“Now, Tom, be a good fellow and don't forget the rent,” said Val; Tom nodded again, for it was a habit he had, and departed.
The next person who presented himself was a little, meagre, thin looking man, with a dry, serious air about him, that seemed to mark him as a kind of curiosity in his way. From the moment he entered, Solomon seemed to shrink up into half his ordinary dimensions, nor did the stranger seem unconscious of this, if one could judge by the pungent expression of his small gray eyes which were fastened on Solomon with a bitter significance that indicated such a community of knowledge as did not seem to be pleasant to either of them.
“Ah, Sam Wallace,” said Val, “always punctual, and never more welcome than now; scraping and scrambling we are, Sam, to make up the demand for the landlord.”
“What way ir ye, Mr. M'Clutchy; am gled to see ye luck so well; I a-am indeed.”
“Thank you, Sam. How are all your family.”
“Deed, as well as can be expected under the stain that's over us.”
“Stain! What do you mean, Sam?”
“Feth, a main what's purty well known; that misfortune that befell our daughter Susanna.”
“Dear me, Sam, how was that?”
“The way of it was this—she went as a children's maid into a religious femily”—here the two glittering eyes were fiercely fastened upon Solomon—“where she became a serious young person of decided piety, as they call it—an' h—l till me, but another month will make it decided enough—-well, sir, deel a long she was there till the saint, her masther, made a sinner of her, and now she's likely to have her gifts, such as they ir.
“I am very sorry to hear this, Sam; but, surely the man who seduced your daughter does not deserve to be called religious.”
“Disn't he, feth? why, Lord bless you, sure it was all done in a religious way—they sang psalms together, prayed together, read the Bible together, and now the truth is, that the consequence will be speaking for itself some of these days.”
Here another fiery look was darted at Solomon, who appeared deeply engaged among leases, papers, and such other documents as were before him.
“It's a bad business certainly, Sam—but now about the rent?”
“Hut! de'il a penny o' rent I have—hell take the tester; and yet, for all that, all pay you afore a laive the room—what do you think of that?”
“I don't understand it, Sam.”
“Now,” said Sam, going over to Solomon, “you'll pay Mr. M'Clutchy the sum of twelve pounds, fourteen, and three pence for me, Mr. M'Slime—if you please, sir.”
There was a peremptory tone in his words, which, joined to the glittering look he riveted on Solomon, actually fascinated that worthy gentleman.
“My friend,” replied Solomon, taking out his pocket-book, and seeming to look for a memorandum, “you have made a slight mistake against yourself; the sum, I find, is twelve pounds, seventeen, and three pence, so that you have made a slight mistake of three shillings, as I said, against yourself.”
“Do you pay the half year's rent, which is the sum, I say, and you may give the three shillings in charity, which I know you will do.”
“Shall I fill the receipt,” asked Val, looking to Solomon.
“Fill it,” said the other, “I am very glad I happened to have so much about me, poor man.”
“So am I,” returned Sam, significantly.
Solomon rose, and with all the calmness of manner which he could assume, laid the money down before M'Clutchy.
“Try,” said he, “if that is right.”
“Show here,” said Sam, “ail reckon em;” and having done so, he put one particular note in his pocket—“Never you mind,” he added, addressing himself to Val, “I'll give you another note for this;” and he winked significantly as he spoke. He accordingly did so, and having paid the money and received his receipt, he bid them goodbye, once more winking, and touching his waistcoat pocket as he went. He had not been long gone, however, when Solomon once more examined his pocket-book, and in a tone which no pen could describe, exclaimed, “verily, the ways of Providence are wonderful! Will you look again at that money?” said he—“I have given away a note for ten pounds instead of a note for one.”
“It is not here, then,” replied Val, “but I'll venture to say that Sam, the knave, put it in his pocket when he made the exchange.”
“Shall I call him back?” said Phil, “there he goes towards the gate.”
“No,” replied the other, “I have great reliance on Sam's honesty. He will return it no doubt on perceiving the mistake, or if not, I shall send to him for it. Yes, I know Sam is honest—truly the ways of Providence are wonderful.”
So saying, with a visage peculiarly rueful and mortified, he closed his book and put it in his pocket.
The last person whom we shall notice was Brian M'Loughlin, on whose features care had recently made a deep impression. On being asked to sit, he declined—“I thank you,” said he, “my visit will be but a short one, and what I have to say, I can say standing.”
“That as you please, Mr. M'Loughlin; shall I fill your receipts?”
“No,” replied the other, “I simply came to state, that, owing to the derangement of our affairs, I am not just now in a condition to pay my rent.”
“That is unpleasant, Mr. M'Loughlin.”
“Of course it is,” he replied; “that was my only business, Mr. M'Clutchy, and now I bid you good-day.”
“Not so fast, if you please, Mr. M'Loughlin; do not be in such a hurry. You remember a meeting you and I had once in Castle Cumber fair?”
“I do.”
“You remember the extraordinary civility with which you treated me?”
“I do, Val, and I only expressed what I thought then and think now; but indeed you have improved the wrong way wonderfully since.”
“Your language was indiscreet then, and it is so now.”
