" Well ! you're not very young, I know for certain,
Mr. Edouard. But I meant no harm, sir, I assure you.
Ma'amselle! Vm going to milk the cow — will you pleaso
to mind that bread in the oven till I come back ? "

The old gentleman v evidently well pleased at her
departure, and fearing, 1 suppose, her too speedy re-
turn, proceeded at once to business.

" Has Monsieur le Cure told you, mademoiselle, that
I am going to take charge of his school ? "

This was really a surprise, and I answered very
quickly : " Why, no, Mr. Edouard — he told me he had
found a first-rate teacher, or something to that effect, but
he did not mention your name. How can you possibly
think of such a thing — with your attainments, and — " I
was going to say " at your time of life," but T had prof-
ited too well by the little dialogue with Ma'am Longpre,
and stopped just in time. " Surely," I said, *' the salary
is no object to you,"

" Not the smallest, my dear young lady, I do assure
you. It is the prospect of doing good, of devoting my
time to children of whom I am so fond, and — " he
paused, coughed slightly, and looked at me. Seeing me,
I suppose, perfectly calm and unconscious, the old fel-

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(716) S73-4S03

■^.leT^

282

ELINOR PRESTON.

low went on, though witli some embarrassment, which,
at the moment, I could by no means understand.

"I am fond of society, Mademoiselle "

" So I have always observed," said I, very much puz-
zled by this remark ; " fortunately, you have so large a
circle within your brother's family that you have no
need to seek society beyond it."

"Ah! you are mistaken, Mademoiselle! — I do not
mean that society — no ! — no ! — I had always heard the
vicar say that you were very lonely here, so far away
from your friends and country, and — and — " he again
hesitated, and this time I felt rather awkward myself —
" in short, you always seemed to relish my company, (so
I had, on account of his quaintly unique character and
appearance,) so I thought we might just make a match
of it, and, living here nicely together, you teach the girls
and I the boys ! " He wheezed out a long breath when
he had thus delivered himself, and seemed much re-
lieved.

I can hardly say whether I was most inclined to laugh
or cry, when I asked myself the question, " Has it come
to this with me 1 " I felt as though the old Adam was
urging me to resent what pride represented as an insult ;
but my sober judgment dictated a more prudent course,
and I burst into a hearty laugh, affecting to treat the
proposal as a joke.

"Well, really, Mr. Edouard," said I, "I never gare
you credit for so much drollery : you act your part to
the very life, and have made a capital joke of it. I am
very glad, however, that neither Ma'am Longpro nor her

ELINOR PRESTON.

283

daughter happened to hear you, for they must really
have thought you quite serious, and that, you know,
would have made you so very ridiculous ! But, indeed,
I owe you many thanks, for I was in a very pensive
mood when you came in, and your droll conceit has
given me such a laugh as will do me good." The old
man's countenance fell, and he looked quite abashed.

" But, mademoiselle," he stammered out, " you are
again mistaken. I don't see anything so very ridicu-
lous "

Luckily I just then heard old Marie's foot on the path
without, and I eagerly interrupted him. " For pity's
sake, not a word more, sir — I would not on any account
that such an absurd idea should get abroad, even in jest.
Be composed, I beg of you, for here comes Mother
Longpre, who has got very sharp eyes of her own."

During the remainder of the visit, I managed so that
Marie never left the room, seeing which, and inferring
from my manner that he had not the ghost of a chance,
the fanciful old dotard soon removed himself from my
presence, to my no small relief; for as long as he stayed
[ felt myself under a very painful restraint.

■VJ

ihe

-P''

284

ELINOR PRESTON.

CHAPTER X,

N the following day, Mr. Le Comte came
to tell me that he had lost his male teacher.
" I need not tell you how or why, Miss
Preston ! " said he, with his calm smile,
" at least I think so. But how to account
for the original plan on Ae part of our
would-be employe — that is the point!"

f"/can easily account for it, sir," said I,
" by means of an old proverb in common
circulation among us at home — *an old
fool's the worst of any.' "
** Good ! " said the priest, " very good, indeed ! I
should be sorry, however, to have you say so before
our poor old friend, for he is really a good man — simple
as a child, and guileless, too."

