THE FURLOUGH.

ON a cold dark evening in November, a drizzling rain pattering outside, there sat within a cabin, in the west of Ireland, two persons, before a blazing turf fire. They were of different sexes, but apparently of the same age; both advanced in life. The woman occupied a low stool, the favourite seat of the female peasantry of that country; the man had assumed (as befitted his masculine dignity) a more elevated position. The house in which they sat was one of more respectable appearance than those usually inhabited by the Irish lower order. It was lofty, had a good chimney, a clean dresser, on which were ranged several well-scoured noggins, plates, mugs, even a tea-pot, cups and saucers, a churn, and milk-vessels; large pieces of bacon hung from the rafters; a flax-wheel, and another for spinning wool, stood on each side of the dresser; and the floor carefully swept, although an earthen one, was dry and comfortable. Yet the cheerfulness usually found in Irish habitations was not here. They sat silent-the woman seemingly watching the potatoes boiling; the man, with his eyes directed eagerly towards the cabin-door, which, like most Irish doors, in the province of Connaught more especially, stood open-fitting type of the hearts of their occupants, ever open to welcome the houseless stranger. Although his countenance was characterised by habitual thoughtfulness, and, at the time of his introduction to the reader, by deep anxiety, it was mild, and even sweet, in its expression. The features were small and delicate; the forehead fair and broad, scarcely bearing a trace of the sixty winters which had changed his brown curling locks into the silver cluster that now fell on his neck, reaching nearly to the shoulders. In his appearance he furnished a singular contrast with that of his companion. She was more than usually tall, and her spare figure, had almost athletic proportions. Her features were regular; but the expression which in youth had been commanding, had become by time deepened into sternness, and in her large dark hollow eye there lurked a something, that none who caught its occasional flash would venture intentionally to call into action-fierce concentrated passion slept there. Her hair, once black, was now confined under a kercher, leaving her harsh, sharp-cut features unsoftened and unrelieved.

"I wonder why Tim and Peggy isn't come back," the old man observed.

"They'll come back soon enough," said his companion, surlily.

"Never too soon, at any rate, can the childer return to the father and mother's hearth."

"It's my opinion, them that brings bad news always crosses the threshold time enough," she rejoined.

"That's thrue, Grania; but whyn'd we suppose they'll bring bad

news ?"

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It's our luck of late-does any thing thrive wid uz ?”

"There's one friend, at any rate, can set all right whenever he plases," the husband replied, after a pause.

"

Who's that?" she asked hastily.

"The friend who has brought us out of many a throuble." "Can't you say at onct who you mane ?"

"The good God, Grania asthore-who else could I mane ?"

She looked up at him with a scoffing expression in her dark countenance. "So that's the great friend that'll pay the rint for us?"

He made no immediate reply; his head sank on his breast, but at length he raised it, and fixing his eye steadily but not sternly on her, said in a low firm voice, "Grania-I've often had it in my mind to spake to you, but the children was by, and it wasn't fit they should hear the father fauting the mother. Grania! I don't like, and what's far worse, God don't like the way you're goin' on this many a day." "What way is that ?" asked she, imperiously.

"Whisht! whisht !" he said, in a tone of quiet authority. "Listen to me, Grania. You may die this night, or I may, or many a thing may happen, so that maybe the two of uz might never again be sittin' together the way we are now; so mind what I say, as if 'twas on my death-bed I was spakin' to you; some turrible misfortin' or throuble will come across you, if you go on talkin' the way you do, and livin' the way you do." She made a gesture of impatience. "It's thrue," he continued, "and you know it. 'Tisn't months, but years, since you have enthered the chapel doors-not to talk of confessin"."

"Sure, what's the good of havin' a vatheen* for a husband, if he wouldn't spare one that much throuble?" she retorted, with a sneer. "And what's worse still," he proceeded, without noticing her interruption, "one 'ud think sometimes, to hear you goin' on, you didn't b'lieve in a God, good or bad-so one would."

"And suppose I didn't—what harum?"

"God forgive you," he cried, crossing himself devoutly; "God forgive and mend you, Grania," he added, emphatically.

"Amin," she replied, with a laugh.

"Many's the throuble I've had in this world, and many's the throuble I've now, as you know; but if every four-footed baste belongin' to me was carted, and the bed undher me thrown out in the door,-ay, an' if the daughther was brought to shame, an' the son to the gallows --it wouldn't be so bitther to me as to see you, Grania M'Donough, the woman you are!"