“It was true for all that, Mr. M'Clutchy.”
“Now, might not I, if I wished, take ample revenge for the insulting terms you applied to me?”
“You might, and I suppose you will—I expect nothing else, for I know you well.”
“You do not know me. Mr. M'Loughlin, so far from acting up to what you imagine, I shall not avail myself of your position; I have no such intention, I assure you, so that whatever apprehensions you may entertain from others, you need have none from me. And, now, Mr. M'Loughlin, do you not perceive that you judged me unjustly and uncharitably?”
“That's to be seen yet, Mr. M'Clutchy, time will tell.”
“Well, then, make your mind easy; I shall take no proceedings in consequence of your situation—so far from that, I shall wait patiently till it is your convenience to pay the rent—so now, I wish you good day, Mr. M'Loughlin.”
“That is a beautiful exhibition of Christian spirit,” exclaimed Solomon, “good works are truly the fruit of faith.”
“Before you go,” said Phil, with a sneer, “will you allow me to ask how poor Mary is.”
M'Loughlin paused, and calmly looked first at Phil, and then at his father.
“Phil,” said the latter, “I shall order you out of the room, sir, if I hear another word on that unfortunate subject. I am very sorry, I assure you, Mr. M'Loughlin, for that untoward transaction—to be sure, I wish your daughter had been a little more prudent, but young ladies cannot, or at least, do not always regulate their passions or attachments; and so, when they make a false step, they must suffer for it. As for myself, I can only express my sincere regret that the faux pas happened, and that it should have got wind in such a way as to deprive the poor girl of her character.”
After contemplating the father and son for some time alternately, with a look in which was visible the most withering contempt and scorn, and which made them both quail before him, he replied:
“Your falsehood, scoundrels, is as vindictive as it is cowardly, and you both know it; but I am an honest man, and I feel to stoop to a defence of my virtuous child against either of you, would be a degradation to her as well as to myself. I therefore go, leaving you my contempt and scorn, I could almost say my pity.”
He then walked out, neither father nor son having thought it prudent to brave the expression of his eye by replying to his words.
“Now,” said Val, addressing Solomon, “let there be an execution issued without a moment's delay—the man is doomed, his hour has come; and so, may I never prosper, if I don't scatter him and his, houseless and homeless, to the four corners of heaven! I have meshed him at last, and now for vengeance.”
“But,” said Solomon, in a tone of slight remonstrance, “I trust, my dear M'Clutchy, that,in taking vengeance upon this man and his family, you will do so in a proper spirit, and guard against the imputations of an uncharitable world. When you take vengeance, let your motives be always pure and upright and even charitable—of course you expect and hope that you ruin this man and his; family for their own spiritual good. The affliction that you are about! to bring on them, will soften and subdue their hard and obstinate hearts, and lead them it is to be hoped, to a better and more Christian state of feeling. May He grant it!”
“Of course,” replied Val, humoring him in his hypocrisy, “of course it is from these motives I act; certainly it is.”
“In that case,” said Solomon, “I am bound to acknowledge that I never have heard a man vow vengeance, or express a determination to ruin his fellow creature, upon more delightfully Christian principles. It is a great privilege, indeed, to be able to ruin a whole family in such a blessed spirit, I have no doubt you feel it so.”
—Voice of the Ideal—Poll Doolin's Remorse—Conversation on Irish Property—Disclosure concerning Mary M'Laughlin
About dusk, on the evening of that day, Poll Doolin having put on her black bonnet, prepared to go out upon some matter of a private nature, as was clearly evident by her manner, and the cautious nature of all her movements. Raymond, who eyed her closely, at length said—
“Take care now—don't harm them.”
“Them!” replied Poll, “who do you mean by them?”
“The M'Loughlins—go and look at Mary, and then ask yourself why you join the divil:—there now, that's one. Who saved me? do you know that, or do you care? Very well, go now and join the divil, if you like, but I know what I'll do some fine night. Here he leaped in a state of perfect exultation from the ground.
“Why, what will you do?” said Poll.
“You'll not tell to-morrow,” replied Raymond, “neither will any one else; but I don't forget poor white-head, nor Mary M'Loughlin.”
“Well, keep the house like a good boy,” she said, “till I come back; and, if anybody should come in, or ask where I am, say that I went up to Jerry Hannigan's for soap and candles.”
“Ay, but that's not true, because I know you're goin' to join the divil; but, no matter—go there—you'll have his blessin' any how, and it's long since he gave it to you—with his left hand. I wish I wasn't your son—but no matther, no matther.”
She then peeped out to see that the coast was clear, and finding that all was safe, she turned her steps hurriedly and stealthily, in a direction leading from, instead of to Castle Cumber. When she was gone, Raymond immediately closed and bolted the door, and began as before, to spring up in the air in a most singular and unaccountable manner. The glee, however, which became apparent on his countenance, had an expression of ferocity that was frightful; his eyes gleamed with fire, his nostrils expanded, and a glare of terrible triumph lit up every feature with something of a lurid light.
