A SURPRISE.

From the hour of Mr. Blake’s departure, my life was no longer molested. My declaration, which had evidently, under his auspices, been made the subject of conversation through the country, was at least so far successful, as it permitted me to spend my time in the way I liked best, and without the necessity of maintaining the show of intercourse, when in reality I kept up none, with the neighborhood. While thus, therefore, my life passed on equably and tranquilly, many mouths glided over, and I found myself already a year at home, without it appearing more than a few weeks. Nothing seems so short in retrospect as monotony; the number, the variety, the interest of the events which occupy us, making our hours pass glibly and flowingly, will still suggest to the mind the impressions of a longer period than when the daily routine of our occupations assumes a character of continued uniformity. It seems to be the amende made by hours of weariness and tedium, that, in looking back upon them, they appear to have passed rapidly over. Not that my life, at the period I speak of, was devoid of interest; on the contrary, devoting myself with zeal and earnestness to the new duties of my station, I made myself thoroughly acquainted with the condition of my property, the interest of my tenantry, their prospects, their hopes, their objects. Investigating them as only he can who is the owner of the soil, I endeavored to remedy the ancient vices of the land,—the habits of careless, reckless waste, of indifference for the morrow; and by instilling a feature of prudent foresight into that boundless confidence in the future upon which every Irishman of every rank lives and trusts, I succeeded at last in so far ameliorating their situation, that a walk through my property, instead of presenting—as it at first did—a crowd of eager and anxious supplicants, entreating for abatements in rent, succor for their sick, and sometimes even food itself, showed me now a happy and industrious people, confident in themselves, and firmly relying on their own resources.

Another spring was now opening, and a feeling of calm and tranquil happiness, the result of my successful management of my estate, made my days pass pleasantly along. I was sitting at a late breakfast in my little library; the open window afforded a far and wide prospect of the country, blooming in all the promise of the season, while the drops of the passing shower still lingered upon the grass, and were sparkling like jewels under the bright sunshine. Masses of white and billowy cloud moved swiftly through the air, coloring the broad river with many a shadow as they passed. The birds sang merrily, the trees shook their leaves in concert, and there was that sense of movement in everything on earth and sky which gives to spring its character of lightness and exhilaration. The youth of the year, like the youth of our own existence, is beautiful in the restless activity which marks it. The tender flower that seems to open as we look; the grass that springs before our eyes,—all speak of promise. The changing phases of the sky, like the smiles and tears of infancy, excite without weariness, and while they engage our sympathies, they fatigue not our compassion.

Partly lost in thought as I looked upon the fair and varied scene before me, now turning to the pages of the book upon the breakfast-table, the hours of the morning passed quickly over, and it was already beyond noon. I was startled from my revery by sounds which I could scarcely trust my ears to believe real. I listened again, and thought I could detect them distinctly. It seemed as though some one were rapidly running over the keys of a pianoforte, essaying with the voice to follow the notes, and sometimes striking two or three bold and successive chords; then a merry laugh would follow, and drown all other sounds. “What can it be?” thought I. “There is, to be sure, a pianoforte in the large drawing-room; but then, who would venture upon such a liberty as this? Besides, who is capable of it? There, it can be no inexperienced performer gave that shake; my worthy housekeeper never accomplished that!” So saying, I jumped from the breakfast-table, and set off in the direction of the sound. A small drawing-room and the billiard-room lay between me and the large drawing-room; and as I traversed them, the music grew gradually louder. Conjecturing that, whoever it might be, the performance would cease on my entrance, I listened for a few moments before opening the door. Nothing could be more singular, nothing more strange, than the effect of those unaccustomed sounds in that silent and deserted place. The character of the music, too, contributed not a little to this; rapidly passing from grave to gay, from the melting softness of some plaintive air to the reckless hurry and confusion of an Irish jig, the player seemed, as it were, to run wild through all the floating fancies of his memory; now breaking suddenly off in the saddest cadence of a song, the notes would change into some quaint, old-fashioned crone, in which the singer seemed so much at home, and gave the queer drollery of the words that expression of archness so eminently the character of certain Irish airs. “But what the deuce is this?” said I, as, rattling over the keys with a flowing but brilliant finger, she,—for it was unquestionably a woman,—with a clear and sweet voice, broken by laughter, began to sing the words of Mr. Bodkin’s song, “The Man for Galway.” When she had finished the last verse, her hand strayed, as it were, carelessly across the instrument, while she herself gave way to a free burst of merriment; and then, suddenly resuming the air, she chanted forth the following words, with a spirit and effect I can convey no idea of:—

“You’re not the man for Galway!” repeated she once more, while she closed the piano with a loud bang.

