“Has he a large property?”
Nugent shook his head, and the corners of his mouth sank slightly as he answered, “Over head and ears in debt; his estate in England is mortgaged to the last acre, and he’s trying hard to sell off Shurraghnick, his place here in Tipperary, but that’s not altogether for difficulties; he don’t relish the notion of living in this county or having anything to say to the tenants down there. A man has no business in these parts unless he has a good stock of devil-me-carism in his composition; he must be born to it as it were. Poor Sir Percy doesn’t much fancy riding out in Tipperary, especially with Sir Denis, for he’s as good as a marked man now-a-days, all about those Cappamoyne lands that he’s wanting to take in as part of the demesne.”
“But that could not affect the safety of Sir Percy!” said I.
“Oh, it could. Sometimes people get killed in mistake, you know. Supposing a shot was fired at Sir Denis, it might chance to take a wrong aim. There have been instances of that in Tipperary. Watch Sir Percy now, and you’ll see he’ll keep close to Miss Barnett all day if he can, he won’t meddle with her brother at all. Ha! ha!”
And Nugent laughed heartily. His own uncle, be it known, had been shot some five years previously. He certainly appeared gifted with a happy amount of devil-may-carism. As to our handsome host, he seemed devoid of all anxiety upon any subject: he talked pleasantly all the way, pointing out every bit of scenery worth looking at with evident pride in his strange wild county.
“Sir Percy is deeply in debt to Barnett as well as to many another, you see,” continued Nugent; “and so he comes over to Knockgriffin now and then to keep friends with him. It’s always there he stays when he comes to Tipperary; though I daresay he won’t fancy the place long, since Barnett is beginning to quarrel with his tenants.”
“Was there not some idea of Miss Barnett marrying Sir Percy?” I asked, while my heart grew icy.
“A rumour merely, from his intimacy at the house. It’s my belief Barnett would not like him for a brother-in-law at all, though he may tolerate him as a guest.”
“But surely the lady herself is the best judge of her own choice in the matter,” said I.
“Oh, of course; but I don’t see much love on her part for him. She’s a good catch, that same Louisa Barnett. Thirty thousand pounds—every penny of it, and a lovely girl besides.”
Here I could not refrain from sighing almost audibly. I detested the thoughts of the thirty thousand pounds; yet there was something encouraging in Nugent’s statement concerning Stedmole’s difficulties and involments.
“Miss Barnett might barter her fortune for the baronetcy,” resumed my loquacious companion; “but otherwise I wouldn’t say she’d accept Sir Percy. He’s a fine-looking fellow enough; but somehow I think she’d prefer an Irishman to him. She’s terribly patriotic, as you’ll find out.”
My heart grew still more icy as I asked—
“And is there any Irishman in particular that you think Miss Barnett has a preference for?”
“Oh, not one at present. She has refused several offers already; but I think, from what she says, she will never marry an Englishman.”
“I should imagine she would not throw herself away on any Tipperary man,” thought I as I recalled her conversation of the previous evening. “It is bad enough for her to have a brother in danger of his life every hour, with out running the risk of suffering a like anxiety about a husband.”
Our ride was a long one, and took us through a wildly-picturesque part of the county. Southwards we obtained fine views of several ranges of mountains, and, as we approached the Galtees, beheld some bold and commanding scenery. Upon reaching the remarkable caves in these mountains two guides were procured for our benefit, with the necessary accompaniments of candles and lucifers.
“I do not suppose that such of us as have scrambled through these caverns need repeat the feat,” said Sir Percy, as we were preparing to enter a narrow sloping passage, three or four feet high and upwards of thirty in length, which presented a most dismal aspect, and terminated in a vertical precipice, to be descended by a ladder about sixteen feet in depth. The sight of this dull limestone lane was certainly not very promising, though it opened at length into one of the most splendid and wonderful caves in the world.
Stedmole had settled it that only Sir Denis and Morley should accompany me through the mountain hollows, when, probably to his chagrin, Miss Barnett declared her intention of making one of the explorers also, saying that there was a particular point of the cavern that she had never yet penetrated to.
“You can walk about with Mr. Nugent and Captain St. John,” she said to Sir Percy, “while we are encountering the fatigues of our subterranean journey,” and she took her brother’s arm as we followed the guides to the entrance of the foremost cave.
After considerable difficulty we managed to