“And as much as they like?” asked she.
“Yes, as much as they like,” said he, motioning that he would be left in peace and undisturbed.
Loud and full were the utterances of praise that this munificence evoked. “Wasn’t he the real gentleman?” “Wasn’t it the heart’s blood of a good stock?” “Wasn’t it like one of the ‘ould race,’ that could think of an act at once so graceful and so liberal?” “After all, it wasn’t proud he was. It was just a way he had; and ‘poor Shusy, that was gone,’ was the lucky woman to have been his wife.” “To be sure, it was a solitary kind of life she led, and without friends or companions; but she had the best of everything.” Such were the first commentaries. Later on, gratitude cooled down to a quiet rationalism, and they agreed that he was only giving away what was no use to him. “He’ll surely not marry again, and what could he do with cloaks, and shawls, and gowns, that would only be motheaten if he kept them?”
“These two here is linen,” said Molly, with an air of decision, “and I suppose you don’t want to see them.”
A murmur of disapproval ran through the meeting. They wanted to see everything. His Honour’s munificence was not limited. It included all that was once hers; and a very animated discussion ensued as to what constituted personal properties.
“Maybe you’d like the crockery too,” said Molly, indignantly, for she began to feel ashamed of the covetousness.
“Well see everything,” said old Peter Hogan, “and we’ll begin with this.” So saying, he inserted a chisel beneath one of the pine planks, and soon displayed to the company a large chest full of house linen. The articles were neither costly nor remarkable, but they seemed both to the beholders; and sheets, and napkins, and pillow-cases, and tablecloths were all scrutinised closely, and unanimously declared to be perfection.
The crockery and glass were next examined, and even more enthusiastically approved of. Some curious china and some specimens of old Venetian glass, family relics, that ven connoisseurship might have valued, really amazed them, and many an epithet in Irish went round as a cup or a goblet was passed from hand to hand to be admired.
The clothes were the last to be examined, and with all their heightened expectations the reality surpassed what they looked for. Hats, and shawls, and silk gowns, scarfs, and bonnets, and ribbons, soon covered every box and bench around, and covetous eyes sparkled as each longed for some special prize in this vast lottery. “I remember the day she wore that brown silk at chapel,” said one. “That’s the blue tabinet she had on at the christening.” “There’s the elegant, shawl she had on at the fair at Ennis.” “But look at this—isn’t this a real beauty?” cried one, who drew forth a bright dress of yellow satin, which seemed never to have been worn.
“Don’t you think you could pick and choose something to plaze ye, now?” said Molly, who was in reality not a little frightened by all this enthusiasm.
“It is true for you, Molly Ryan,” said Peter. “There’s something for everybody, and since the company trusts it to me to make the division, this is what I do. The crockery and glass for Mr. Rafter, the linen for myself, and the clothes to be divided among the women when we get home.
“So that you’ll take everything,” cried Molly.
“With the blessin’ of Providence ’tis what I mean,” said he; and a full chorus of approving voices closed the speech.
“The master said you were to choose what plazed you—”
“And it’s what we’re doing. We are plazed with everything, ‘and why wouldn’t we?’ Wasn’t she that’s gone our own blood, and didn’t she own them? The pillow she lay on and the cup she dhrunk out of is more to us than their weight in goold.”
Another and fuller murmur approved these sentiments.
“And who is to have this?” cried one of the women, as she drew forth from a small pasteboard box an amber necklace and cross, the one solitary trinket that belonged to her that was gone. If not in itself an object of much value, it was priceless to the eyes that now gazed on it, and each would gladly have relinquished her share to possess it.
“Maybe you’d have the dacency to leave that for his Honour,” said Molly, reprovingly.
Less, perhaps, in accordance with the sentiment than in jealous dread lest another should obtain it, each seemed to concur with this recommendation.
“There’s something in what Molly says,” said old Peter, with the air of a judge delivering a charge. “If his Honour houlds to a thing of the kind, it would be hard to refuse it to him; but if he doesn’t, or if it would only be more grief to be reminding him of what’s gone———Let me finish what I have to say, Molly,” added he, with some irritation, as a sneering laugh from her interrupted his speech.
“There’s an old pair of shoes of hers in the room within. I’ll go for them, and then you’ll have everything,” said she; and she darted an angry glance around, and left the spot.
“I’ll wear this—this is for me!” cried a little girl, taking the amber necklace from the case and putting it on. And, a buzz of Astonishment at the audacity ran around. She was about eleven years of age, but her dark blue eyes and long lashes made her seem older. It was one of those beautiful faces which appear to suggest that with years the delicate loveliness must be lost, so perfect the accordance between the expression and the feature. She had a mass of golden-brown hair, which fell in long curls over a neck of perfect whiteness; but even these traits were less striking than the air of gracefulness that really implied a condition far above that of her rank in life; and, as she stood in the midst to be admired, there was a haughty consciousness of her claim for admiration that was as triumphant in that assembly as ever was the proud assertion of beauty in a court.
“It becomes you well, Kitty O’Hara, and you shall have it, too,” cried old Hogan, who was her grandfather, and whose pride in her took the shape of the boldest aspirations for her future. “Ain’t I right?” cried he, appealing to, those around him. “Look at her, and say if she isn’t a picture!”
With a full burst of assent all broke in at this appeal, and still she stood there unabashed, almost unmoved, indeed, by the admiring looks and enthusiastic words around her.
“Isn’t that the making of a lady, ay, and as elegant a lady as ever stepped?” cried the old man, as his eyes ran over with proud notion. “And as sure as my name is Peter Hogan, it’s diamonds will be round the same neck yet! Yes, my darling, yer ould grandfather won’t be to the fore to see it, but there’s some here that will. Mark the words I’m saying now; lay them up in your hearts, and see if I’m not telling the truth. There she stands before you that’ll raise her family, and make a name for them far and wide.”
While he delivered this boastful speech, the girl turned her eyes from him, a slight flush deepened the colour of her cheek, and a scarcely perceptible eagerness showed itself on the parted lips, but her attitude was unchanged, and a slight nod of the head, in token of assent, was the only notice she took of his words.
“Yes, come in, my dear,” cried Hogan at this moment—“come in, Master Harry; there’s none here but your own kith and kin, and here’s a nice little wife, or a sweetheart, for you.” As he said this, he drew from the doorway, where he lingered, the boy, who now came forward with a shamefaced and reluctant look. “There they stand,” said the old man, as he placed them side by side, “and I defy the world to show me a purtier couple.”
The boy turned a long and steady look at the girl—something for the beauty, and something, too, doubtless, there was for the ornaments that heightened it—and she bore the scrutiny without a shadow of constraint; but there was even more, for, as