“Ha, ha!” he exclaimed, addressing, as some imaginary individual, an old pillow which he caught up; “I have you at last—now, now, now; ha, you have a throat, have you? I feel it now, now, now! Ay, that will do; hoo, hoo—out with it, out with it; I see the tip of it only, but you must give better measure ay, that's like it. Hee, hee, hee! Oh, there—that same tongue never did you good, nor anybody else good—and what blessed eyes you have! they are comin' out, too, by degrees, as the lawyers goes to Heaven! Now! now! now! ay, where's your strugglin' gone to? It's little you'll make of it in Raymond's iron fingers—Halloo, this is for white-head, and white-head's—poor little white-head's—-father, and for poor little white-head's mother, and this—ay, the froth's comin' now, now, now—and this last's for poor Mary M'Loughlin! Eh, ho, ho! There now—settled at last, with your sweet grin upon you, and your tongue out, as if you were makin' fun of me—for a beauty you were, and a beauty you are, and there I lave you!”
While uttering these words, he went through with violent gesticulations, the whole course and form of physical action that he deemed necessary to the act of strangling worthy Phil, whose graceful eidolon was receiving at his hands this unpleasant specimen of the pressure from without. He had one knee on the ground, his huge arms moving with muscular energy, as he crushed and compressed the pillow, until the very veins of his forehead stood out nearly black with the force at once of hatred and exertion. Waving thus wrought his vengeance out to his own satisfaction, he once more, in imagination, transformed the pillow into his little white-head, as he loved to call him; and assumed a very different aspect from that which marked the strangulation scene just described.
“Come here,” said he—taking it up tenderly in his arms—“come here—don't be afeard now; there's nobody that can do you any harm. Ah! my poor white-head—don't! you want your mother to keep up your poor sick head, and to lay your poor pale face against her breast? And your father—you would like to get upon his knee and climb up to kiss him—wouldn't you, white-head? Yes, he says he would—white-head says he would—and tell me, sure I have the cock for you still; and if you want a drink I have-something better than bog wather for you—the sickening bog wather! Oh! the poor-pale face—and the poor sickly eye—up in the cowld mountains, and no one to think about you, or to give you comfort! Whisht now—be good—och, why do I say that, poor white-head—for sure you were always good! Well wait—bog wather—ah, no—but wait here—or come wid me—I won't lay you down, for I love you, my poor white-head; but come, and you must have it. My mother's gone out—and she's not good; but you must have it.”
He rose, still holding the pillow like a child in his arms, and going over to a cupboard, took from it a jug of milk, and so completely was he borne away by the force of his imagination that he actually poured a portion of the milk upon the pillow.
The act seemed for the moment to dispel, the illusion—but only for a moment; the benevolent heart of the poor creature seemed, to take delight in these humane reminiscences; and, almost immediately, he was. proceeding with his simple, but touching little drama.
“Well,” said he, “that's better than cowld bog wather; how would the rich like to see their sick childre put on cowld wather and cowld pratees? But who cares for the rich, for the rich doesn't care about huz; but no matther, white-head—if you'll only just open your eyes and spake to me, I'll give you the cock.” He gave a peculiar call, as he spoke, which was perfectly well known to the bird in question, which immediately flew from the roost, and went up to him; Raymond then gently laid the pillow down, and taking the cock up, put his head under one of his wings, and placed him on the pillow where he lay quietly and as if asleep. For many minutes he kept his eyes fixed upon the objects before him, until the image in his mind growing still stronger, and more distinct, became at last so painful that he, burst into tears.
“No,” said he, “he will never open his eyes again; he will never look upon any one more: and what will she do when she hasn't his white head before her?”
Whilst poor Raymond thus indulged himself in the caprices of a benevolent imagination, his mother was hastening to the house of Mr. Hickman, the former agent of the Castle Cumber property, with the intention of rendering an act of justice to an individual and a family whom she had assisted deeply and cruelly to injure. Whilst she is on the way, however, we will take the liberty of introducing our readers to Mr. Hickman's dining-room, where a small party are assembled; consisting of the host himself, Mr. Easel, the artist, Mr. Harman, and the Rev. Mr. Clement; and as their conversation bears upon the topic of which we write, we trust it may not be considered intruding upon private society to detail a part of it.
“Property in this country,” said Hickman, “is surrounded by many difficulties—difficulties which unfortunately fall chiefly upon those who cultivate it. In the first place, there is the neglect of the landlord; in the next, the positive oppression of either himself or his agent; in the third, influence of strong party feeling—leaning too heavily on one class, and sparing or indulging the other; and perhaps, what is worse than all, and may be considered the fons et origo malorum, the absence of any principle possessing shape or form, or that can be recognized as a salutary duty on the part of the landlord. This is the great want and the great evil. There should be a distinct principle to guide, to stimulate, and when necessary to restrain him; such a principle as would prevent him from managing his property according to the influence of his passions, his prejudices, or his necessities.”
“That is very true,” said Mr. Clement, “and there is another duty which a landlord owes to those who reside upon his property, but one which unfortunately is not recognized as such; I mean a moral duty. In my opinion a landlord should be an example of moral propriety and moderation to his tenantry, so as that the influence of his conduct might make a salutary impression upon their lives and principles. At present the landed Proprietary of Ireland find in the country no tribunal by which they are to be judged; a fact which gives them the full possession of unlimited authority; and we all know that the absence of responsibility is a great incentive to crime. No man in a free country should be invested with arbitrary power; and yet, it is undeniable that an Irish landlord can exercise it whenever he pleases.”
