He started to his feet as he spoke, and bending over the corpse, with hands clasped above his head, he poured forth a whole torrent of words in Irish, swaying his body backwards and forwards, as his voice, becoming broken by emotion, now sank into a whisper, or broke into a discordant shout. 'Shaun, Shaun!' cried he, as, stooping down to the ground; he snatched up the little crucifix and held it before the dead man's face; at the same time he shook him violently by the shoulder, and cried, in accents I can never forget, some words aloud, among which alone I could recognise one word, 'Thea'—the Irish word for God. He shook the man till his head rocked heavily from side to side, and the blood oozed from the opening wound, and stained the ragged covering of the bed.
At this instant the priest stopped suddenly, and fell upon his knees, while with a low, faint sigh he who seemed dead lifted his eyes and looked around him; his hands grasped the sides of the bed, and, with a strength that seemed supernatural, he raised himself to a sitting posture. His lips were parted and moved, but without a sound, and his filmy eyes turned slowly in their sockets from one object to another, till at length they fell upon the little crucifix that had dropped from the priest's hand upon the bed. In an instant the corpse-like features seemed inspired with life; a gleam of brightness shot from his eyes; the head nodded forward a couple of times, and I thought I heard a discordant, broken sound issue from the open mouth; but a moment after the head dropped upon the chest, and the hands relaxed, and he fell back with a crash, never to move more.
Overcome with horror, I staggered to the door and sank upon a little bench in front of the cabin. The cool air of the night soon brought me to myself, and while in my confused state I wondered if the whole might not be some dreadful dream, my eyes once more fell upon the figure of the woman, who still knelt in the attitude we had first seen her. Her hands were clasped before her, and from time to time her wild cry rose into the air and woke the echoes of that silent valley. A faint moonlight lay in broken patches around her, and mingled its beams with the red glare of the little candles within, as their light fell upon her marble features. From the cabin I could hear the sounds of the priest's voice, as he continued to pray without ceasing.
As the hours rolled on, nothing changed; and when, prompted by curiosity, I looked within the hovel, I saw the priest still kneeling beside the bed, his face pale and sunk and haggard, as though months of sickness and suffering had passed over him. I dared not speak; I dared not disturb him; and I sat down near the door in silence.
It is one of the strange anomalies of our nature that the feelings which rend our hearts with agony have a tendency, by their continuance, to lull us into slumber. The watcher by the bedside of his dying friend, the felon in his cell but a few hours before death, sleep—and sleep soundly. The bitterness of grief would seem to blunt sensation, and the mind, like the body, can only sustain a certain amount of burden, after which it succumbs and yields. So I found it amid this scene of horror and anguish, with everything to excite that can operate upon the mind—the woman stricken motionless and senseless by grief; the dead man, as it were, recalled to life by the words that were to herald him into life everlasting; the old man, whom I had known but as a gay companion, displayed now before my eyes in all the workings of his feeling heart, called up by the afflictions of one world and the terrors of another—and this in a wild and dreary valley, far from man's dwelling. Yet amid all this, and more than all, the harassing conviction that some deed of blood, some dark hour of crime, had been here at work, perhaps to be concealed for ever, and go unavenged save of Heaven—with this around and about me, I slept. How long I know not; but when I woke, the mist of morning hung in the valley, or rolled in masses of cloudlike vapour along the mountain-side. In an instant the whole scene of the previous night was before me, and the priest still knelt beside the bed and prayed. I looked for the woman, but she was gone.
The noise of wheels, at some distance, could now be heard on the mountain-road; and as I walked stealthily from the door, I could see three figures descending the pass, followed by a car and horse. As they came along, I marked that beneath the straw on the car something protruded itself on either side, and this, I soon saw, was a coffin. As the men approached the angle of the road they halted, and seemed to converse in an eager and anxious manner, when suddenly one of them broke from the others, and springing to the top of a low wall that skirted the road, continued to look steadily at the house for some minutes together. The thought flashed on me at the moment that perhaps my being a stranger to them might have caused their hesitation; so I waved my hat a couple of times above my head. Upon this they resumed their march, and in a few minutes more were standing beside me. One of them, who was an old man with hard, weather-beaten features, addressed me, first in Irish, but correcting himself, at once asked, in a low, steady voice—
'Was the priest in time? Did he get the rites?'
I nodded in reply; when he muttered, as if to himself—'God's will be done! Shaun didn't tell of Hogan——'
'Whisht, father! whisht!' said one of the younger men as he laid his hand upon the old man's arm, while he added something in Irish, gesticulating with energy as he spoke.
'Is Mary come back, sir?' said the third, as he touched his hat to me respectfully.
'The woman—his wife?' said I. 'I have not seen her to-day.'
'She was up with us, at Kiltimmon, at two o'clock this morning, but wouldn't wait for us. She wanted to get back at once, poor crayture! She bears it well, and has a stout heart. 'Faith, maybe before long she 'll make some others faint in their hearts that have stricken hers this night.'
'Was she calm, then?' said I.
'As you are this minute; and sure enough she helped me, with her own hands, to put the horse in the car, for you see I couldn't lift the shaft with my one arm.'
I now saw that his arm was bound up, and buttoned within the bosom of his greatcoat.
The priest now joined us, and spoke for several minutes in Irish; and although ignorant of all he said, I could mark in the tone of his voice, his look, his manner, and his gesture that his words were those of rebuke and reprobation. The old man heard him in silence, but without any evidence of feeling. The others, on the contrary, seemed deeply affected; and the younger of the two, whose arm was broken, seemed greatly moved, and the tears rolled down his hardy cheeks.
These signs of emotion were evidently displeasing to the old man, whose nature was of a sterner and more cruel mould; and as he turned away from the father's admonition he moved past me, muttering, as he went—
'Isn't it all fair? Blood for blood; and sure they dhruv him to it.'
