The Black Baronet; or, The Chronicles Of Ballytrain. William Carleton

are put into my own apartment? Get a fire into my sitting-room and bedchamber. Let my bed be well aired; and see that everything is done cleanly and comfortably, will you?”

      “Sartinly, sir, an' I hope we won't lave you much to complain of. As for the sheets, wait till you try them. The wild myrtles of Drumgau, beyant the demesne 'isliout, is foulded in them; an' if the smell of them won't make you think yourself in Paradise, 'tisn't my fault.”

      The stranger, on looking at her somewhat more closely, saw that she was an exceedingly neat, tight, clean-looking young woman, fair and youthful.

      “Have you been long in the capacity of waiter, here.” he asked.

      “No, sir,” she replied; “about six months.”

      “Do you never keep male waiters in this establishment,” he inquired.

      “Oh, yes, sir; Paudeen Gair and I generally act week about. This is my week, sir, an' he's at the plough.”

      “And where have you been at service before you came here, my good girl?”

      “In Sir Thomas Gourlay's, sir.”

      The stranger could not prevent himself from starting.

      “In Sir Thomas Gourlay's!” he exclaimed. “And pray in what capacity were you there?”

      “I was own maid to Miss Gourlay, sir.”

      “To Miss Gourlay! and how did you come to leave your situation with her?”

      “When I find you have a right to ask, sir,” she replied, “I will tell you; but not till then.”

      “I stand reproved, my good girl,” he said; “I have indeed no right to enter into such inquiries; but I trust I have for those that are more to the purpose. What have you for dinner?”

      “Fish, flesh, and fowl, sir,” she replied, with a peculiar smile, “and a fine fat buck from the deer-park.”

      “Well, now,” said he, “that really promises well—indeed it is more than I expected—you had no quarrel, I hope, at parting? I beg your pardon—a fat buck, you say. Come, I will have a slice of that.”

      “Very well, sir,” she replied; “what else would you wish?”

      “To know, my dear, whether Sir Thomas is as severe upon her as—ahem!—anything at all you like—I'm not particular—only don't forget a slice of the buck, out of the haunch, my dear; and, whisper, as you and I are likely to become better acquainted—all in a civil way, of course—here is a trifle of earnest, as a proof that, if you be attentive, I shall not be ungenerous.”

      “I don't know,” she replied, shaking her head, and hesitating; “you're a sly-looking gentleman—and, if I thought that you had any—”

      “Design, you would say,” he replied; “no—none, at any rate, that is improper; it is offered in a spirit of good-will and honor, and in such you may fairly accept of it. So,” he added, as he dropped the money into her hand, “Sir Thomas insisted that you should go? Hem!—hem!”

      The girl started in her turn, and exclaimed, with a good deal of surprise:

      “Sir Thomas insisted! How did you come to know that, sir? I tould you no such thing.”

      “Certainly, my dear, you—a—a—hem—did you not say something to that effect? Perhaps, however,” he added, apprehensive lest he might have alarmed, or rather excited her suspicions—“perhaps I was mistaken. I only imagined, I suppose, that you said something to that effect; but it does not matter—I have no intimacy with the Gourlays, I assure you—I think that is what you call them—and none at all with Sir Thomas—is not that his name? Goodby now; I shall take a walk through the town—how is this you name it? Ballytrain, I think—and return at five, when I trust you will have dinner ready.”

      He then put on his hat, and sauntered out, apparently to view the town and its environs, fully satisfied that, in consequence of his having left it when a boy, and of the changes which time and travel had wrought in his appearance, no living individual there could possibly recognize him.

CHAPTER II. The Town and its Inhabitants.

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      The town itself contained about six thousand inhabitants, had a church, a chapel, a meeting-house, and also a place of worship for those who belonged to the Methodist connection, It was nearly half a mile long, lay nearly due north and south, and ran up an elevation or slight hill, and down again on the other side, where it tapered away into a string of cabins. It is scarcely necessary to say that it contained a main street, three or four with less pretensions, together with a tribe of those vile alleys which consist of a double row of beggarly cabins, or huts, facing each other, and lying so closely, that a tall man might almost stand with a foot on the threshold of each, or if in the middle, that is half-way between them, he might, were he so inclined, and without moving to either side, shake hands with the inhabitants on his right and left. To the left, as you went up from the north, and nearly adjoining the cathedral church, which faced you, stood a bishop's palace, behind which lay a magnificent demesne. At that time, it is but just to say that the chimneys of this princely residence were never smokeless, nor its saloons silent and deserted as they are now, and have been for years. No, the din of industry was then incessant in and about the offices of that palace, and the song of many a light heart and happy spirit rang sweetly in the valleys, on the plains and hills, and over the meadows of that beautiful demesne, with its noble deer-park stretching up to the heathy hills behind it. Many a time, when a school-boy, have we mounted the demesne wall in question, and contemplated its meadows, waving under the sunny breeze, together with the long strings of happy mowers, the harmonious swing of whose scythes, associated with the cheerful noise of their whetting, caused the very heart within us to kindle with such a sense of pure and early enjoyment as does yet, and ever will, constitute a portion of our best and happiest recollections.

      At the period of which we write it mattered little whether the prelate who possessed it resided at home or not. If he did not, his family generally did; but, at all events, during their absence, or during their residence, constant employment was given, every working-day in the year, to at least one hundred happy and contented poor from a neighboring and dependent village, every one of whom was of the Roman Catholic creed.

      I have stood, not long ago, upon a beautiful elevation in that demesne, and, on looking around me, I saw nothing but a deserted and gloomy country. The happy village was gone—razed to the very foundations—the demesne was a solitude—the songs of the reapers and mowers had vanished, as it were, into the recesses of memory, and the magnificent palace, dull and lonely, lay as if it were situated in some land of the dead, where human voice or footstep had not been heard for years.

      The stranger, who had gone out to view the town, found, during that survey, little of this absence of employment, and its consequent destitution, to disturb him. Many things, it is true, both in the town and suburbs, were liable to objection.

      Abundance there was; but, in too many instances, he could see, at a glance, that it was accompanied by unclean and slovenly habits, and that the processes of husbandry and tillage were disfigured by old usages, that were not only painful to contemplate, but disgraceful to civilization.

      The stranger was proceeding down the town, when he came in contact with a ragged, dissipated-looking young man, who had, however, about him the evidences of having seen better days. The latter touched his hat to him, and observed, “You seem to be examining our town, sir?”

      “Pray, what is your name?” inquired the stranger, without seeming to notice the question.

      “Why, for the present, sir,” he replied, “I beg to insinuate that I am rather under a cloud; and, if you have no objection, would prefer to remain anonymous, or to preserve