“Then what would you do,” said Easel; “where is your remedy?”
“Let there be protective laws enacted, which will secure the tenant from the oppression and injustice of the landlord. Let him not lie, as he does, at the mercy of his caprices, passions, or prejudices.”
“In other words,” said Harman, “set the wolves to form protective enactments for the sheep. I fear, my good sir, that such a scheme is much too Utopian for any practically beneficial purpose. In the meantime, if it can be done, let it. No legislation, however, will be able, in my mind, to bind so powerful a class as the landlords of Ireland are, unless a strong and sturdy public opinion is created in the country.”
“But how is this to be done?” asked Easel.
“It is to be done by educating the people; by teaching them their proper value in society; by instructing them in their moral and civil duties. Let them not labor under that humiliating and slavish error, that the landlord is everything, and themselves nothing; but let the absurdity be removed, and each party placed upon the basis of just and equal principle.”
“It is very right,” said Hickman, “to educate the people, but who is to educate the landlords?”
“A heavy task, I fear,” said Easel, “from what I have observed since I came to the country.”
“The public opinion I speak of will force them into a knowledge of their duties. At present they disregard public opinion, because it is too feeble to influence them; and consequently they feel neither fear nor shame. So long as the landlords and the people come together as opposing or antithetical principles, it is not to be supposed that the country can prosper.”
“But how will you guide or restrain the landlord in estimating the value of his property?” inquired Mr. Clement. “Here are two brothers, for instance, each possessed of landed property; one is humane and moderate, guided both by good sense and good feeling; this man will not overburthen his tenant by exacting an oppressive rent. The other, however, is precisely the reverse of him, being naturally either rapacious or profligate, or perhaps both; he considers it his duty to take as much out of the soil as he can, without ever thinking of the hardships which he inflicts upon the tenant. Now, how would you remedy this, and prevent the tenant from becoming the victim either of his rapacity or profligacy?”
“Simply by taking from him all authority in estimating the value of his own property.
“But how?” said Clement, “is not that an invasion of private right?”
“No; it is nothing more than a principle which transfers an unsafe privilege to other hands in order to prevent its abuse.”
“But how would you value the land?”
“I am not at this moment about to legislate for it; but I think, however, that it would be by no means difficult to find machinery sufficiently simple and effective for the purpose. I am clearly of opinion that there should, be a maximum value on all land, beyond which, unless for special purposes—such, for instance, as building—no landlord ought to be permitted to go. This would prevent an incredible amount of rack-renting and oppression on the one hand; and of poverty, revenge, and bloodshed on the other. Where is the landlord now who looks to the moral character or industrial habits of a tenant? Scarcely one. On the contrary, whoever bids highest, or bribes highest, is sure to be successful, without any reference to the very qualities which, in a tenant, ought to be considered as of most importance.”
“I have now,” said Easel, “made myself acquainted with the condition and management of the Castle Cumber property; and, truth to tell, I am not surprised at the frightful state of society upon it. M'Clutchy is the type of too numerous a class, and his son is a most consummate scoundrel. Why my—why Lord Cumber should have appointed him to his agency I cannot imagine.”
“But I can,” said Harman; “that which has appointed many a scoundrel like him—necessity on the part of the landlord, and a desire to extend his political influence in the county.”
“He could not have gone a more successful way about it, however,” observed Easel.
“If there be one curse,” observed Harman, “worse than another on any such property, it is to have for your agent an outrageous partisan—a man who is friendly to one party and inimical to another—a fellow who scruples not to avail himself of his position, for the gratification of party rancor, and who makes the performance of his duties subservient to his prejudices, both religious and political. Think, for instance, of a rancorous No-Popery-man being made agent to an estate where the majority of the tenantry are Catholics.”
“As is the case on the Castle Cumber estate,” said Easel.
“And as is the case on too many estates, throughout the country,” added Harman; but the truth is, that unless something is done soon to redress the local grievances of the people, there will, I fear, be bad work among us ere long. The tenantry are all ready in a state of tumult; they assemble on Sundays in vindictive-looking and suspicious groups; they whisper together, as if fraught with some secret purposes; and I am also told that they frequently hold nightly meetings to deliberate on what may be done. Between the M'Clutchys and M'Slimes, I must say they have ample cause for discontent.”
“Everything considered,” said Easel, “it is better that we should anticipate them. When I say we, you of course know who I mean; but indeed we shall expect every aid, and it will be welcome, no matter from what quarter it comes.”
“M'Clutchy and the estate in question are topics on which I wish not to speak,” said Hickman; “I do not blame Lord Cumber for dismissing me, Mr. Easel, the fact being—that I dismissed myself; but I most sincerely hope and trust, for the sake of the people, that some change for the better may take place. Good God, sir, how popular your——how popular Lord Cumber might become, and what a blessing to his tenantry and his country he might be in a short time.”