“And why not, my dear, why not the man for Galway?” said I, as, bursting open the door, I sprang into the room.

“Oh, it’s you, is it?—at last! So I’ve unearthed you, have I?”

With these words she burst into an immoderate fit of laughter; leaving me, who intended to be the party giving the surprise, amazed, confused, and speechless, in the middle of the floor.

That my reader may sympathize a little in my distresses, let me present him with the tableau before me. Seated upon the piano-stool was a young-lady of at most eighteen years: her face, had it not been for its expression of exuberant drollery and malicious fun, would have been downright beautiful; her eyes, of the deepest blue, and shaded by long lashes, instead of indulging the character of pensive and thoughtful beauty for which Nature destined them, sparkled with a most animated brightness; her nose, which, rather short, was still beautifully proportioned, gave, with her well-curled upper lip, a look of sauciness to the features quite bewitching; her hair—that brilliant auburn we see in a Carlo Dolci—fell in wild and massive curls upon her shoulders. Her costume was a dark-green riding-habit, not of the newest in its fashion, and displaying more than one rent in its careless folds; her hat, whip, and gloves lay on the floor beside her, and her whole attitude and bearing indicated the most perfect ease and carelessness.

“So you are caught—taken alive!” said she, as she pressed her hands upon her sides in a fresh burst of laughter.

“By Jove! this is a surprise indeed!” said I. “And, pray, into whose fair hands have I fallen a captive?” recovering myself a little, and assuming a half air of gallantry.

“So you don’t know me, don’t you?”

“Upon my life I do not!”

“How good! Why, I’m Baby Blake.”

“Baby Blake?” said I, thinking that a rather strange appellation for one whose well-developed proportions betokened nothing of infancy,—“Baby Blake?”

“To be sure; your cousin Baby.”

“Indeed!” said I, springing forward. “Let me embrace my relative.” Accepting my proffered salutation with the most exemplary coolness, she said:—

“Get a chair, now, and let’s have a talk together.”

“Why the devil do they call you Baby?” said I, still puzzled by this palpable misnomer.

“Because I am the youngest, and I was always the baby,” replied she, adjusting her ringlets with a most rural coquetry. “Now tell me something. Why do you live shut up here like a madman, and not come near us at Gurt-na-Morra?”

“Oh, that’s a long story, Baby. But, since we are asking questions, how did you get in here?”

“Just through the window, my dear; and I’ve torn my habit, as you see.”

So saying, she exhibited a rent of about two feet long, thrusting through it a very pretty foot and ankle at the same time.

“As my inhospitable customs have cost you a habit, you must let me make you a present of one.”

“No, will you though? That’s a good fellow. Lord! I told them I knew you weren’t a miser; that you were only odd, that’s all.”

“And how did you come over, Baby?”

“Just cantered over with little Paddy Byrne. I made him take all the walls and ditches we met, and they’re scraping the mud off him ever since. I’m glad I made you laugh, Charley; they say you are so sad. Dear me, how thirsty I am! Have you any beer?”

“To be sure, Baby. But wouldn’t you like some luncheon?”

“Of all things. Well, this is fun!” said she, as taking my arm, I led her from the drawing-room. “They don’t know where I’m gone,—not one of them; and I’ve a great mind not to tell them, if you wouldn’t blab.”

“Would it be quite proper?”

“Proper!” cried she, imitating my voice. “I like that! as if I was going to run away with you! Dear me, what a pretty house, and what nice pictures! Who is the old fellow up there in the armor?”

“That’s Sir Hildebrand O’Malley,” said I, with some pride in recognizing an ancestor of the thirteenth century.

“And the other old fright with the wig, and his hands stuck in his pockets?”

“My grandfather, Baby.”

