"She'd be axing the ladies to go home wid her and cook it for her after giving it her," said another.

"Who says it war guv' me?" said the angry mother. "Didn't I buy it, here at this counter, with Mike's own hard-'arned money? and it's chaiting us they are. Give me back my money." And she looked at Clara as though she meant to attack her across the counter.

"Mr. Fitzgerald is going to put up a mill of his own, and then the corn will be better ground," said Emmeline Fitzgerald, deprecating the woman's wrath.

"Put up a mill!" said the woman, still in scorn. "Are you going to give me back my money; or food that my poor bairns can ate?"

This individual little difficulty was ended by a donation to the angry woman of another lot of meal, in taking away which she was careful not to leave behind her the mess which she had brought in her handkerchief. But she expressed no thanks on being so treated.

The hardest burden which had to be borne by those who exerted themselves at this period was the ingrat.i.tude of the poor for whom they worked;--or rather I should say thanklessness. To call them ungrateful would imply too deep a reproach, for their convictions were that they were being ill used by the upper cla.s.ses. When they received bad meal which they could not cook, and even in their extreme hunger could hardly eat half-cooked; when they were desired to leave their cabins and gardens, and flock into the wretched barracks which were prepared for them; when they saw their children wasting away under a suddenly altered system of diet, it would have been unreasonable to expect that they should have been grateful.

Grateful for what? Had they not at any rate a right to claim life, to demand food that should keep them and their young ones alive? But not the less was it a hard task for delicate women to work hard, and to feel that all their work was unappreciated by those whom they so thoroughly commiserated, whose sufferings they were so anxious to relieve.

It was almost dark before they left Berryhill, and then they had to go out of their way to pick up Aunt Letty at Mr. Townsend's house.

"Don't go in whatever you do, girls," said Herbert; "we should never get away."

"Indeed we won't unpack ourselves again before we get home; will we, Clara?"

"Oh, I hope not. I'm very nice now, and so warm. But, Mr. Fitzgerald, is not Mrs. Townsend very queer?"

"Very queer indeed. But you mustn't say a word about her before Aunt Letty. They are sworn brothers-in-arms."

"I won't of course. But, Mr. Fitzgerald, she's very good, is she not?"

"Yes, in her way. Only it's a pity she's so prejudiced."

"You mean about religion?"

"I mean about everything. If she wears a bonnet on her head, she'll think you very wicked because you wear a hat."

"Will she? what a very funny woman! But, Mr. Fitzgerald, I shan't give up my hat, let her say what she will."

"I should rather think not."

"And Mr. Townsend? we know him a little; he's very good too, isn't he?"

"Do you mean me to answer you truly, or to answer you according to the good-natured idea of never saying any ill of one's neighbour?"

"Oh, both; if you can."

"Oh both; must I? Well, then, I think him good as a man, but bad as a clergyman."

"But I thought he worked so very hard as a clergyman?"

"So he does. But if he works evil rather than good, you can't call him a good clergyman. Mind, you would have my opinion; and if I talk treason and heterodoxy and infidelity and papistry, you must only take it for what it's worth."

"I'm sure you won't talk infidelity."

"Nor yet treason; and then, moreover, Mr. Townsend would be so much better a clergyman, to my way of thinking, if he would sometimes brush his hair, and occasionally put on a clean surplice. But, remember, not a word of all this to Aunt Letty."

"Oh dear, no; of course not."

Mr. Townsend did come out of the house on the little sweep before the door to help Miss Letty up on the car, though it was dark and piercingly cold.

"Well, young ladies, and won't you come in now and warm yourselves?"

They all of course deprecated any such idea, and declared that they were already much too late.

"Richard, mind you take care going down Ballydahan Hill," said the parson, giving a not unnecessary caution to the servant. "I came up it just now, and it was one sheet of ice."

"Now, Richard, do be careful," said Miss Letty.

"Never fear, miss," said Richard.

"We'll take care of you," said Herbert. "You're not frightened, Lady Clara, are you?"

"Oh, no," said Clara; and so they started.

It was quite dark and very cold, and there was a sharp hard frost.

But the lamps of the car were lighted, and the horse seemed to be on his mettle, for he did his work well. Ballydahan Hill was not above a mile from the glebe, and descending that, Richard, by his young master's orders, got down from his seat and went to the animal's head. Herbert also himself got off, and led his horse down the hill.

At first the girls were a little inclined to be frightened, and Miss Letty found herself obliged to remind them that they couldn't melt the frost by screaming. But they all got safely down, and were soon chattering as fast as though they were already safe in the drawing-room of Castle Richmond.

They went on without any accident, till they reached a turn in the road, about two miles from home; and there, all in a moment, quite suddenly, when n.o.body was thinking about the frost or the danger, down came the poor horse on his side, his feet having gone quite from under him, and a dreadful cracking sound of broken timber gave notice that a shaft was smashed. A shaft at least was smashed; if only no other harm was done!

It can hardly be that Herbert Fitzgerald cared more for such a stranger as Lady Clara Desmond than he did for his own sisters and aunt; but nevertheless, it was to Lady Clara's a.s.sistance that he first betook himself. Perhaps he had seen, or fancied that he saw, that she had fallen with the greatest violence.

"Speak, speak," said he, as he jumped from his horse close to her side. "Are you hurt? do speak to me." And going down on his knees on the hard ground, he essayed to lift her in his arms.

"Oh dear, oh dear!" said she. "No; I am not hurt; at least I think not--only just my arm a very little. Where is Emmeline? Is Emmeline hurt?"

"No," said Emmeline, picking herself up. "But, oh dear, dear, I've lost my m.u.f.f, and I've spoiled my hat! Where are Mary and Aunt Letty?"

After some considerable confusion it was found that nothing was much damaged except the car, one shaft of which was broken altogether in two. Lady Clara's arm was bruised and rather sore, but the three other ladies had altogether escaped. The quant.i.ty of clothes that had been wrapped round them had no doubt enabled them to fall softly.

"And what about the horse, Richard?" asked young Fitzgerald.

"He didn't come upon his knees at all at all, Master Herbert," said Richard, scrutinizing the animal's legs with the car lamp in his hand. "I don't think he's a taste the worse. But the car, Master Herbert, is clane smashed."

Such being found to be undoubtedly the fact, there was nothing for it but that the ladies should walk home. Herbert again forgot that the age of his aunt imperatively demanded all the a.s.sistance that he could lend her, and with many lamentations that fortune and the frost should have used her so cruelly, he gave his arm to Clara.

"But do think of Miss Fitzgerald," said Clara, speaking gently into his ear.

"Who? oh, my aunt. Aunt Letty never cares for anybody's arm; she always prefers walking alone."

"Fie, Mr. Fitzgerald, fie! It is impossible to believe such an a.s.sertion as that." And yet Clara did seem to believe it; for she took his proffered arm without further objection.

It was half-past seven when they reached the hall door, and at that time they had all forgotten the misfortune of the car in the fun of the dark frosty walk home. Herbert had found a boy to lead his horse, and Richard was of course left with the ruins in the road.

"And how's your arm now?" asked Herbert, tenderly, as they entered in under the porch.