After a few words from the priest, two of the party took their spades from the car, and began digging the grave; while Father Loftus, leading the other aside, talked to him for some time.
'Begorra,' said the old man, as he shovelled the earth to either side, 'Father Tom isn't like himself, at all, at all. He used to have pity and the kind word for the poor when they were turned out on the world to starve, without as much as a sheaf of straw to lie upon, or potatoes enough for the children to eat.'
'Whisht, father! or the priest will hear ye,' said the younger one, looking cautiously around.
'Sorrow bit o' me cares if he does! it's thruth I'm telling. You are not long in these parts, sir, av I may make so bowld?'
'No,' said I, 'I'm quite a stranger.'
'Well, anyhow, ye may understand that this isn't a fine soil for a potato-garden; and yet the devil a other poor Shaun had since they turned him out on the road last Michaelmas Day, himself and his wife and the little gossoon—the only one they had, too—with a fever and ague upon him. The poor child, however, didn't feel it long, for he died in ten days after. Well, well! the way of God there's no saying against it. But, sure, if the little boy didn't die Shaun was off to America; for he tuk his passage, and got a sea-chest of a friend, and was all ready to go. But you see, when the child died, he could not bring himself to leave the grave; and there he used to go and spend half of his days fixing it, and settling the sods about it, and wouldn't take a day's work from any of the neighbours. And at last he went off one night, and we never knew what was become of him, till a pedlar brought word that he and Mary was living in the Cluan Beg, away from everybody, without a friend to say “God save you!” It's deep enough now, Mickey; there's nobody will turn him out of this. And so, sir, he might have lived for many a year; but when he heerd that the boys was up, and going to settle a reckoning with Mr. Tarleton——'
'Come, you,' cried the priest, who joined us at the moment, and who I could perceive was evidently displeased at the old man's communicativeness—'come, you, the sooner you all get back the better. We must look after Mary, too; for God knows where she is wandering. And now let us put the poor boy in the earth.'
With slow and sullen steps the old man entered the house, followed by the others. I did not accompany them, but stood beside the grave, my mind full of all I heard. In a few minutes they returned, carrying the coffin, one corner of which was borne by the priest himself. Their heads were bare, and their features were pale and care-worn. They placed the body in the grave, and gazed down after it for some seconds. The priest spoke a few words in a low, broken voice, the very sounds of which, though their meaning was unknown to me, sank deep into my heart. He whispered for an instant to one of the young men, who went into the cabin and speedily returned, carrying with him some of the clothes of the deceased and the old carbine that lay beneath the bed.
'Throw them in the grave, Mickey—throw them in,' said the priest. 'Where's his coat?'
'It isn't there, sir,' said the man. 'That's everything that has a mark of blood upon it.'
'Give me that gun,' cried the priest; and at the same moment he took the carbine by the end of the barrel, and by one stroke of his strong foot snapped it at the breech. 'My curse be on you!' said he, as he kicked the fragments into the grave; 'there was peace and happiness in the land before men knew ye, and owned ye! Ah, Hugh,' said he, turning his eyes fiercely on the old man, 'I never said ye hadn't griefs and trials, and sore ones too, some of them; but God help you, if you think that an easy conscience and a happy home can be bought by murder.' The old man started at the words, and as his dark brow lowered and his lip trembled, I drew near to the priest, fearful lest an attack might be made on him. 'Ay, murder, boys! that's the word, and no less. Don't tell me about righting yourselves, and blood for blood, and all that. There's a curse upon the land where these things happen, and the earth is not lucky that is moistened with the blood of God's creatures.'
'Cover him up! cover him up!' said the old man, shovelling in the earth so as to drown the priest's words, 'and let us be going. We ought to be back by six o'clock, unless,' added he with a sarcastic bitterness that made him look like a fiend—'unless your reverence is going to set the police on our track.'
'God forgive you, Hugh, and turn your heart,' said the priest, as he shook his outstretched hands at the old man. As the father spoke these words he took me by the arm, and led me within the house. I could feel his hand tremble as it leaned upon me, and the big tears rolled down his cheeks in silence.
We sat down in the little cabin, but neither of us spoke. After some time we heard the noise of the cartwheels and the sound of voices, which grew fainter and fainter as they passed up the glen, and at length all became still.
'And the poor wife,' said I, 'what, think you, has become of her?'
'Gone home to her people, most likely,' answered the priest. 'Her misfortunes will make her a home in every cabin. None so poor, none so wretched, as not to succour and shelter her. But let us hence.'
We walked forth from the hovel, and the priest closing the door after him fastened it with a padlock that he had found within, and then, placing the key upon the door-sill, he turned to depart; but suddenly stopping, he took my hand in both of his, and said, in a voice of touching earnestness—
'This has been a sad scene. Would to God you had not witnessed it! Would to God, rather, that it might not have occurred! But promise me, on the faith of a man of honour and the word of a gentleman, that what you have seen this night you will reveal to no man, until I have passed away myself, and stand before that judgment to which we all are coming.'
'I promise you faithfully,' said I. 'And now let us leave a spot that has thrown a gloom upon my heart which a long life will never obliterate.'
CHAPTER XXXV. THE JOURNEY
As we issued from the glen the country became more open; patches of cultivation presented themselves, and an air of comfort and condition superior to what we had hitherto seen was observable in the dwellings of the country-people. The road lead through a broad valley bounded on one side by a chain of lofty mountains, and on the other separated by the Shannon from the swelling hills of Munster. Deeply engaged in our thoughts, we travelled along for some miles without speaking. The scene we had witnessed was of that kind that seemed to forbid our recurrence to it, save in our own gloomy reflections. We had not gone far when the noise of horsemen on the road behind us induced us to turn our heads. They came along at a sharp trot, and we could soon perceive that although the two or three foremost were civilians, they who followed were dragoons. I thought I saw the priest change colour as the clank of the accoutrements struck upon his ear. I had, however, but little time for the observation, as the party soon overtook us.
