Only an Irish Girl. Duchess
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Название: Only an Irish Girl
Автор: Duchess
Издательство: Public Domain
Жанр: Зарубежная классика
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As he stands there in his well-worn shooting-coat, although he is dressed little better than one of his own keepers, no one could mistake him for other than a gentleman. He is a handsome man, with keen hazel eyes set far back under brows as dark as a Spaniard's, but his face, for all its comeliness, is almost forbidding in its sternness.
Turning off the road now, he makes his way across a field and down some rude stone steps to the bank of the river.
A little house stands here, nestling against the rocky bank. The old door hangs off its hinges, the one small-paned window is stuffed with rags.
Power Magill stoops as he enters the poor place, and his eyes, dazzled by the sunlight outside, look round the room in a vain search. He can see no one; a girl rises from a low stool by the hearth, where she has been coaxing a smoldering turf to light, and comes forward.
"Is your father in, Patsy?"
"He is not, your honor. He went to Derry to-day with one of Neil's foals, and he will not be home till the morning!"
"And your brother – where is he?"
"I can't rightly say, your honor! Maybe he is gone to the bog to – "
But he stops her, frowning impatiently.
"Tell them both that I came here for them. Say no more than that – they will understand."
Then he strikes out, glad to breathe the fresh air after that tainted atmosphere. The girl walks cautiously to the door and looks after him. She is barefooted, and on the earth floor her tread makes no sound.
"Heaven forgive yez!" she says almost fiercely. "The innocent creatures never hurt man nor beast till yez came with your foine tongue and your yellow guineas, tempting and ruining 'em! But I'll be even with yez yet!"
From this fetid little cabin on the river's side a brisk walk of ten minutes brings Power Magill to the gates of Donaghmore. As he passes up the drive he stops and turns aside for an instant to look at the ruins of the old Abbey, standing grim and cold and gray in the yellow sunshine.
The refectory is still standing, its three windows looking toward the stone house on the hill. There is a low arched gateway, but the gate is gone, and beyond in the great quadrangle the stones lie as they have fallen.
"What asses we are, the best of us!" Power Magill says grimly, as he looks at this relic of a dead man's wealth and power.
The old abbot – buried, so say the traditions of the family, under the ruins of the pile that he reared with such pride and vainglory – never lived to enjoy his riches. Twice he built the house, and twice it was destroyed; the first time partially, and by fire, the second time utterly. "For," so the story goes, "a wind rose in the night, and swept the great stones one from another, leaving the place as it is to this day." No Blake has ever been bold enough to rebuild it.
As Power Magill passes into the quadrangle, an owl flies out of the ivy, and sweeps so close before his face that he draws back, startled. The bird's cry is caught up and echoed round the empty spaces, till it seems as if the place must be full of mocking spirits. With a frown he turns and retraces his steps, never pausing to look back till he has gained the steps on Donaghmore. A dark cloud has obscured the sun, and the whole pile lies in the shadow.
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