“Lord, how ugly he is! Why, Charley, he hasn’t the look of you. One would think, too, he was angry at us. Ay, old gentleman, you don’t like to see me leaning on Cousin Charley’s arm! That must be the luncheon; I’m sure I hear knives and forks rattling there.”

The old butler’s astonishment was not inferior to my own a few minutes before, when I entered the dining-room with my fair cousin upon my arm. As I drew a chair towards the table, a thought struck me that possibly it might only be a due attention to my fair guest if I invited the housekeeper, Mrs. Magra, to favor us with her presence; and accordingly, in an undertone, so as not to be overheard by old Simon, I said,—

“Perhaps, Baby, you’d like to have Mrs. Magra to keep us company?”

“Who’s she?” was the brief answer.

“The housekeeper; a very respectable old matron.”

“Is she funny?”

“Funny! not a bit.”

“Oh, then, never mind her. What made you think of her?”

“Why, I thought, perhaps you’d think—That is people might say—In fact I was doing a little bit proper on your account.”

“Oh, that was it, was it? Thank you for nothing, my dear; Baby Blake can take care of herself. And now just help me to that wing there. Do you know, Cousin Charley, I think you’re an old quiz, and not half as good a fellow as you used to be?”

“Come, come, Baby, don’t be in such a hurry to pronounce upon me. Let us take a glass of wine. Fill Miss Blake’s glass, Simon.”

“Well, you may be better when one comes to know you. I detest sherry. No, never mind, I’ll take it, as it’s here. Charley, I’ll not compliment you upon your ham; they don’t know how to save them here. I’ll give you such a receipt when you come over to see us. But will you come? That’s the question.”

“How can you ask me! Don’t you think I’ll return your visit?”

“Oh, hang your ceremony! Come and see us, like a good-natured fellow that knew us since we played together and quarrelled over our toys on the grass. Is that your sword up there? Did you hear that noise? That was thunder: there it comes. Look at that!”

As she spoke, a darkness like night overspread the landscape; the waves of the river became greatly agitated, and the rain, descending in torrents, beat with tremendous force against the windows; clap after clap of thunder followed; the lightning flashed fearfully through the gloom; and the wind, growing every moment stronger, drove the rain with redoubled violence against the glass. For a while we amused ourselves with watching the effects of the storm without: the poor laborers flying from their work; the dripping figures seeking shelter beneath the trees; the barques; the very loaded carts themselves,—all interested Miss Baby, whose eye roved from the shore to the Shannon, recognizing with a practised eye every house upon its banks, and every barque that rocked and pitched beneath the gale.

“Well, this is pleasant to look out at,” said she, at length, and after the storm had lasted for above an hour, without evincing any show of abatement; “but what’s to become of me?”

Now that was the very question I had been asking myself for the last twenty minutes without ever being able to find the answer.

“Eh, Charley, what’s to become of me?”

“Oh, never fear; one thing’s quite certain, you cannot leave this in such weather. The river is certainly impassable by this time at the ford, and to go by the road is out of the question; it is fully twelve miles. I have it, Baby; you, as I’ve said before, can’t leave this, but I can. Now, I’ll go over to Gurt-na-Morra, and return in the morning to bring you back; it will be fine by that time.”

“Well, I like your notion. You’ll leave me all alone here to drink tea, I suppose, with your friend Mrs. Magra. A pleasant evening I’d have of it; not a bit—”

“Well, Baby, don’t be cross; I only meant this arrangement really for your sake. I needn’t tell you how very much I’d prefer doing the honors of my poor house in person.”

“Oh, I see what you mean,—more propers. Well, well, I’ve a great deal to learn; but look, I think its growing lighter.”

“No, far from it; it’s only that gray mass along the horizon that always bodes continual rain.”

As the prospect without had little cheering to look upon, we sat down beside the fire and chatted away, forgetting very soon in a hundred mutual recollections and inquiries, the rain and the wind, the thunder and the hurricane. Now and then, as some louder crash would resound above our heads, for a moment we would turn to the window, and comment upon the dreadful weather; but the next, we had forgotten all about it, and were deep in our confabulations.