'You are early on the road, gentlemen,' said a strong, powerfully-built man, who, mounted upon a grey horse of great bone and action, rode close up beside us.
'Ah, Sir Thomas, is it you?' said the priest, affecting at once his former easy and indifferent manner. 'I'd rather see the hounds at your back than those beagles of King George there. Is there anything wrong in the country?'
'Let me ask you another question,' said the knight in answer. 'How long have you been in it, and where did you pass the night, not to hear of what has occurred?'
''Faith, a home question,' said the priest, summoning up a hearty laugh to conceal his emotion; 'but if the truth must out, we came round by the priory at Glenduff, as my friend here being an Englishman—may I beg to present him to you? Mr. Hinton, Sir Thomas Garland—he heard wonders of the monks' way of living up there, and I wished to let him judge for himself.'
'Ah, that accounts for it,' said the tall man to himself. 'We have had a sad affair of it, Father Tom. Poor Tarleton has been murdered.'
'Murdered!' said the priest, with an expression of horror in his countenance I could scarcely believe feigned.
'Yes, murdered! The house was attacked a little after midnight. The party must have been a large one, for while they forced in the hall door, the haggard and the stables were seen in a blaze. Poor George had just retired to bed, a little later than usual; for his sons had returned a few hours before from Dublin, where they had been to attend their college examination. The villains, however, knew the house well, and made straight for his room. He got up in an instant, and seizing a sabre that hung beside his bed, defended himself, with the courage of desperation, against them all. The scuffle and the noise soon brought his sons to the spot, who, although mere boys, behaved in the most gallant manner. Overpowered at last by numbers, and covered with wounds, they dragged poor Tarleton downstairs, shouting out as they went, “Bring him down to Freney's! Let the bloody villain see the black walls and the cold hearth he has made, before he dies!” It was their intention to murder him on the spot where, a few weeks before, a distress for rent had been executed against some of his tenants. He grasped the banisters with a despairing clutch, while fixing his eyes upon his servant, who had lived with him for some years past, he called out to him in his agony to save him; but the fellow came deliberately forward and held the flame of a candle beneath the dying man's fingers, until he relaxed his hold and fell back among his murderers. Yes, yes, father, Henry Tarleton saw it with his own eyes, for while his brother was stretched senseless on the floor, he was struggling with the others at the head of the staircase; and, strange enough too, they never hurt the boys, but when they had wreaked their vengeance on the father, bound them back to back, and left them.'
'Can you identify any of them?' said the priest, with intense emotion in his voice and manner.
'Scarcely, I fear; their faces were blackened, and they wore shirts over their coats. Henry thinks he could swear to two or three of the number; but our best chance of discovery lies in the fact that several of them were badly wounded, and one in particular, whom he saw cut down by his father's sabre, was carried downstairs by his comrades, bathed in blood.'
'He didn't recognise him?' said the priest eagerly.
'No; but here comes the poor boy, so I'll wish you good-morning.'
He put spurs to his horse as he spoke and dashed forward, followed by the dragoons; while at the same moment, on the opposite side of the road, a young man—pale, with his dress disordered, his arm in a sling—rode by. He never turned a look aside; his filmy eye was fixed, as it were, on some far-off object, and he seemed scarce to guide his horse as he galloped onward over the rugged road.
The priest relaxed his pace to permit the crowd of horsemen to pass on, while his countenance once more assumed its drooping and despondent look, and he relapsed into his former silence.
'You see that high mountain to the left there?' said he after a long pause. 'Well, our road lies around the foot of it; and, please God, by to-morrow evening we 'll be some five-and-twenty miles on the other side, in the heart of my own wild country, with the big mountains behind you, and the great blue Atlantic rearing its frothing waves at your feet.' He stopped for an instant, and then grasping my arm with his strong hand, continued in a low, distinct voice: 'Never speak to me nor question me about what we saw last night, and try only to remember it as a dream. And now let me tell you how I intend to amuse you in the far west.'
Here the priest began a spirited and interesting description of the scenery and the people—their habits, their superstitions, and their pastimes. He sustained the interest of his account with legend and story, now grave, now gay—sometimes recalling a trait from the older history of the land; sometimes detailing an incident of the fair or the market, but always by his wonderful knowledge of the peasantry, their modes of thinking and reasoning, and by his imitation of their figurative and forcible expressions, able to carry me with him, whether he took the mountain's side for his path, sat beside some cotter's turf-fire, or skimmed along the surface of the summer sea in the frail bark of an Achill fisherman. I learned from him that in the wild region where he lived there were above fifteen thousand persons, scarce one of whom could speak or understand a word of English. Of these he was not only the priest, but the ruler and judge. Before him all their disputes were settled, all their differences reconciled. His word, in the strongest sense of the phrase, was law—not indeed to be enforced by bayonets and policemen, by constables and sheriffs' officers, but which in its moral force demanded obedience, and would have made him who resisted it an outcast among his fellows.