" I have no doubt of it, sir," I replied, " but I think
at his time of life he ought to mind his prayers and be-
gin to wean himself from the world, instead of indulging
in idle vagaries."

** You are right, my child, quite right," said the good

ELINOR PRESTON.

285

>re
)la

vicar, with a sudden change of manner, fixing his eyes
thoughtfully on the blue water before us ; " when our life
mayy at any moment, and must^ in a few short years,
merge in the shoreless gulf of eternity, why should we,
any of us, as you say, indulge in idle vagaries ? Vanity
of vanities, and all is vanity ! "

One Sunday, about a month after, when the priest
commenced publishing the bans, the first on the list was :
" between Edouard Garneau, son of deceased Rene Gar-
neau, and deceased Angele Thessier, of this parish, on
the one part, and Therese Dumont, daughter of Michel

Jobin and Rose Carron, of the parish of St. on the

other."

So great a sensation did this han produce among the
congregation, that I think there was little attention paid
to the others. Mr. Edouard was decidedly one of the
oldest men in the parish, and might reasonably be the
grandfather of Therese Dumont, who was hardly out of
her teens, and, .noreover, one of the prettiest girls in the
two parishes. For my part, I was amused but not sur-
prised. I saw at a glance that the self-conceited old
bachelor being wofully mortified by the manner of my
refusal as well as the refusal itself, and had made up his
mind to let me see that he could get a wife any day
both younger and prettier than I. As for the girl her-
self, it was a great uprise for her, she being only the
daughter of a very small farmor, who found it hard
enough to make all ends meet, being burdened with a
young and numerous family. So, of course, Therese
and her parents were delighted with the prospect of her

286

ELINOR PRESTON.

marrying into the Garneau family, and it probably
never once occurred to the giddy and light-hearted girl
that she was making a sacrifice. The gain, she thought,
was all hers, the condescension old Edouard's. Happy-
state of insensibility ! may it continue through life — it
may, in such a disposition as that of Therese.

The secret of Mr. Edouard's matrimonial speculations
was only known, however, to the priest and myself. To
the rest of the congregation it was the wonder of the day,
and, to say the truth, Therese's singular good fortune waa
much more talked of than even the astonishing disparity
of years. The burden of the old song was quite lost
sight of, if it were ever heard of in that locality, and
people seemed to think that in defiance of its axiom :
" May and December can " sometimes " agree."

Mr. Le Comte told me next time 1 saw him that he
had earnestly remonstrated with the old man on his
strange project, but all to no purpose — married he would
and should be. He was his own master, he hoped, and
he saw no reason why he should not have a wife as well
as anybody else.

On the Sunday following the marriage, just as I was
leaving my own door, prayer-book in hand, going to
Grand Mass, who should rattle past me in a caleche but
Mr. Edouard and his bride, the latter in the full glory
of her bridal costume, white veil, white ribbons, and
some very whitish shawl. I affected not to notice who
were passing, but the spruce old bridegroom was deter-
mined that I should notice them.

"Good-day, ma'amselle, g*od-day," said he, with a

ELINOR PRESTON.

287

very inimated air, a very patronizing bow, and quite an
exulting smile. 1 could hardly keep from laughing in
his face ; but the pretty bride turned her face full on me,
and it was so bright, so full of the childish vanity attend-
ing on her new position, that I could not bear to laugh
at her old man, lest it might in any degree lessen her
girlish triumph. So I smiled and bowed and returned
the " good-day," with the easiest possible air of good-
humor, and on the caleche rolled to astonish others of
the natives. I rather think, however, that tl>e old gen-
tleman's mortification was not small on finding me take
the matter so coolly, I suppose he thought I should
have been grievously piqued — poor, simple old man !