As for my fair cousin, who at first was full of contrivances to pass the time,—such as the piano, a game at backgammon, chicken hazard, battledoor,—she at last became mightily interested in some of my soldiering adventures, and it was six o’clock ere we again thought that some final measure must be adopted for restoring Baby to her friends, or at least, guarding against the consequences her simple and guileless nature might have involved her in.

Mike was called into the conference, and at his suggestion, it was decided that we should have out the phaeton, and that I should myself drive Miss Blake home; a plan which offered no other difficulties than this one,—namely, that of above thirty horses in my stables, I had not a single pair which had ever been harnessed.

This, so far from proving the obstacle I deemed it, seemed, on the contrary, to overwhelm Baby with delight.

“Let’s have them. Come, Charley, this will be rare fun; we couldn’t have a team of four, could we?”

“Six, if you like it, my dear coz—only who’s to hold them? They’re young thorough-breds,—most of them never backed; some not bitted. In fact, I know nothing of my stable. I say, Mike, is there anything fit to take out?”

“Yes, sir; there’s Miss Wildespin, she’s in training, to be sure; but we can’t help that; and the brown colt they call, ‘Billy the Bolter,’—they’re the likeliest we have; without your honor would take the two chestnuts we took up last week; they’re raal devils to go; and if the tackle will hold them, they’ll bring you to Mr. Blake’s door in forty minutes.”

“I vote for the chestnuts,” said Baby, slapping her boot with her horsewhip.

“I move an amendment in favor of Miss Wildespin,” said I, doubtfully.

“He’ll never do for Galway,” sang Baby, laying her whip on my shoulder with no tender hand; “yet you used to cross the country in good style when you were here before.”

“And might do so again, Baby.”

“Ah, no; that vile dragoon seat, with your long stirrup, and your heel dropped, and your elbow this way, and your head that! How could you ever screw your horse up to his fence, lifting him along as you came up through the heavy ground, and with a stroke of your hand sending him pop over, with his hind-legs well under him?” Here she burst into a fit of laughter at my look of amazement, as with voice, gesture, and look she actually dramatized the scene she described.

By the time that I had costumed my fair friend in my dragoon cloak and a foraging cap, with a gold band around it, which was the extent of muffling my establishment could muster, a distant noise without apprised us that the phaeton was approaching. Certainly, the mode in which that equipage came up to the door might have inspired sentiments of fear in any heart less steeled against danger than my fair cousin’s. The two blood chestnuts (for it was those Mike harnessed, having a groom’s dislike to take a racer out of training) were surrounded by about twenty people: some at their heads; some patting them on the flanks; some spoking the wheels; and a few, the more cautious of the party, standing at a respectable distance and offering advice. The mode of progression was simply a spring, a plunge, a rear, a lounge, and a kick; and considering it was the first time they ever performed together, nothing could be more uniform than their display. Sometimes the pole would be seen to point straight upward, like a lightning conductor, while the infuriated animals appeared sparring with their fore-legs at an imaginary enemy. Sometimes, like the pictures in a school-book on mythology, they would seem in the act of diving, while with their hind-legs they dashed the splash-board into fragments behind them,—their eyes flashing fire, their nostrils distended, their flanks heaving, and every limb trembling with passion and excitement.

“That’s what I call a rare turn-out,” said Baby, who enjoyed the proceeding amazingly.

“Yes; but remember,” said I, “we’re not to have all these running footmen the whole way.”

“I like that near-sider with the white fetlock.”

“You’re right, Miss,” said Mike, who entered at the moment, and felt quite gratified at the criticism,—“you’re right, Miss; it’s himself can do it.”

“Come, Baby, are you ready?”

“All right, sir,” said she, touching her cap knowingly with her forefinger.

“Will the tackle hold, Mike?” said I.

“We’ll take this with us, at any rate,” pointing, as he spoke, to a considerable coil of rope, a hammer, and a basket of nails, he carried on his arm. “It’s the break harness we have, and it ought to be strong enough; but sure if the thunder comes on again, they’d smash a chain cable.”

“Now, Charley,” cried Baby, “keep their heads straight; for when they go that way, they mean going.”

“Well, Baby, let’s start; but pray remember one thing,—if I’m not as agreeable on the journey as I ought to be, if I don’t say as many pretty things to my pretty coz, it’s because these confounded beasts will give me as much as I can do.”

