chiselled features, while her air and figure possessed that native dignity which is so common among the Limerick and Tipperary women.
“For God’s sake, Sir Denis, think what you’re about,” she said, as she followed us for a little way from the door of her father’s house; “it’s not only for our sakes, but for your own. There’s upwards of forty people here at Cappamoyne, and who knows which of them would be ready to do an evil turn any day? Oh, for the love of Heaven, and the blessed Virgin, do what you can to prevent bloodshed, and disorder, and, maybe, hanging in the front of Clonmel gaol before the summer’s out!”
Barnett tried to joke and laugh her out of her distress, but in vain. She wrung her hands; and the tears gathered in her large, lustrous eyes as she continued her prayers.
“Can’t the English gentleman there put in a word for us?” she asked at length, appealing for my intercession. “Oh, sir, tell Sir Denis he may have cause to repent driving out so many poor tenants from their houses; and Miss Louisa, maybe, will have many a long year of bitter grief to spend for the work of a few days!”
I was quite unable to say anything in reply to this address; and after a time Barnett and I hurried onwards, coming out once more upon the less uncivilised portions of the estate. It was impossible for me, of course, to surmise correctly how this unhappy business of ejectment would turn out. I was sorely concerned for my friend, though I could not help admiring the courage with which he determined to persevere in doing what seemed to him right and proper. I could only hope sincerely that he might be safe on the continent before steps might be taken to sacrifice him to the wild spirit of revenge that had for so many years characterised the lawless peasantry of Tipperary.
CHAPTER VI. THE FIRST THREATENING LETTER.
Miss Barnett received her brother and me with cheeks flushed, still from nervous excitement, when we returned from our morning walk, and narrated what had been done and said during our visit to Cappamoyne.
“They are determined to fight it out to the last moment,” observed Sir Denis, as we sat down to luncheon; “but they will find that I am not to be trifled with.”
“Ay, or maybe you’ll find out that they won’t be trifled with,” said Nugent, gruffly. “Dreadful people these Tipperary ruffians!” ejaculated Sir Percy Stedmole.
“Were you not afraid of becoming a marked man, Captain Stapleton, by appearing with my brother on his dangerous rounds to-day?” asked Miss Barnett, looking at me with a smile in her eye.
“Not at all; I should like, however, to be such a hero as Sir Denis. I was playing a very passive part in the morning’s proceedings—risking nothing, and of course with nothing to fear.”
“Don’t be so sure of that,” growled Nugent. “You know I told you Barnett was dangerous company. Many a man’s shot in the wrong place in these parts, Captain. I knew two or three myself that got the bullets intended for their friends.”
“You had better take care of me, Stapleton,” said Barnett, smiling. “In future I must expect to be shunned, like the plague, by all my former acquaintances.”
“And the deuce pity you,” observed Mr. Nugent, politely.
“You evidently think us all very cowardly, Barnett,” said Sir Percy, languidly.
“Oh, not all perhaps,” resumed Sir Denis, quietly. And then there was a silence of some minutes.
We did not go out anywhere again that day. Barnett was occupied with business matters, and closeted for a long time with his vulgar, round-headed, little agent, Mr. Timothy Doheny, whose position at the present crisis was certainly not a very enviable one; yet he did not seem to mind it in the least. Habit has decidedly a vast deal to say to courage; and if women were not cooped up by our social customs in the way they are at present, I have a pretty firm persuasion that the greater part of them would turn out quite as brave under trying circumstances as our so-called superior sex. The wonder is, that they are not turned idiots completely by the system pursued in their education, training, and social condition. Miss Barnett was one of the few women I was ever acquainted with who had the gift of thinking and acting independently, and this was probably owing to her having a fortune that raised her above the petty necessities of the larger portion of her fellow-women. The possession of wealth, and the consciousness of being removed from the dismal alternative of sacrificing herself for a disagreeable matrimonial alliance in order to become rich—or sinking into poverty and semi-starvation as a portionless single woman—gave her a dignity that was very charming. She never seemed setting herself out to gain admiration: but when it was accorded she received it quietly, as a thing of course. We, men, often fancy ourselves very captivating, when alas! all the feeling that we inspire in the fair creatures who seem at our feet, is the desire of sharing our position and our purse. Witness, for instance, how hard it