Somehow the affair reminded me, however, of my
poor Aunt Kate and the practical joke played upon her
and "honest Tom," by the most illustrious of wags — so
many years before. It was the signal for a host of half-
buried recollections to start into sudden life.

" Awake but one, and lo ! what myriads rise! "

As I took my solitary walk that evening by the river's
bank, I involuntarily began to review the leading events
of my past life. They were all before me " in varied
sheen bedight," and as I retraced the several periods
when so many of my friends and acquaintances had dis-
appeared from my view in " the waves of time," leaving
me a stranger and alone on the opposite side of the earth,
I could almost fancy that the past was but a wild,
changeful dream. " No, Elinor Preston ! " said I, with-
in myself, " those pictures from which you at times lift

288

ELINOR PRESTON,

the veil for your private contemplation, they are not—
^oannot be real; you never had a family circle — you
never lived in a world of mirth and gayety — the haunts
of fashion you never knew — the scenes of old renown
and the romantic beauties of distant lands you must
have seen but in dreams — and the living, loving hearts
w^ho made even joy more dear — they, too, were crea-
tures of the imagination. There's no use keeping up
the delusion longer — you never had an Aunt Kate. Yuu
must have had a father and mother — that's plain — but,
bless you ! they weren't what you fancy them at this
distance of time. George, and Alfred, and Carry, and
even Emily, are all visionary personages, just as unreal
to you as the stout old Baron of '41, of whom your
childhood heard so much. Even Shaugh, staunch and
sturdy, and humorous as you represent him to yourself,
was but a puppet like the rest, strutting his little hour
on the dreamy stage of your past life." Amused at this
strange freak of fancy, I yet asked myself, "Is there not
sound philosophy in it after all — what is the past but a
dream to any of us ? " The thought was mournful but
not painful. Mechanically I had taken the path that led
to the churchyard, and, opening the little gate, I walked
in, murmuring to myself those words of Scott :

" Time rolls his ceaseless course ! the face of yore
Who danced our infancy upon their knee,
And told our marvelling boyhood legends hoar
Of their strange ventures, happ'd by land or sea,
How are they blotted from the things that be t

»>

KLIKOE FRS8T0N.

289

^* Here at least and at last is reality ! " I thought, as I
looked around at the little grassy hillocks where

** Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep/'

" If life be as the poet tells us * all but a dream at the
best,' here it is that the dream ends, and how little should
I, for one, care how soon I pass into the world of spirits,
where the kindly hearts that alone bound me to this vale
of tears almost all await me. 1 am calm and tranquil
now, but not happy ;— oh, no ! for the void that we all
feel within us — the craving for some future good — is in
me painfully sensible. I have ceased to dwell upon the
past, and begin to live in the future. I wonder how
Emily feels, or does she in any degree share my feel-
ings. Oh ! if I only had her here, I think I could be
happy — ^but this utter isolation is overwhelming to my
heart, and makes me long for the world beyond the
grave where I may humbly hope to enjoy for ever the
glorious vision of Grod and His saints. May I find among
them all I have lost ! "

Just then I heard the shrill voice of Mother Longpr6
calling me at the gate, which she held . ^fm. " There's
another reality," said I to myself; " no dream could pro-
duce that ! " I went to^ her immediately, and received a
severe reprimand for sitting out under the dew.

" It's a nice place for you, too," said she, " moping
there in the graveyard, and it near dark. If you got a
good fright once for all there it would serve you, I think.
Don't you know very well that the ghosts must be in it

as thick as the grass 1 **
'26

200

ELINOR PRESTOIT.

" I am not afraid of them, Marie ! 1 never injured
any of them, and why should they injure ',ne ? "

'* Well ! I don't say they would injure you, ma'am-
selle, for, with God's help, they all got Christian burial,
and died at peace with the world ; but what of that—
the very sight of a spirit would be enough to kill one."