'We are poor,' said the priest, 'but we are happy. Crime is unknown among us, and the blood of man has not been shed in strife for fifty years within the barony. When will ye learn this in England? When will ye know that these people may be led, but never driven; that they may be persuaded, but never compelled? When will ye condescend to bend so far the prerogative of your birth, your riches, and your rank, as to reason with the poor and humble peasant that looks up to you for protection? Alas! my young friend, were you to ask me what is the great source of misery of this unhappy land, I should tell you the superior intelligence of its people. I see a smile, but hear me out. Unlike the peasantry of other countries, they are not content. Their characters are mistaken, their traits misconstrued—-partly from indifference, partly from prejudice, and in a great measure because it is the fashion to recognise in the tiller of the soil a mere drudge, with scarce more intelligence than the cattle in his plough or the oxen in his team. But here you really have a people quick, sharp-sighted, and intelligent, able to scan your motives with ten times the accuracy you can guess at theirs; suspicious, because their credulity has been abused; revengeful, because their wild nature knows no other vindicator than their own right arm; lawless, for they look upon your institutions as the sources of their misery and the instruments of your tyranny towards them; reckless, for they have nothing to lose; indolent, for they have nothing to gain. Without an effort to win their confidence or secure their good-will, you overwhelm them with your institutions, cumbrous, complicated, and unsuitable; and while you neglect or despise all appeal to their feelings or affections, you place your faith in your soldiery or a special commission. Heaven help you! you may thin them off by the gallows and transportation, but the root of the evil is as far from you as ever. You do not know them, you will not know them. More prone to punish than prevent, you are satisfied with the working of the law, and not shocked with the accumulation of crime; and when, broken by poverty and paralysed by famine, a gloomy desolation spreads over the land, you meet in terms of congratulation to talk over tranquilised Ireland.'
In this strain did the good priest continue to develop his views concerning his country—the pivot of his argument being, that, to a people so essentially different in every respect, English institutions and English laws were inadequate and unsuitable. Sometimes I could not only but agree with him. At others I could but dimly perceive his meaning and dissent from the very little I could catch.
Enough of this, however. In a biography so flimsy as mine, politics would play but an unseemly part; and even were it otherwise, my opportunities were too few and my own incapacity too great to make my opinions of any value on a subject so complicated and so vast. Still, the topic served to shorten the road, and when towards evening we found ourselves in the comfortable parlour of the little inn at Ballyhocsousth,* so far had we both regained our spirits that once more the priest's jovial good-humour irradiated his happy countenance; and I myself, hourly improving in health and strength, felt already the bracing influence of the mountain air, and that strong sense of liberty never more thoroughly appreciated than when regaining vigour after the sufferings of a sick-bed.
We were seated by an open window, looking out upon the landscape. It was past sunset, and the tall shadows of the mountains were meeting across the lake, like spirits who waited for the night-hour to interchange their embraces. A thin pale crescent of a new moon marked the blue sky, but did not dim the lustre of the thousand stars that glittered round it. All was hushed and still, save the deep note of the rail, or the measured plash of oars heard from a long distance. The rich meadows that sloped down to the water sent up their delicious odours in the balmy air, and there stole over the senses a kind of calm and peaceful pleasure as such a scene at such an hour can alone impart.
'This is beautiful—this is very beautiful, father,' said I.
'So it is, sir,' said the priest. 'Let no Irishman wander for scenery; he has as much right to go travel in search of wit and good fellowship. We don't want for blessings; all we need is, to know how to enjoy them. And, believe me, there is a plentiful feast on the table if gentlemen would only pass down the dishes. And, now, that reminds me: what are you drinking—negus? I wouldn't wish it to my greatest enemy. But, to be sure, I am always forgetting you are not one of ourselves. There, reach me over that square decanter. It wouldn't have been so full now if we had had poor Bob here—poor fellow! But one thing is certain—-wherever he is, he is happy. I believe I never told you how he got into his present scrape.'
'No, father; and that's precisely the very thing I wish to ask you.'
'You shall hear it, and it isn't a bad story in its way. But don't you think the night-air is a little too much for you? Shall we close the window?'
'If it depend on me, father, pray leave it open.'
'Ha, ha! I was forgetting again,' said the old fellow, laughing roguishly—'Stella sunt amantium oculi, as Pharis says. There now, don't be blushing, but listen to me.
'It was somewhere about last November that Bob got a quiet hint from some one at Daly's that the sooner he got out of Dublin the more conducive it would be to his personal freedom, as various writs were flying about the capital after him. He took the hint, and set off the same night, and reached his beautiful château of Newgate without let or molestation—which having victualled for the winter, he could, if necessary, sustain in it a reasonable siege against any force the law was likely to bring up. The house had an abundant supply of arms. There were guns that figured in '41, pikes that had done good service a little later, swords of every shape, from the two-handed weapon of the twelfth century to a Roman pattern made out of a scythe by a smith in the neighbourhood; but the grand terror of the country was an old four-pounder of Cromwell's time, that the Major had mounted on the roof, and whose effects, if only proportionately injurious to the enemy to the results nearer home, must indeed have been a formidable engine, for the only time it was fired—I believe to celebrate Bob's birthday—it knocked down a chimney with the recoil, blew the gardener and another man about ten feet into the air, and hurled Bob himself through a skylight into the housekeeper's room. No matter for that; it had a great effect in raising the confidence of the country-people, some of whom verily believed that the ball was rolling for a week after.
'Bob, I say, victualled the fortress; but he did more, for he assembled all the tenants, and in a short but pithy speech told them the state of his affairs, explaining with considerable eloquence what a misfortune it would be for them if by any chance they were to lose him for a landlord.
'“See, now, boys,” said he, “there's no knowing what misfortune wouldn't happen ye; they'd put a receiver on the property—a spalpeen with bailiffs and constables after him—that would be making you pay up the rent, and 'faith I wouldn't say but maybe he 'd ask you for the arrears.”
'“Oh, murther, murther! did any one ever hear the like!” the people cried on every side; and Bob, like a clever orator, continued to picture forth additional miseries and misfortunes to them if such a calamitous event were to happen, explaining at the same time the contemptible nature of the persecution practised against him.