“I feel that, Mr. Hickman,” said Easel, “I feel it now, because I know it. In this instance, too, I trust that knowledge will be power. Lord Cumber, sir, like other Irish Lords, has nothing to detain him in his native country but his own virtue. His absence, however, and the absence of his class in general, is, I fear “—and he smiled as he spoke—a proof that his virtue, as an Irish nobleman, and theirs, is not sufficiently strong to resist the temptations of an English court, and all its frivolous, expensive, and fashionable habits. He has now no duty as an Irish peer to render his residence in Ireland, at least for a considerable portion of the year, a matter of necessity to his class and his country. However, let us not despair—I have reason to think that his brother has nearly succeeded in bringing him to a sense of his duty; and it is not impossible that the aspect of affairs may be soon changed upon his estate.”
“The sooner, the better, for the sake of the people,” said Harman. “By the by, Mr. Clement, are you to be one of the Reverend gladiators in this controversial tournay, which is about to take place in Castle Cumber?”
“No,” said Mr. Clement; “I look upon such exhibitions as manifestations of fanaticism, or bigotry, and generally of both. They are, in fact, productive of no earthly good, but of much lamentable evil; for instead of inculcating brotherly love, kindness, and charity—they inflame the worst passions of adverse creeds—engender hatred, ill-will, and fill the public mind with those narrow principles which disturb social harmony, and poison our moral feelings in the very fountain of the heart. I believe there is no instance on record of a sincere convert being made by such discussions.”
“But is there not an extensive system of conversion proceeding, called the New Reformation?” asked Easel. “It appears to me by the papers, that the Roman Catholic population are embracing Protestantism by hundreds.”
“How little are the true causes of great events known,” said Hickman, laughing; “who, for instance, would suppose that the great spiritual principle by which this important movement has been sustained is the failure of the potato crop in the country, where this gracious work is proceeding. One would think, if everything said were true, that there are epidemics in religion as well as in disease; but the truth is, that the knavery or distress of two or three Catholics who were relieved, when in a state of famine, by a benevolent and kind-hearted nobleman, who certainly would encourage neither dishonesty nor imposture, first set this Reformation agoing. The persons I speak of, fearing that his Lordship's benevolence might cease to continue, embraced Protestantism pro forma and pro tempore. This went abroad, and almost immediately all who were in circumstances of similar destitution adopted the same course, and never did man pay more dearly for evangelical truth than did his Lordship. In the forthcoming battle the parsons are to prove to the world that all who belong to Popery must be damned, whilst the priests, on the other hand, broil the parsons until they blaze in their own fat. But, my God, when will charity and common sense prevail over bigotry and brimstone!”
At this moment a servant entered to say that Poll Doolin—for she was well known—wished to see Mr. Harman on very particular business.
“I can scarcely bear to look on the wretch,” said Harman, “but as I Strongly suspect, that she may in some shape be useful to us, I desired her to come here. She called three times upon me, but I could not bring myself to see or speak to' her; she shall be the bearer of no messages to me,” he said bitterly, “let her carry them elsewhere; d—n her.”
He betrayed deep and powerful emotion as he spoke, but, as his allusions were understood, there was—from a respect for his feelings, on the part of his audience—no reply made to his observations.
“Since she called first,” said Harman, pursuing the train of melancholy thought, “some vague notion, like the shadow of a dream crossed me; but, alas! it is transgressing the bounds of imagination itself even to suppose that it could be true. However, if it were, it is in your presence, sir” he said, addressing himself to Easel, “that I should wish to have it detailed; and, perhaps, after all, this slight, but latent reflection of hope, influenced me in desiring her to come here. Gentlemen, excuse me,” said he, covering his face with his hands, “I am very wretched and unhappy—I cannot account for what has occurred; it looks like an impossibility, but it is true. Oh, if he were a man!—but, no, no, you all know how contemptible—what a dastardly scoundrel he is!”
“Harman, my dear fellow,” said Hickman, “we understand you, we respect your feelings, and we sympathize with you—but, in the meantime, do see and hear this woman.”
He had scarcely uttered the words when the servant entered, stating that she was at the door.
“Let her come in,” said Harman; “let the vile wretch come in.”
“And, do you, John, withdraw,” said Hickman.
Poll Doolin entered.
Her appearance threw Harman into a violent state of agitation; he trembled, got pale, and seemed absolutely sickened by the presence of the wicked wretch who had been the vile instrument of Phil M'Clutchy's success, of Mary M'Loughlin's dishonor, and of his own unhappiness. It was the paleness, however, of indignation, of distress, of misery, of despair. His blood, despite the paleness of his face, absolutely boiled in his veins, and that the more hotly, because he had no object on which he could wreak his vengeance. Poll, who was always cool, and not without considerable powers of observation, at once noticed the tumult of his feelings, and, as if replying to them, said—
“I don't blame you, Mr. Harman, thinkin' as you do; the sight of me is not pleasant to you—and, indeed, you don't hate me more than you ought.”
“What is your business with me?” said Harman.
Poll looked around her for a moment, and replied—
“I'm glad of it, the more the better; Francis Harman,” she proceeded, “sit down, and listen to me; yes, listen to me—for I have it in my power to make you a happy man.”