"That sounds quare enough, Darby, that you'd be betther plased the childer ud go headlong to the dickens entirely, so the wife wint reg'lar to mass-quare enough, to my thinkin'."

if

"I would then, for this rason: a great temptation might come across a crathure, that he'd fall into sin, and maybe might be brought to sorrow and shame in this world, but 'twould end here anyhow; he repinted, whatsomever he done out of the way, the great God, glory be to his holy name, would forgive him; but them who doesn't b'lieve in a God at all, Grania, what hope is there of the likes of them ?"

Well, bad as I am, I done nothin' out of the way yet."

* A devotee.

"You didn't rob or murdher yet ?"

"Nor won't plase God," she replied carelessly. "It's a wondher you never seen my fauts," she added, "whin the hair was black and the skin white: I never was handy at the prayers, and wasn't fondher them days than now of throublin' the priest-and that you knew well enough, Darby-why didn't you lave me where you found me ?"

A retort rose to the husband's lips, but he forbore; and they both relapsed into their former silence; of which we will avail ourselves to inform the reader of a few particulars respecting the couple just introduced to him.

Some five-and-twenty years ago, Grania M'Donough was a singularly handsome girl, and had many admirers; amongst others, Darby Kane. But beautiful as she was, Darby never thought of taking her to wife. Her bold reckless manner, and evident ambition of attracting the eye of those above her own degree, must naturally have displeased a man of Darby's character, which was even at that time grave and reflecting. But besides, there was in the style itself of Grania's bearing something not altogether to his taste. It inspired fear rather than love; and he shrank from the fierce brightness of her eyes as from the scorching rays of the noonday sun. Yet still he gazed, and fancied himself all the while bewitched-not guessing the real bewitchment-Grania's coquettish arts of captivation.

Mr. B, Darby's foster-brother and Grania's cousin, (a lefthanded one,) was particularly anxious for the match; but, for the first time in his life, Kane turned a deaf ear to "the masther's advice." Darby was prudent, but he was a man, and a young one to boot; and Grania being very handsome, and very forward, succeeded at last in her object, and became Mrs. Kane. There were people who said (but never within Grania's hearing) that Darby's marriage was one of honour; nay, some went a step farther, and said that Darby had been duped; but the latter part of the story was whispered only to those supposed to possess priestly capability of keeping a secret.

Darby did not find himself by any means happier than he had expected, as the husband of Grania. She was violent in her temper, discontented with her lot: there was a restlessness in her gestures and countenance, as if not at ease or peace with herself; generally cold in her manner-at other times capriciously fondling. He early observed, with pain, his wife's inattention to the duties of her religion; but his admonitions were received, if in bad humour, with a frown, which made him recoil-if in good humour, with a smile so brightly that he thought, "afther all, maybe, he was too perticklar, and the religion would come in time, plase God." But years passed on, and the religion did not come.

"The masther" died. Darby lamented him with the depth and intensity of an Irish fosterer, but his grief partook of the gentleness and piety of his character. Grania's, on the contrary, was wild, passionate, fierce-unlike the sorrow of her sex or nation. No tear fell while she was laying out the body; nor did a prayer rise to her lips while sitting for two days and nights at the head of the bed—the post of honour. Neither during all this time did she taste food or refreshment of any kind. Her clear wild note was heard above the rest

in the loud cry which accompanied the remains to the churchyard, and, in the distraction of her grief, was flinging herself into the open grave, when arrested by her scarcely less afflicted, though more tranquil husband, who bore her away in a state of insensibility. For weeks afterwards she continued in moody sorrow; and on each anniversary of his death Grania might be seen-not weeping, not praying, but in that bitterness of soul which finds no vent in demonstration— lying prostrate, in silent agony, on the ground that concealed him.

The master's death affected Darby and his wife in a pecuniary way. Mr. B—, having left no children, was succeeded by distant connexion, with whom he had lived, as is usual in Ireland, and perhaps elsewhere, on not the most friendly terms. Darby was supposed, by his present landlord, to have fomented the misunderstanding between him and his late relative, and he consequently became an object of his dislike. Until then Darby had lived rent-free, and had received occasional gifts of a horse or a cow. Moreover, Mr. Bhad promised to leave him, in his will, the annuity of ten pounds a year which he then enjoyed; and to do something handsome for Owen, the eldest boy, when he should be grown up. But having died suddenly, Mr. B- -'s kind intentions in behalf of his favourite tenants had remained intentions only. A high rent was now fixed upon the ground; all "favour and protection withdrawn;" and the Kanes had to begin the world, as it were, and at the same time to struggle with poverty, and with habits of ease and indulgence. But Darby was conscientious-Grania energetic: he exerted himself from a sense of duty-she from pride.