'“No, boys,” cried he, “there isn't a man among them all that has the courage to come down and ask for his money, face to face; but they set up a pair of fellows they call John Doe and Richard Roe—there's names for you! Did you ever hear of a gentleman in the country with names like that? But that's not the worst of it, for you see even these two chaps can't be found. It's truth I'm telling you, and some people go so far as to say that there is no such people at all, and it's only a way they have to worry and annoy country gentlemen with what they call a fiction of the law; and my own notion is, that the law is nothing but lies and fiction from beginning to end.”
'A very loud cheer from Bob's audience proclaimed how perfectly they coincided in his opinion; and a keg of whisky being brought into the lawn, each man drained a glass to his health, uttering at the same time a determination with respect to the law-officers of the crown that boded but little happiness to them when they made a tour in the neighbourhood.
'In about a week after this there was a grand drawing-home: that's, you understand, what we call in Ireland bringing in the harvest. And sure enough, the farmyard presented a very comely sight, with ricks of hay, and stacks of corn and oats and barley, and outhouses full of potatoes, and in fact everything the country produces, besides cows and horses, sheep, pigs, goats, and even turkeys; for most of the tenants paid their rents in kind, and as Bob was an easy landlord, very few came without a little present—a game-cock, a jackass, a ram, or some amusing beast or other. Well, the next day—it was a fine dry day with a light frost, and as the bog was hard, Bob sent them all away to bring in the turf. Why, then, but it is a beautiful sight, Captain, and I wish you saw it—maybe two or three hundred cars all going as fast as they can pelt, on a fine bright day, with a blue sky and a sharp air, the boys standing up in the kishes driving without rein or halter, always at a gallop—for all the world like Ajax, Ulysses, and the rest of them that we read of; and the girls, as pretty craytures as ever you threw an eye upon, with their short red petticoats, and their hair plaited and fastened up at the back of their heads: on my conscience the Trojan women was nothing to them!
'But to come back. Bob Mahon was coming home from the bog about five o'clock in the evening, cantering along on a little dun pony he had, thinking of nothing at all, except maybe the elegant rick of turf that he 'd be bringing home in the morning, when what did he see before him but a troop of dragoons, and at their head old Basset, the sub-sheriff, and another fellow whose face he had often seen in the Four Courts of Dublin. “By the mortial,” said Bob, “I am done for!” for he saw in a moment that Basset had waited until all the country-people were employed at a distance, to come over and take him. However, he was no ways discouraged, but brushing his way through the dragoons, he rode up beside Basset's gig, and taking a long pistol out of the holster, he began to examine the priming as cool as may be.
“'How are you, Nick Basset?” said Bob; “and where are you going this evening?”
'“How are you, Major?” said Basset, with his eye all the while upon the pistol. “It is an unpleasant business, a mighty unpleasant business to me, Major Bob,” says he; “but the truth is, there is an execution against you, and my friend here, Mr. Hennessy—Mr. Hennessy, Major Mahon—asked me to come over with him, because as I knew you——”
'“Well, well,” said Bob, interrupting him. “Have you a writ against me? Is it me you want?”
'“Nothing of the kind, Major Mahon. God forbid we 'd touch a hair of your head. It's just a kind of a capias, as I may say, nothing more.”
'“And why did you bring the dragoons with you?” said Bob, looking at him mighty hard.
'Basset looked very sheepish, and didn't know what to say; but Mahon soon relieved him—-
'“Never mind, Nick, never mind; you can't help your trade. But how would you look if I was to raise the country on ye?”
'“You wouldn't do the like, Major; but surely, if you did, the troops——”
'“The troops!” said Bob; “God help you! we'd be twenty, ay, thirty to one. See now, if I give a whistle, this minute——”
'“Don't distress yourself, Major,” said Basset, “for the decent people are a good six miles off at the bog, and couldn't hear you if you whistled ever so loud.”
'The moment he said this Bob saw that the old rogue was up to him, and he began to wonder within himself what was best to be done.
'“See now, Nick,” said he, “it isn't like a friend to bring up all these red-coats here upon me, before my tenantry, disgracing me in the face of my people. Send them back to the town, and go up yourself with Mr. Hennessy there, and do whatever you have to do.”
'“No, no!” screamed Hennessy, “I'll never part with the soldiers!”
'“Very well,” said Bob, “take your own way, and see what will come of it.”
'He put spurs to his pony as he said this, and was just striking into the gallop when Nick called out—
'“Wait a bit, Major! wait a bit! If we leave the dragoons where we are now, will you give us your word of honour not to hurt or molest us in the discharge of our duty, nor let any one else do so?”
'“I will,” said Bob, “now that you talk reasonably; I'll treat you well.”
'After a little parley it was settled that part of the dragoons were to wait on the road, and the rest of them in the lawn before the house, while Nick and his friend were to go through the ceremony of seizing Bob's effects, and make an inventory of everything they could find.
'“A mere matter of form, Major Mahon,” said he. “We 'll make it as short as possible, and leave a couple of men in possession; and as I know the affair will be arranged in a few days——”
'“Of course,” says Bob, laughing; “nothing easier. So come along now and let me show you the way.”
'When they reached the house, Bob ordered up dinner at once, and behaved as politely as possible, telling them it was early, and they would have plenty of time for everything in the evening. But whether it was that they had no appetite just then, or that they were not over-easy in their minds about Bob himself, they declined everything, and began to set about their work. To it they went with pen and ink, putting down all the chairs and tables, the cracked china, the fire-irons, and at last Bob left them counting over about twenty pairs of old top-boots that stood along the wall of his dressing-room.
'“Ned,” said Bob to his own man, “get two big padlocks and put them on the door of the hayloft as fast as you can.”