“Great God! could my dream be true?” said Harman, placing himself in the chair.
“Listen to me,” she continued.
“I listen; be brief—for I am in no humor for either falsehood or imposture.”
“I never bore you ill-will,” she said, “and yet I have—and may God forgive me for it I—scalded the very heart within you.”
Harman again covered his face with his hands and groaned.
“Will it relieve your heart to know that Mary M'Loughlin's an innocent and a slandered girl?”
“Prove that,” said Harman, starting to his feet, “oh, prove that, Poll, and never whilst I have life shall you want a—but, alas!” he exclaimed, “I am a beggar, and can promise you nothing.”
“And I'll tell you who beggared you before all is over—but, as I said, listen. It's now fifteen years since Brian M'Loughlin transported my son Dick, for stealin' a horse from him; he was my only son, barrin' poor Raymond, who was then a mere slip. He was a fine young man, but he was wild and wicked, and it was in Squire Deaker's house, and about Squire Deaker's stables, that he picked up his dishonesty and love of horses—he was groom to that ould profligate, who took him into sarvice for a raison he had.”
“Be as brief as you can,” said Harman, “brief—brief.”
“On the contrary, Mr. Harman,” said Clement, “let her, if you will be advised by me, take her own time, and her own way.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Poll, “that's just what I wish. Well, he, M'Loughlin, transported my boy, that my heart was in, and from that minute I swore never to die till I'd revenge that act upon him. Very well—I kept my word. Phil M'Clutchy sent for me, and in his father's presence, we made up a plot to disgrace Miss M'Loughlin. I brought her out two or three times to meet me privately, and it was all on your account, by the way, for I tould her you were in danger; and I so contrived it, that on one or two occasions you should see myself and her together. I made her promise solemnly not to tell that she saw me, or mention what passed between us, or if she did, that your life was not safe; her love for you, kept her silent even to yourself. But it was when you were sent to gaol, that we found we had the best opportunity of ruining her, which was all I wanted: but Phil, the boy, wished to give you a stab as well as her. As for myself it was in for a penny, in for a pound with me, and I didn't care a traheen what you suffered, provided I had my revenge on any one belongin' to Brian M'Loughlin, that transported my son.”
“Is Mary M'Loughlin innocent?” asked Harman, starting from his seat, and placing his face within a few inches of Poll Doolin's.
Poll calmly put her hand upon his shoulder, and said:—
“Sit down, young man; don't disturb or stop me in what I'm sayin', and you'll come the sooner at the truth.”
“You are right,” he replied, “but who can blame me?—my happiness depends on it.”
“Listen,” said she, “we made up a plan that she was to meet Phil behind her father's garden—and why? Why, because I told her that Val had made up his mind to hang you; but I said that Phil, for her sake, could prevent that, and save you, if she would only see him that he might clear himself of some reports that had gone abroad on him. For your sake she consented to that; but not until I had brought her nearly to despair, and till she believed that there was no other hope for you. It was Val M'Clutchy, though, that put me up to bring several of the neighbors, and among the rest your own cousin, to witness the trick of Phil's gettin' in at the windy; as it was his to bring the bloodhounds, at the very minute, to catch the scoundrel in the poor girl's bedroom. That was enough; all the wather in the say couldn't wash her white, when this was given to the tongue of scandal to work upon.”
“But,” said Mr. Clement, “you unfortunate woman, let me ask, why you suffered Mr. Harman to live under a conviction of Miss M'Loughlin's guilt?”
“I tould you I had sworn to be revenged on either him, M'Loughlin, or his; and so I was—may God forgive me!—but one day that my poor foolish son undertook to convey Hugh Roe O'Regan's wife across the ford of Drum Dhu river while in a flood, he lost his footing, and never would breathe the breath of life again, only that God sent John M'Loughlin to the spot, and at the risk of his own life, he saved poor Raymond's. From that day out my heart changed. If one son was sent from me in life, the other was saved from death; and I swore to tell you the truth. But that's not the only injury I have done you. They put me up, and so did Solomon M'Slime, to drop hints wherever I went, that you and Mr. M'Loughlin were on the point of failin'; and, I believe, from some words I heard Phil say to Solomon one morning, that they put something into the paper that injured you.”
“What was it you heard?” said Hickman.
“Phil said—'all right, Solomon, it's in—and—d—n my honor and reputation, but it will set a screw loose in the same firm;' he was reading the paper as he spoke.”
“All this is of great value,” said Easel, “and must be made use of.”
“As for me,” said Harman in an impassioned voice, “I care not a jot for our bankruptcy; the great and oppressive evil of my heart is removed; I ought, I admit, to have known that admirable girl better than to suffer any suspicion of; her to have-entered into my heart; but, then, I must have discredited my own eyes—and so I ought. God bless you, Poll! I forgive you all that you and those malignant villains have made me suffer, in consequence of what you have just now disclosed to us.”
“I could not have believed this,” observed Easel; “I scarcely thought that such profound infamy was in human nature. Good God—and these two men hold the important offices of Head and Under Agent on the Castle Cumber estate!”
“Have you nothing particular, Poll, about that pious little man, M'Slime?” asked Hickman. Poll, however, who in no instance was ever known to abuse professional confidence, shook her head in the negative.
