Part 1 (2/2)
The address of certain letters and newspapers to the Lord Viscount Glencore was, however, a testimony beyond dispute; so that nothing remained but to revenge themselves on the unconscious author of their self-deception for the disappointment he gave them. This, it is true, required some ingenuity, for they scarcely ever saw him, nor could they ascertain a single fact of his habits or mode of life.
He never crossed the ”Lough,” as the inlet of the sea, about three miles in width, was called. He as rigidly excluded the peasantry from the grounds of the Castle; and, save an old fisherman, who carried his letter-bag to and fro, and a few laborers in the spring and autumn, none ever invaded the forbidden precincts.
Of course, such privacy paid its accustomed penalty; and many an explanation, of a kind little flattering, was circulated to account for so ungenial an existence. Some alleged that he had committed some heavy crime against the State, and was permitted to pa.s.s his life there, on the condition of perpetual imprisonment; others, that his wife had deserted him, and that in his forlorn condition he had sought out a spot to live and die in, unnoticed and unknown; a few ascribed his solitude to debt; while others were divided in opinion between charges of misanthropy and avarice,--to either of which accusations his lonely and simple life fully exposed him.
In time, however, people grew tired of repeating stories to which no new evidence added any features of interest. They lost the zest for a scandal which ceased to astonish, and ”my lord” was as much forgotten, and his existence as unspoken of, as though the old towers had once again become the home of the owl and the jackdaw.
It was now about eight years since ”the lord” had taken up his abode at the Castle, when one evening, a raw and gusty night of December, the little skiff of the fisherman was seen standing in for sh.o.r.e,--a sight somewhat uncommon, since she always crossed the ”Lough” in time for the morning's mail.
”There's another man aboard, too,” said a bystander from the little group that watched the boat, as she neared the harbor; ”I think it's Mr.
Craggs.”
”You 're right enough, Sam,--it's the Corporal; I know his cap, and the short tail of hair he wears under it. What can bring him at this time of night?”
”He's going to bespeak a quarter of Tim Healey's beef, maybe,” said one, with a grin of malicious drollery.
”Mayhap it's askin' us all to spend the Christmas he'd be,” said another.
”Whisht! or he 'll hear you,” muttered a third; and at the same instant the sail came clattering down, and the boat glided swiftly past, and entered a little natural creek close beneath where they stood.
”Who has got a horse and a jaunting-car?” cried the Corporal, as he jumped on sh.o.r.e. ”I want one for Clifden directly.”
”It's fifteen miles--devil a less,” cried one.
”Fifteen! no, but eighteen! Kiely's bridge is brack down, and you 'll have to go by Gortnamuck.”
”Well, and if he has, can't he take the cut?”
”He can't.”
”Why not? Did n't I go that way last week?”
”Well, and if you did, did n't you lame your baste?”
”'T was n't the cut did it.”
”It was--sure I know better--Billy Moore tould me.”
”Billy's a liar!”
Such and such-like comments and contradictions were very rapidly exchanged, and already the debate was waxing warm, when Mr. Craggs's authoritative voice interposed with--
”Billy Moore be blowed! I want to know if I can have a car and horse?”
”To be sure! why not?--who says you can't?” chimed in a chorus.
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