'“Sure it is empty, sir,” said Ned. “Barrin' the rats, there's nothing in it.”
'“Don't I know that as well as you?” said Bob; “but can't you do as you are bid? And when you've done it, take the pony and gallop over to the bog, and tell the people to throw the turf out of their carts and gallop up here as fast as they can.”
'He'd scarcely said it when Nick called out, “Now, Major, for the farmyard, if you please.” And so taking Hennessy's arm, Bob walked out, followed by the two big bailiffs, that never left them for a moment. To be sure it was a great sight when they got outside, and saw all the ricks and stacks as thick as they could stand; and so they began counting and putting them down on paper, and the devil a thing they forgot, not even the boneens and the bantams; and at last Nick fixed his eye upon the little door into the loft, upon which now two great big padlocks were hanging.
'“I suppose it 's oats you have up there, Major?” said he.
'“No, indeed,” said Bob, looking a little confused.
'“Maybe seed-potatoes?” said Hennessy.
'“Nor it neither,” said he.
'“Barley, it's likely?” cried Nick; “it is a fine dry loft.”
'“No,” said Bob, “it is empty.”
'And with that he endeavoured to turn them away and get them back into the house; but old Basset turned back, and fixing his eye upon the door, shook his head for a couple of minutes.
'“Well,” said he, “for an empty loft it has the finest pair of padlocks I ever looked at. Would there be any objection, Major, to our taking a peep into it?”
'“None,” said Bob; “but I haven't a ladder that long in the place.”
'“I think this might reach,” said Hennessy, as he touched one with his foot that lay close along the wall, partly covered with straw.
'“Just the thing,” said Nick; while poor Bob hung down his head and said nothing. With that they raised the ladder and placed it against the door.
'“Might I trouble you for the key, Major Mahon?” said Hennessy.
'“I believe it is mislaid,” said Bob, in a kind of sulky way, at which they both grinned at each other, as much as to say, “We have him now.”
'“You ''ll not take it amiss then, Major, if we break the door?” said Nick.
'“You may break it and be hanged!” said Bob, as he stuck his hands into his pockets and walked away.
'“This will do,” cried one of the bailiffs, taking up a big stone as he mounted the ladder, followed by Nick, Hennessy, and the other.
'It took some time to smash the locks, for they were both strong ones, and all the while Nick and his friend were talking together in great glee; but poor Bob stood by himself against a hayrick, looking as melancholy as might be. At last the locks gave way, and down went the door with a bang. The bailiffs stepped in, and then Nick and the other followed. It took them a couple of minutes to satisfy themselves that the loft was quite empty; but when they came back again to the door, what was their surprise to discover that Bob was carrying away the ladder upon his shoulders to a distant part of the yard.
'“Holloa, Major!” cried Basset, “don't forget us up here!”
'“Devil a fear of that,” said Bob; “few that know you ever forget you.”
'“We are quite satisfied, sir,” said Hennessy; “what you said was perfectly correct.”
'“And why didn't you believe it before, Mr. Hennessy? You see what you have brought upon yourself.”
'“You are not going to leave us up here, sir,” cried Hennessy; “will you venture upon false imprisonment?”
“'I'd venture on more than that, if it were needful; but see now, when you get back, don't be pretending that I didn't offer to treat you well, little as you deserved it, I asked you to dinner, and would have given you your skinful of wine afterwards; but you preferred your own dirty calling, and so take the consequences.”
'While he was speaking a great cheer was heard, and all the country-people came galloping into the yard with their turf cars.
'“Be alive now, my boys!” cried Bob. “How many cars have you?”
'“Seventy, sir, here; but there is more coming.”
'“That'll do,” said he; “so now set to work and carry away all the oats and the wheat, the hay, barley, and potatoes. Let some of you take the calves and the pigs, and drive the bullocks over the mountain to Mr. Bodkin's. Don't leave a turkey behind you, boys, and make haste; for these gentlemen have so many engagements I can scarcely prevail on them to pass more than a day or two amongst us.”
'Bob pointed as he spoke to the four figures that stood trembling at the hayloft door. A loud cheer, and a roar of laughter to the full as loud, answered his speech; and at the same moment to it they went, loading their cars with the harvest or the live-stock as fast as they could. To be sure, such a scene was never witnessed—the sheep bleating, pigs grunting, fowls cackling, men and women all running here and there laughing like mad, and Nick Basset himself swearing like a trooper the whole time that he'd have them all hanged at the next assizes. Would you believe, the harvest it took nearly three weeks to bring home was carried away that night and scattered all over the country at different farms, where it never could be traced; all the cattle too were taken away, and before sunrise there wasn't as much as a sheep or a lamb left to bleat on the lawn.
'The next day Bob set out on a visit to a friend at some distance, leaving directions with his people to liberate the gentlemen in the hayloft in the course of the afternoon. The story made a great noise in the country; but before people were tired laughing at it an action was entered against Bob for false imprisonment, and heavy damages awarded against him. So that you may see there was a kind of poetic justice in the manner of his capture, for after all it was only trick for trick.'
The worthy priest now paused to mix another tumbler, which, when he had stirred and tasted and stirred again, he pushed gently before him on the table, and seemed lost in reverie.
'Yes,' said he half aloud, 'it is a droll country we live in; and there's not one of us doesn't waste more ingenuity and display more cunning in getting rid of his fortune than the cleverest fellows elsewhere evince in accumulating theirs. But you are looking a little pale, I think; these late hours won't suit you, so I 'll just send you to bed.'
I felt the whole force of my kind friend's advice, and yielding obedience at once, I shook him by the hand and wished him good-night.
CHAPTER XXXVI. MURRANAKILTY
If my kind reader is not already tired of the mountain-road and the wild west, may I ask him—dare I say her?—to accompany me a little farther, while I present another picture of its life?