“No;” said she, “I know nothing that I can tell about him; honor bright's my motive—no—no. However, thank God, I've aised my mind by tellin' the truth, and when you see Mr. M'Loughlin, Mr. Harman, I'll thank you to let him know that I have done his daughter justice, and that from the minute his son saved mine, I had no ill-will to him or his family.” She then departed.
A Ribbon Lodge—Their Crimes against the People,—Their Doom and Sentence—A Rebel Priest Preaching Treason—A Respite.
It is undoubtedly a fact, as was observed in the dialogue just given, that the state of affairs on this property was absolutely fearful. The framework of society was nearly broken up, for such was the heartless rapacity and cruelty—such the multiplied and ingenious devices by which he harassed and robbed the tenantry, or wreaked his personal vengeance on all who were obnoxious to him or his son, that it was actually impossible matters could proceed much longer in a peaceable state. If the reader will accompany us to a large waste house, from which a man had been some time before ejected, merely because Val had a pique against him, he may gather from the lips of the people themselves, there assembled, on the very night in question, sufficiently clear symptoms of the state of feeling in the neighborhood.
The hour at which they assembled, or rather began to assemble, was eleven o'clock, from which period until twelve they came in small groups of two or three at a time; so as to avoid observation on the way. Some of them had their faces blackened, and others who appeared utterly indifferent to consequences, did not think it worth their while to assume such a disguise. The waste house in which they were assembled, stood on a hillside, about half way between Castle Cumber and Drum Dhu; so that its isolated situation was an additional proof of their security from, surprise by the bloodhounds. The party were nearly all armed, each with such weapons as he could get, and most of them with fire or side arms, such as they were. They had several lights, but so cautious were they, that quilts and window-cloth's were brought to hang over the windows, to prevent them from being seen; for it was well known that the house was not inhabited, and the appearance of lights in it would most certainly send the wreckers on their back; as it was, however, they obviated all danger of this in the way I mention. When these men were met together, it might be supposed that they presented countenances marked by savage and ferocious passions, and that atrocity and cruelty were the-predominating traits in each face. This, however, was not so. In general they were just as any other number of men brought together for any purpose might be. Some, to be sure, among them betrayed strong indications of animal impulse; but taken together, they looked just as I say. When they were all nearly assembled, one might-naturally imagine that the usual animated dialogue and discussions, which the cause that brought them together furnished, would have taken place. This, however, was not the case. On the contrary, there was something singularly wild, solemn, and dreadful, in their comparative quietness; for silence we could not absolutely term it.
There were many reasons for this. In the first place, there existed an apprehension of the yeomanry and cavalry, who had on more than one occasion surprised meetings of this description before. 'Tis true they had sentinels placed—but the sentinels themselves had been made prisoners of by parties of yeomen and blood-hounds, who had come in colored clothes, in twos and threes, like the Ribbon men themselves. There were other motives, however, for the stillness which prevailed—motives which, when we consider them, invest the whole proceedings with something that is calculated to fill the mind with apprehension and fear. Here were men unquestionably assembled for illegal purposes—for the perpetration of crime—for the shedding of human blood. But in what light did they view this terrible determination? Simply as a redress of grievances; as the only means left them of doing that for themselves which the laws refused to do for them. They keenly and bitterly felt the scourge of the oppressor, who, under the sanction, and in the name of those laws which ought to have protected them, left scarcely anything undone to drive them to desperation; and now finding that the law existed only for their punishment, they resolved to legislate for themselves, and retaliate on their oppressor. There is an awful lesson in all this; for it is certainly a frightful thing to see law and justice so partially and iniquitously administered as to disorganize society, and to make men look upon murder as an act of justice, and the shedding of blood as a moral triumph, if not a moral virtue. When, therefore, the very little conversation which took place among them, and that little in so low a tone, is placed in connection with the dark and deadly object of their meeting, it is no wonder that one cannot help feeling strangely and fearfully on contemplating it.
About twelve o'clock they were all assembled but one individual, whom they appeared to expect, and for whom they looked out eagerly. Indeed they all came to a unanimous resolution of doing nothing that pertained to the business of the night until he should come. For this purpose they had not to wait long. A little past twelve a tall and powerful young man entered, leading by the hand poor insane Mary O'Regan—his pitiable and unconscious mother. He had heard of the death of his brother, during the cruel scene at Drum Dhu, and of the other inhuman outrage which had driven her mad. He had come from a remote part of England with the single, fixed, and irrevocable purpose of wreaking vengeance on the head of him who had brought madness, desolation, and death upon his family.
On his entering, there was a slight low murmur of approbation, but the appearance of his mother caused it to die away. This, however, was almost immediately succeeded by another of a very different character—one in which there was a blending of many feelings—compassion, rage, revenge. The first thing the young man did was to take a candle in his hand, and hold it first close to his mother, so as that she might be distinctly seen, and afterward, near to his own face, in order that she might have a clear and equally distinct view of him. “Mother,” said he, then, in a full voice, “do you know your son?” Her eye was upon him as he spoke, but it was vacant; there appeared no trace of recognition or meaning in it.