“Oh, yes, look after the cattle, and take another time for squeezing my hand. I say, Charley, you’d like to smoke, now, wouldn’t you? If so, don’t mind me.”

“A thousand thanks for thinking of it; but I’ll not commit such a trespass on good breeding.”

When we reached the door, the prospect looked dark and dismal enough. The rain had almost ceased, but masses of black clouds were hurrying across the sky, and the low rumbling noise of a gathering storm crept along the ground. Our panting equipage, with its two mounted grooms behind,—for to provide against all accident, Mike ordered two such to follow us,—stood in waiting. Miss Blake’s horse, held by the smallest imaginable bit of boyhood, bringing up the rear.

“Look at Paddy Byrne’s face,” said Baby, directing my attention to the little individual in question.

Now, small as the aforesaid face was, it contrived, within its limits, to exhibit an expression of unqualified fear. I had no time, however, to give a second look, when I jumped into the phaeton and seized the reins. Mike sprang up behind at a look from me, and without speaking a word, the stablemen and helpers flew right and left. The chestnuts, seeing all free before them, made one tremendous plunge, carrying the fore-carriage clear off the ground, and straining every nut, bolt, screw, and strap about us with the effort.

“They’re off now,” cried Mickey.

“Yes, they are off now,” said Baby. “Keep them going.”

Nothing could be easier to follow than this advice; and in fact so little merit had I in obeying it, that I never spoke a word. Down the avenue we went, at the speed of lightning, the stones and the water from the late rain flying and splashing about us. In one series of plunges, agreeably diversified by a strong bang upon the splash-board, we reached the gate. Before I had time to utter a prayer for our safety, we were through and fairly upon the high road.

“Musha, but the master’s mad!” cried the old dame of the gate-lodge; “he wasn’t out of this gate for a year and a half, and look now—”

The rest was lost in the clear ringing laugh of Baby, who clapped her hands in ecstasy and delight.

“What a spanking pair they are! I suppose you wouldn’t let me get my hand on them?” said she, making a gesture as if to take the reins.

“Heaven forbid, my dear!” said I; “they’ve nearly pulled my wrists off already.”

Our road, like many in the west of Ireland, lay through a level tract of bog; deep ditches, half filled with water, on either side of us, but, fortunately, neither hill nor valley for several miles.

“There’s the mail,” said Baby, pointing to a dark speck at a long distance off.

Ere many minutes elapsed, our stretching gallop, for such had our pace sobered into, brought us up with it, and as we flew by, at top speed, Baby jumped to her feet, and turning a waggish look at our beaten rivals, burst out into a fit of triumphant laughter.

Mike was correct as to time; in some few seconds less than forty minutes we turned into the avenue of Gurt-na-Morra. Tearing along like the very moment of their starting, the hot and fiery animals galloped up the approach, and at length came to a stop in a deep ploughed field, into which, fortunately for us, Mr. Blake, animated less by the picturesque than the profitable, had converted his green lawn. This check, however, was less owing to my agency than to that of my servants; for dismounting in haste, they flew to the horses’ heads, and with ready tact, and before I had helped my cousin to the ground, succeeded in unharnessing them from the carriage, and led them, blown and panting, covered with foam, and splashed with mud, into the space before the door.

By this time we were joined by the whole Blake family, who poured forth in astonishment at our strange and sudden appearance. Explanation on my part was unnecessary, for Baby, with a volubility quite her own, gave the whole recital in less than three minutes. From the moment of her advent to her departure, they had it all; and while she mingled her ridicule at my surprise, her praise of my luncheon, her jests at my prudence, the whole family joined heartily in her mirth, while they welcomed, with most unequivocal warmth, my first visit to Gurt-na-Morra.

I confess it was with no slight gratification I remarked that Baby’s visit was as much a matter of surprise to them as to me. Believing her to have gone to visit at Portumna Castle, they felt no uneasiness at her absence; so that, in her descent upon me, she was really only guided by her own wilful fancy, and that total absence of all consciousness of wrong which makes a truly innocent girl the hardiest of all God’s creatures. I was reassured by this feeling, and satisfied that, whatever the intentions of the elder members of the Blake family, Baby was, at least, no participator in their plots or sharer in their intrigues.