" I don't know that, Marie ! " I said with a smile ; " I
think there are some spirits in the other world that I
should be very glad to see. And, besides, I don't know
how soon I may be a ghost myself. If I were, would
you be afraid of me ? " I smiled, but not so Mother
Longpre. She moved instinctively a step or two fur-
ther away, and as I eyed her askance I could see even
by the dim twilight that her old wrinkled face changed
color.

" Afraid of you ! " she repeated ; " well ! I can't say
— I don't know but I might — but for God's sake, don't
be jesting about such things."

** I am not jesting, Marie — ^I really intend to die
some day I "

" Well ! mind, if you do walk about when you're
dead, you're not to appear to me. Now sure you won't,
ma'amselle 1 To tell you the truth, I think you are in a
fair way for your long journey, unless you give up this
strange habit of moping about all alone in the evenings.
I declare, you look for all the world like a ghost at this
present moment ! " I did, too, for the love of f\in flash-
ing up within me with a fitful glare, I lengthened my
face to the verj utmost, and slowly turned my eyes to-
wards her, then fixed them on her face with a most ca»

ELINOR PRESTON.

291

»>

die

m're
on't,
in a
this
ngs.
this
ash-
my
to-
ca*

daverous stare. The effect was magical. OKI Marie
took to her heels, muttering " Christ save us ! " a.itl ran
as fast as her trembling limbs could carry her to the
house, where I found Laure funning her with a newspaper
when I went in. I had laughed heartily at the comical
result of my trick — it was but a gesture aflor all — and I
was still laughing when I got in ; but the old woman was
in no laughing humor, and as soon as she could get
breath to speak, she cried out :

" Never do the like of that again, miss ! — don't now —
for mocking's catching! — it's fine fun for the like of you
to frighten old people, and play ghost, and all that, but
I tell you again, death is not to be played with ! Mind
that now ! "

"Why, Marie," I expostulated, "how did / play
ghost? — I only looked at you, and off you scampered
as though there was a whole troop of them after you ! I
wish you had seen her, Laure ! " The daughter laughed,
but the mother was no way disposed for mirth.

" Looked at me, indeed ! " she cried, " but what sort
of a look was it 1 Nobody in the world could tell you
from a real spirit — the Lord save us! "

" You must know, ma*amselle," said Laure, very grave-
ly, " that my poor mother saw a real ghost a little before
we came to you,"

" Is it possible, Laure, — what kind of a ghost was it ? "

"She'll tell you herself, ma'amselle," said Laure,
drawing back behind her mother's chair to indulge in a
low titter, throwing me a significant glance at the same
time.

292

BLINOR PRB8T0H.

" Ah ! you villain," said the mother, laughing herself
at the recollection ; ** that was the funny ghost. It was
a fine summer night, ma^amselle, that it took on to
frighten me, and a fearful looking thing it was, with its
winding-sheet wrapped about it, and everything as deathly
as could be ; but after it had the life and soul frightened
in me, walking up and down before the door, and round
the end of the house, didn't I catch my lady here giving
it a drink of water through the back window, and it
wiping its face as natural as life with a pocket-handker-
chief, however it got such a thing in the grave ! "

" Now, mother, what a shame for you to talk so," and
Laure bent her now blushing face over a pot that was
boiling on the stove ; " what can ma'amselle think ? "

" She may think what she likes," said the old woman,
winking at me ; ** it's a chance if she doesn't hear that
very ghost called to be married siome of these fine Sun-
days to as lively a girl as any in the parish. I hope
Tou'll not dip your head in that boiler, mignonnel —
)r are you looking in it for something you've lost ? "

" I want to see if the beets are done, mother ; I think
they are. Just you come here and take them up, till I
run down to Belair's for some vinegar."