“You all see that miserable sight,” said he—“there my mother stands, and doesn't know who it is that is spaking to her. There she stands, blasted and destroyed by the oppressor. You all see this heart-breaking sight with your own eyes, and you all know who did it.”
'Tis singular how closely virtue and crime are allied! The very sympathy excited by this touching and melancholy spectacle—the very tenderness of the compassion that was felt for the mother and son, hardened the heart in a different sense, and stimulated them to vengeance.
“Now,” said the young man, whose name was Owen, “let them that have been oppressed and harassed by this Vulture, state their grievances, one at a time.”
An old man near sixty rose up, and after two or three attempts to speak, was overpowered by his feelings, and burst into tears. “Poor Jemmy Devlin!” they exclaimed, “may God pity you!”
“Spake for Jemmy, some of you, as the poor man isn't able to spake for himself.”
“Why, the case was this,” said a neighbor of the poor man's. “Jemmy's son, Peter, was abused by Phil, the boy, because he didn't pay him duty-work, and neglect his own harvest. He told Peter that he was a Popish rebel and would be hanged. Peter told him to his teeth that he was a liar, and that he couldn't be good, havin' the father's bastard dhrop in him. That was very well, but one night in about a month afterwards, the house was surrounded by the bloodhounds, poor Peter's clo'es searched, and some Ribbon papers found in them; they also got, or pretended to get, other papers in the thatch of the house. The boy was dragged out of his bed, sent to goal, tried, found guilty on the evidence of the bloodhounds, and sentenced to be flogged three times; but never was flogged a third time, for he died on the fourth day after the second flogging; and so, bein' an only son—indeed all the child the poor couple had—the old man is now childless and distracted, God help him!”
“Very well,” exclaimed Owen bitterly—“very well—who next?”
A man named M'Mahon rose up,—“The curse of the Almighty God may for ever rest upon him!” he exclaimed. “He transported my two brave sons, because they were White-boys; and if they were, who made them Whiteboys but himself and his cruelty? I will never see my darling sons' faces again, but if I die without settlin' accounts wid him, may I never know happiness here or hereafter!”
The usual murmur of commiseration followed this.
“Well,” said Owen, “whose turn comes next?”
About a dozen of those who had been turned out of Drum Dhu now stood up.
“We were turned out,” said one of them, who acted as spokesman, “on one of the bittherest days that God ever sent on the earth; out of shame, I believe, because your brother and ould Mary Casey died, he let us back for a few days, but after that we had to flit. Some of the houses he had pulled down, and then he had to build them again for his voters. Oh, if it was only known what we suffered!”
“And why did he turn you out?”
“Why, because we didn't promise to vote as he wished.”
“He took my crop,” said another, “at his own valuation, drew it home, and stacked it until the markets rose. I know what he got beyond the rent,” proceeded the man, “but divil a rap ever the villain gave me back of the surplus, but put it in his pocket—and now I and my family are starving.”
“Ay, and,” said another, “he took five firkins of as good butter from me as ever was made by hand, and at his own price, too. What could I do?—he said it was as a friend he did it; but if I objected to it, he said he must only seize. May the divil seize him, at any rate, as he will, the villain, I trust in God! He got to my own knowledge, thirteen pence a pound for it, and all he allowed me for it was eight pence halfpenny. May the devil run an auger through him, or baste his sowl wid it, this night; for of all the villains that ever cursed an estate, he's the greatest—barrin' the scoundrel that employs him.”
A poor but decent-looking man rose up. “I could bear,” said he, “his cheating, or his defrauding me out of my right—I could bear that, although it's bad enough too; but when I think of the shame and disgrace his son brought upon my innocent girl, undher his father's roof, where she was at sarvice—may God curse him this night! My child—my child—when I think of what she was, and what she is, sure the thought of it is enough to drive me distracted, and to break my heart. Are we to live undher sich men? Ought we to allow sich villains to tramp us undher their feet? When I spoke to his blasted son about ruinin' my child—'My good fellow,' says he, 'if you don't keep a civil tongue in your head, I will trot you off the estate—I will send you to graze somewhere else. It's d—d proud you ought to feel for your daughter having a child by the like o' me;'—for that's the way—they first injure us, and kick us about as they plaise, and then laugh at and insult us.”
Another man got up. “You all know,” said he, “that I hould fourteen acres in the townland of Augha-Winchal; and when Jerry Grogan went to America last spring, I offered for his farm of twelve acres, that lay into my own, marchin it. I offered him the rent he axed, which indeed was too much at any rate—but it lay so snug to me, that I could take more out of it than another. 'You shall have the farm, Frank,' said he; 'but if you do, there must be ten pounds of an Imput.'* Well and good, I paid him the ten pounds, and Paddy Gormly, of Aughadarragh, gave him another Input for the same farm; and yet, hell bellis the villain, he gave it to neither of us, but to one of his own Blood-hounds, who gave him twenty for it. But that wasn't all—when I axed him for my money, he laughs in iny face, and says, 'Is 'it jokin' you are? Keep yourself quiet,' says he, 'or may be I'll make it a black joke to you.' Hell re-save him!”