You see that bold mountain, jagged and rugged in outline, like the spine of some gigantic beast, that runs far out into the Atlantic, and ends in a bold, abrupt headland, against which the waves, from the very coast of Labrador, are beating without one intervening rock to break their force? Carry your eye along its base, to where you can mark a little clump of alder and beech, with here and there a taper poplar interspersed, and see if you cannot detect the gable of a long, low, thatched house, that lies almost buried in the foliage. Before the door a little patch of green stretches down to the shore, where a sandy beach, glowing in all the richness of a morning sun, glitters with many a shell and brilliant pebble. That, then, is Murranakilty.
But approach, I beg you, a little nearer. Let me suppose that you have traced the winding of that little bay, crossing the wooden bridge over the bright trout stream, as it hastens on to mingle its waters with the ocean; you have climbed over the rude stile, and stopped for an instant to look into the holy well, in whose glassy surface the little wooden crucifix above is dimly shadowed, and at length you stand upon the lawn before the cottage. What a glorious scene is now before you! On the opposite side of the bay, the mountain, whose summit is lost among the clouds, seems as it were cleft by some earthquake force; and through its narrow gorge you can trace the blue water of the sea passing in, while each side of the valley is clothed with wood. The oak of a hundred years, here sheltered from the rude wind of the Atlantic, spreads its luxuriant arms, while the frothy waves are breaking at its feet. High, however, above their tops you may mark the irregular outline of a large building, with battlements and towers and massive walls, and one tall and loopholed turret, that rises high into the air, and around whose summit the noisy rooks are circling in their flight. That is Kilmorran Castle, the residence of Sir Simon Bellew. There, for centuries past, his ancestors were born and died; there, in the midst of that wild and desolate grandeur, the haughty descendants of an ancient house lived on from youth to age, surrounded by all the observances of feudal state, and lording it far and near, for many a mile, with a sway and power that would seem to have long since passed away.
You carry your eye seaward, and I perceive your attention is fixed upon the small schooner that lies anchored in the offing; her topsail is in the clews, and flaps lazily against the mast, as she rolls and pitches in the breaking surge. The rake of her low masts and the long boom that stretches out far beyond her taffrail have, you deem it, a somewhat suspicious look; and you are right. She is La Belle Louise, a smuggling craft from Dieppe, whose crew, half French, half Irish, would fight her to the gunwale, and sink with but never surrender her. You hear the plash of oars, and there now you can mark the eight-oared gig springing to the stroke, as it shoots from the shore and heads out to sea. Sir Simon loves claret, and like a true old Irish gentleman he drinks it from the wood; there may, therefore, be some reason why those wild-looking red-caps have pulled in shore.
But now I'll ask you to turn to an humbler scene, and look within that room where the window, opened to the ground, is bordered by blossoming honeysuckle. It is the priest's parlour. At a little breakfast-table, whose spotless cloth and neat but simple equipage has a look of propriety and comfort, is seated one whose gorgeous dressing-gown and lounging attitude seem strangely at variance with the humble objects around him. He seems endeavouring to read a newspaper, which ever and anon he lays down beside him, and turns his eyes in the direction of the fire; for although it is July, yet a keen freshness of the morning air makes the blazing turf by no means objectionable. He looks towards the fire, perhaps you would say, lost in his own thoughts and musings; but no, truth must out, and his attention is occupied in a very different way. Kneeling before the fire is a young and lovely country-girl, engaged in toasting a muffin for the priest's breakfast. Her features are flushed, partly with shame, partly with heat; and as now and then she throws back her long hair from her face with an impatient toss of her head, she steals a glance at the stranger from a pair of eyes so deeply blue that at first you were unjust enough to think them black.
Her dress is a low bodice, and a short skirt of that brilliant dye the Irish peasant of the west seems to possess the secret for. The jupe is short, I say; and so much the better for you, as it displays a pair of legs which, bare of shoe or stocking, are perfect in their symmetry—the rounded instep and the swelling ankle chiselled as cleanly as a statue of Canova.
And now, my good reader, having shown you all this, let me proceed with my narrative.
'And sure now, sir, wouldn't it be better for you, and you sickly, to be eating your breakfast, and not be waiting for Father Tom? Maybe he wouldn't come in this hour yet.'
'No, thank you, Mary; I had rather wait. I hope you are not so tired of my company that you want an excuse to get away?'
'Ah, be aisy now, if you plaze, sir! It's myself that's proud to be talking to you.' And as she spoke she turned a pair of blue eyes upon me with such a look that I could not help thinking if the gentlemen of the west be exposed to such, their blood is not as hot as is reputed. I suppose I looked as much; for she blushed deeply, and calling out, 'Here's Father Tom!' sprang to her legs and hurried from the room.
'Where are you scampering that way?' cried the good priest, as he passed her in the hall. 'Ah, Captain, Captain! behave yourself!'
'I protest, father——' cried I.
'To be sure you do! Why wouldn't you protest? But see now, it was your business brought me out this morning. Hand me over the eggs; I am as hungry as a hawk. The devil is in that girl—they are as hard as bullets! I see how it was, plain enough. It's little she was thinking of the same eggs. Well, well! this is an ungrateful world; and only think of me, all I was doing for you.'
'My dear father, you are quite wrong——'
'No matter. Another slice of bacon. And, after all, who knows if I have the worst of it? Do you know, now, that Miss Bellew has about the softest cheek——'
'What the devil do you mean?' said I, reddening. 'Why, just that I was saluting her à la Française this morning; and I never saw her look handsomer in my life. It was scarce seven o'clock when I was over at Kilmorran, but, early as it was, I caught her making breakfast for me; and, father and priest that I am, I couldn't help feeling in love with her. It was a beautiful sight just to watch her light step and graceful figure moving about the parlour—now opening the window to let in the fresh air of the morning; now arranging a bouquet of moss-roses; now busying herself among the breakfast things, and all the while stealing a glance at Sir Simon, to see if he were pleased with what she was doing. He'll be over here by-and-by, to call on you; and, indeed, it is an attention he seldom pays any one, for latterly, poor fellow, he is not over satisfied with the world—and if the truth were told, he has not had too much cause to be so.'