They shall never have to say," she would mutter, "that they got the betther of uz, and turned his fostherers on the world wide; they shall never have that to toss up to him in his grave. The poor mane set, that wasn't worthy to lick the thrack of his foot, let alone to stand in his shoes this day. Avoch! that I should live to see it !”

*

Mrs. Kane's breakfast of "dhry tay' had long been a subject of as much pride to her, as envy to her neighbours. Many a one might get a bowl of tay from a big house; but to have tay to put dhry in the pot," was honour and glory that fell to the lot of scarcely another in "the counthry;" that is to say, the village and its environs. Grania, however, gave up at once this long-possessed and deeply-valued distinction, as an indulgence her means could not then afford.

She had scarcely recovered from the loss of her "darlin' masther," when Owen, her eldest and favourite child, 'listed. To her other children she was cold, harsh, imperious. Slapped for doing the mischief which they were left to tumble into unheeded, she seldom or ever bestowed on them a word or look of fondness; whilst upon "Owneen" was lavished every epithet of Irish endearment, at the same time there was a deference mingled with her caresses, that seemed strange in their relative position.

"But isn't he worthy of it?" she would say; her stern eye softening into all a mother's tenderness, as she wound her fingers through * A gentleman's house.

May 1838.-VOL. XXII.—NO. LXXXV.

D

the glossy curls of her fondled and fondling Owneen, and gazed into his bright laughing eyes. My delight you are-my hope-my

glory-ma murneen bawn.” *

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He was, in truth, a beautiful creature, and had, as Darby boasted, "a mighty grate air of quality, howsomever he come by it." When about fifteen years of age he lost his patron; and Owen, " a scholar" and aspirant "for a place," was too proud and genteel to handle a spade. So one day, in a fit of despair, or something else more frequent in his compatriots, about two years afterwards he enlisted in a dragoon regiment, under orders for India.

According to her own phrase, " Grania was never the same woman afther." Her occasional flashes of good humour or good spirits now disappeared; she became silent, gloomy ;-each year deepening as well the shade of her strongly-marked physiognomy, as of her countenance. Careless of religion in youth, she became, in advanced life, a scoffer. At first the indications of her incredulity were slight, and, except to a watchful observer like Darby, might not have been apparent; but latterly, her daring questionings of God's providence, nay, of his very existence, were so frequent, he could no longer remain in doubt that the mother of his children was "no betther than a haythen." How much this discovery must have shocked him, will easily be imagined by those acquainted with the devout temperament of the Irish people; for however immoral and criminal they may occasionally be in practice, they are in profession true believers. They break a commandment now and then, to be sure, but they adore God all the while; on the same principle that they rob and love an indulgent landlord.

Grania had ever been to her neighbours an object of secret fear, which, in their intercourse with her, was flatteringly modified into respect. Her neglect of all the customary forms of religion had been shocking enough, but the sneer of incredulity with which she now met allusions to another world, and to God's superintending care of this, inspired them with horror, as of one fairy-struck-for surely no Christian would look or talk the way she did. "And yet," the gossips would say, "I remember the time when Grania M'Donough was as fine and lauchy† a girl as you'd wish to see.” "But that was before she was so much at the big house," another would add, with a mysterious shake of the head; "after that she grew grave, and got mighty fond of walkin' alone with hersel' in lonesome places-one time breakin' her heart laughin' wid ye; more times pickin' the eyes o' ye for lookin' at her. You may be sure, 'twas then the good people stole her away." The want of tenderness to her children furnished an additional proof of her being "something quare;" nor did her affection for Owneen serve as counter-evidence, for "who could tell but 'twas a fairy child he was?" The gossip who first hazarded this conjecture was not bound to recollect, or remind her audience, that Owneen had neither the appearance nor disposition usually ascribed to the Elfin race.

Grania felt her influence, conjectured its source, and despised the ignorance and feeble-mindedness of those around her. However, she My fair-haired darling. † Lively.

+ Fairies.