" Take care of that ghost, Laure ! " I whispered, as the
girl passed me; "I suppose it's Edmond ! "

"You can guess well, ma'amselle ! " was the laughing
answer in the same tone, and after a glance at her pretty
dark face in the little hanging mirror, she tripped lightly
away, humming " La Claire Fontaine^

My heart was lighter that evening than I had felt it

ELINOR PRESTON.

293

link
ill 1

the

ling
Jtty
itly

for months long, and as I sat at my work adiT tea I
caught myself singing " The Young May Mdou/' glancing
ever and anon at the fair planet then " beaming " un mo
through the opposite window. It was the gleam of sun-
shine breaking through the darkness of a wintry day,
followed closely by the thunder crash and the drifting
storm.

Next day Mr. Le Comte brought me a letter which
he had found at the post-office for me. It was from Ire-
land — had the Dublin postmark, and the ominous black
seal. It was from the Superior of Cabra Convent, an-
nouncing Emily's death. The blow was, at first, over-
whelming, and covering my face with my hands, I sank
back in my chair in wordless and tearless an<^uisli. Af-
ter waiting a few moments, the good priest btgan to
console me, but to his great surprise I looked at him
with a ghastly smile, and told him he was very kind but
that I needed no consolation.

"I astonish you, father, but it is true — I am glad noto
— now that the pang is passed. The earthly tie is broken,
and my spirit is free to soar upwards to the regions of
eternal day. Oh yes! I am glad — glad that Emily, too,
is gone before me ! "

The priest was evidently at a loss to understand me ;
and seeing me so composed, he soon took his leave,
whereupon I hastened to the church, and, gliding into
my favorite nook, poured forth my soul in prayer. Oh !
the luxury of finding one's self alone at such a moment
in the hushed silence of God's holy house, with only
Him, our Father, Brother, Friend for a witness, sure of

294

BLIKOR PRESTON.

finding in that divine Heart sympathy and consola
tion .

Another year has past away since she vanished from
the stiige of life —

^ " The last o' that bright band."

I have applied myself since then to win the love of the
little flock who are my daily companions ; and I think I
have succeeded. I feel that my " presence " is, to them,
*' a blessing," and that I have power to make them happy.
In my walks around the village they follow or meet
me with little offerings of wild flowers, or some such
simple token — their fathers and mothers have always a
pleasant smile, a nod, or a curtsey for ma^amselle. Even
the very dogs have learned to love me ; they never bark
at me now, as I pass, but wag their tails and fawn on
me, and even their affection is not to be despised. It is,
at least, sincere. True, they have none of them shared
my fortunes — there is no " Old Dog Tray " among them
— -there may be for others, but not for me — yet still I
value the mute caresses of the faithful animals who are
so susceptible of kindness, so grateful, and so honest.

I have reached the grand climacteric of woman's life
— ^nay, I have passed it by a year or two, and the little
hanging mirror begins to warn me that

" Youth and bloom are over."

The features are still youthful, but the buoyancy of spirit
that animated them is fled for ever. I seldom smile
now-a-days, and yet I am aot sad — it is that the 8un«

ELINOR PRESTON.

296

Ire

shine of my heart is utterly faded, never again to beam
in this world.

Old Marie peevishly declares that I do not eat enough
to keep the life in me, and good Ma'amselle Le Comte
has been making me sundry decoctions of herbs. The
priest shakes his head, and tells me very seriously that
I ought to have medical advice, but they are all mis-
taken — I feel neither pain nor ache — what need have I
then of a doctor 1 If it be true that my life be ebbing
fast away, why, what of it ? May I not console myself
with the exquisite words of the old Scottish ballad —
since I have neither Jean nor Jock to exhort to patience
and resignation 1

*' I'm wearin* awa, Jean,
^ Like snaw-wreatbs in thaw, Jean,

I'm wearin' awa

To the land o' the leal.