'You mentioned to him, then, that I was here?' 'To be sure I did; and the doing so cost me a scalded finger; for Miss Louisa, who was pouring out my tea at the moment, gave a jerk with her hand, and spilled the boiling water all over me.—Bad cess to you, Mary, but you've spoiled the toast this morning! half of it never saw the fire, and the other half is as black as my boot.—But, as I was saying, Sir Simon knows all about you, and is coming over to ask us to dine there—though I offered to give the invitation myself, and accept it first; but he is very punctilious about these things, and wouldn't hear of anything but doing it in the regular way.'
'Did he allude to Mr. Ulick Burke's affair?'
'Not a word. And even when I wished to touch on it for the sake of a little explanation, he adroitly turned the subject, and spoke of something else. But it is drawing late, and I have some people to see this morning; so come along now into my little library here, and I'll leave you for a while to amuse yourself.'
The priest led me, as he spoke, into a small room, whose walls were covered with books from the floor to the ceiling; even the very door by which we entered had its shelves, like the rest, so that when once inside you could see no trace of it. A single window looked seaward, towards the wide Atlantic, and presented a view of many miles of coast, indented with headland and promontory. Beneath, upon the placid sea, was a whole fleet of fishing-boats, the crews of which were busily engaged in collecting the sea-weed to manure the land. The sight was both curious and picturesque. The light boats, tossing on the heavy swell, were crowded with figures whose attitude evinced all the eagerness of a chase. Sometimes an amicable contest would arise between two parties, as their boat-hooks were fixed in the same mass of tangled weed. Sometimes two rival crews would be seen stretching upon their oars, as they headed out to sea in search of a new prize. The merry voices and the loud laughter, however, that rose above all other sounds, told that good-humour and goodwill never deserted them in all the ardour of the contest.
Long after the priest left me, I continued to watch them. At last I set myself to explore the good father's shelves, which I found, for the most part, were filled with portly tomes of divinity and polemics—huge folio copies of Saint Augustine, Origen, Eusebius, and others; innumerable volumes of learned tractates on disputed points in theology—none of which possessed any interest for me. In one corner, however, beside the fire, whose convenience to the habitual seat of Father Tom argued that they were not least in favour with his reverence, was an admirable collection of the French dramatists—Molière, Beaumarchais, Racine, and several more. These were a real treat; and seating myself beside the window, I prepared, for about the twentieth time in my life, to read La Folle Journée.
I had scarcely got to the end of the second act, when the door was gently opened, and Mary made her appearance—not in the deshabille of the morning, however, but with a trim cotton gown, and smart shoes and stockings; her hair, too, was neatly dressed, in the country fashion. Yet still I was more than half disposed to think she looked even better in her morning costume.
The critical scrutiny of my glance had evidently disconcerted her, and made her, for the moment, forget the object of her coming. She looked down and blushed; she fiddled with the corner of her apron, and at last, recollecting herself, she dropped a little curtsy, and, opening the door wide, announced Sir Simon Bellew.
'Mr. Hinton, I believe,' said Sir Simon, with a slight smile, as he bowed himself into the apartment; 'will you allow me to introduce myself—Sir Simon Bellew.'
The baronet was a tall, thin, meagre-looking old man, somewhat stooped by age, but preserving, both in look and gesture, not only the remains of good looks, but the evident traces of one habituated to the world. His dress was very plain; but the scrupulous exactitude of his powdered cue, and the massive gold-headed cane he carried, showed he had not abandoned those marks of his position so distinctive of rank in those days. He wore, also, large and handsome buckles in his shoes; but in every other particular his costume was simplicity itself. Conversing with an ease which evinced his acquaintance with all the forms of society, he touched shortly upon my former acquaintance with his daughter, and acknowledged in terms slight, but suitable, how she had spoken of me. His manner was, however, less marked by everything I had deemed to be Irish than that of any other person I had met with in the country; for while he expressed his pleasure at my visit to the west, and invited me to pass some days at his house, his manner of doing so had nothing whatever of the warmth and empressement I had so often seen. In fact, save a slight difference in accent, it was as English as need be.
Whether I felt disappointed at this, or whether I had myself adopted the habite and prejudices of the land, I am unable to say, but certainly I felt chilled and repulsed; and although our interview scarce lasted twenty minutes, I was delighted when he rose to take his leave, and say, good-morning.
'You are good enough, then, to promise you 'll dine with us to-morrow, Mr. Hinton. I need scarcely remark that I can have no party to meet you, for this wild neighbourhood has denied us that; but as I am aware that your visit to the west is less for society than scenery, perhaps I may assure you you will not be disappointed. So now, au revoir.' Sir Simon bowed deeply as he spoke, and, with a wave of his hat that would have done honour to the court of Louis xv., he took his leave and departed.
I followed him with my eye, as mounted on his old gray pony, he ambled quietly down the little path that led to the shore. Albeit an old man, his seat was firm, and not without a certain air of self-possession and ease; and as he returned the salutations of the passing country-people, he did so with the quiet dignity of one who felt he conveyed an honour even in the recognition. There was something singular in the contrast of that venerable figure with the wild grandeur of the scene; and as I gazed after him, it set me thinking on the strange vicissitudes of life that must have made such as he pass his days in the dreary solitude of these mountains.