" There's nae sorrow there, Jean,
There's neither cauld nor care, Jean,
\ The day is aye fair

r the land o' the leaL"

Suppose I were to substitue Nell for Jean, it would just
be the echo of my own heart — thanks, thanks, " Harp
of the North ! " for this sweetly tender lay, " flung down
the fitful breeze " from the hand of some nameless
" child of song " for the solace of many a weary heart
throughout all coming time.

A few more months have glided on, and I believe 1
am nearing that final bourne whence travellers are said
never to return. I have written farewell letters — ^not
sad ones, however — to Maria Dillon, and to my kind

ELINOR PBESTOir.

who is now in Scotland. I have

296

friend Lady —
pointed out to Mr. Le Comte the spot where my grave
is to be made, and I have told him to give my little ef-
fects to Mother Longpre, whose daughter married the
ghost^ as the old woman still calls him, some five or six
months ago. The few valuables which I yet retain our
worthy pastor is to sell for the benefit of my soul.

Reader, I will now bid you farewell. I know not
whether I have been able to interest you in my wayward
fortunes, yet somehow I feel as though we were old ac-
quaintances, and I should like to have lefl a favorable
impression on your mind now that we are about to part
company. You will not, I trust, blame me, because my
story is rather a sad one — the fault, be assured, is not
mine ; none of us would have our lives sombre or cheer,
less if we could possibly help it, and as for me, my na-
ture was once only too sanguine, too hopeful — even to
the last, there was at bottom, a thick stratum (as geolo-
gists would say) of cheerfulnesss — ^I had almost said,
gayety. But circumstances "nipped" my humor "i'
the bud " — ^blighted the fair promise of earlier years, and
wrapped my whole being in mist and cloud. Farewell,
reader, a long farewell !

BUVOR PRB8T0V.

297

:*..

CONCLUSION.

«i»

From the worthy pastor, I had an account of Miss
Preston's happy death — ^how the clouds of which she
spoke had all vanished in the final hour, and given place
to the brightness of faith and hope — how the young
maidens of the village, clad in white, followed their be-
loved teacher to the grave in long procession, chanting
the beautiful Litany of Loretto— how the coffin was
borne by four young men chosen by lot from among the
many who desired the honor — ^how the wreath of white
roses was laid on the coffin, emblematic of the spotless
purity of the early dead, and how, for many days after
the funeral, fresh flowers were strewed on her grave by
the children whom in life she loved so well.

Such was the record of Miss Preston's life traced by
her own hand ; and I know not how it may be with others,
but for me it had a strange charm. The varied scenes
amid which her life flowed on — the striking contrasts in
which it abounded — the mystery which at first overhung
the pages, clearing gradually away before my eyes as I
read, until at length I felt as though I had really known
the Minor Preston, whose " simple story " I had been
perusing. Whether you will thank me for making you

298

XLINOR PRXBTOir.

acquainted with her I am sure I cannot tell, but, in any
case, you will not say the contrary, whatever you may
think — for I know readers in general are very polite and
very courteous — proverbially so, indeed — and my he-
roine^s misfortunes, if nothing else, entitle her to your
respect.

In conclusion, it may be well to mention that old
Mother Longpre has actually been on the look-out ever
since Miss Preston's death. She is now engaged super-
intending the primary education of a chubby little grand-
child, who, under her experienced tuition, will soon be
able to use his legs. She has a wholesome horror of
being out after nightfall, and thinks " poor dear ma'am-
selle " may probably take an occasional airing in the vi-
cinity of her present dwelling. Still she derives a sort
of faint security from her promise not to appear to her :
only for that, she says, God knows how it would be,
for the poor young lady had such odd ways with her at
times, that she must have had something on her mind
and it wouldn't be much wonder if she came wandering
b8€k in search of relief.

This was old Marie's private opinion, but in public
she agreed with all the neighbors that if ma'amselle
wasn't in heaven it was a pity of those she left behind—
a form of encomium common, I believe, to all Catholio
populations, when the recent dead are in question.

■•I

THI XVD.

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J?.