"It couldn't be done," said he.
"No," replied the other, whose name was Grimes, "we can't make any differ between one and another--so out he goes."
"Father," observed the meek boy, "let them. I will only be the sooner in heaven."
He was placed sitting up in bed by the bailiff's, trembling in the cold rush of the blast; but the moment the father saw their polluted and sacrilegious hands upon him--he rushed forward accompanied by his mother.
"Stay," he said, in a loud, hoarse voice, "since you will have him out, let our hands, not yours, be upon him."
The ruffian told him they could not stand there all day, and without any farther respect for their feelings, they rudely wrapped the bed-clothes about him, and, carrying him out, he was placed upon a chair before the door. His parents were immediately beside him, and took him now into then own care; but it was too late--he smiled as he looked into their faces, then looked at his little brother, and giving one long drawn sigh, he passed, without pain or suffering, saving a slight shudder, into happiness. O'Regan, when he saw that his noble and beloved boy was gone, surrendered him into the keeping of his wife and other friends, who prevented his body from falling off the chair. He then bent his eye sternly upon the group of bailiffs, especially upon the rude ruffian, Grimes, whose conduct was so atrocious.
"Now listen," said he, kneeling down beside his dead son--"listen all of you that has wrought this murder of my dying boy! He is yet warm,"
he added, grinding his teeth and looking up to heaven, "and here beside him, I pray, that the gates of mercy may be closed upon my soul through sill eternity, if I die without vengeance for your death, my son!"
His mother, who was now in a state between stupor and distraction, exclaimed--
"To be sure, darling, and I'll assist you, and so will Torley."
The death of this boy, under circumstances of such incredible cruelty, occasioned even M'Clutchy to relax something of his original intentions.
He persisted, however, in accomplishing all the ejectments without exception, but when this was over, he allowed them to re-occupy their miserable cabins, until the weather should get milder, and until such of them as could, might be able to procure some other shelter for themselves and families.
When all was over, M'Slime, who had brought with him a sheaf of tracts for their spiritual sustenance, saw, from the deeply tragic character of the proceedings, that he might spare himself the trouble of such Christian sympathy as he wished to manifest for their salvation. He and M'Clutchy, to whom, by the way, he presented the truly spiritual sustenance of some good brandy out of a flask, with which he balanced the tracts in his other pocket, then took their way in the very centre of the Dashers, leaving behind them all those sorrows of life, for which, however, they might well be glad to exchange their consciences and their wealth.
The circumstances which we have just described, were too striking not to excite considerable indignation among all reasonable minds at the time.
An account of that day's proceedings got into the papers, but was so promptly and fully contradicted by the united testimony of M'Clutchy and M'Slime, that the matter was made to appear very highly complimentary to the benevolence and humanity of both. "So far from the proceedings in question," the contradiction went on to say, "being marked by the wanton cruelty and inhumanity imputed to them, they were, on the contrary, as remarkable for the kindness and forbearance evinced by Messrs. M'Clutchy and M'Slime. The whole thing was a mere legal form, conducted in a most benevolent and Christian spirit. The people were all restored to their tenements the moment the business of the day was concluded, and we cannot readily forget the admirable advice and exhortation offered to them, and so appropriately offered by Solomon M'Slime, Esq., the truly Christian and benevolent law agent of the property in question."
By these proceedings, however, M'Clutchy had gained Ms point, which was, under the guise of a zealous course of public duty, to create a basis on which to ground his private representations of the state of the country to government. He accordingly lost no time in communicating on the subject with Lord Cumber, who at once supported him in the project of raising a body of cavalry for the better security of the public peace; as, indeed, it was his interest to do, inasmuch, as it advanced his own importance in the eye of government quite as much as it did M'Clutchy's.
A strong case was therefore made out by this plausible intriguer. In a few days after the affair of Drum Dhu, honest Val contrived to receive secret information of the existence of certain illegal papers which clearly showed that there existed a wide and still spreading conspiracy in the country. As yet, he said, he could not ground any proceeding of a definite character upon them.
The information, he proceeded to say, when writing to the Castle, which came to him anonymously, was to the effect that by secretly searching the eaves of certain houses specified in the communication received, he would find documents, clearly corroborating the existence and design of the conspiracy just alluded to. That he had accordingly done so, and to his utter surprise, found that his anonymous informant was right. He begged to enclose copies of the papers, together with the names of the families residing in the houses where they were found. He did not like, indeed, to be called a "Conspiracy hunter," as no man more deprecated their existence; but he was so devotedly attached to the interests of his revered sovereign, and those of his government, that no matter at what risk, either of person or reputation, he would never shrink from avowing or manifesting that attachment to them. And he had the honor to be, his very obedient servant.
Valentine M'Clutohy, J.P.
P.S.--He begged to enclose for his perusal a letter from his warm friend, Lord Cumber, on the necessity, as he properly terms it, of getting up a corps of cavalry, which is indeed a second thought, as they would be much better adapted, upon long pursuits and under pressing circumstances, for scouring the country, which is now so dreadfully disturbed. And has once more the honor to be, Val M'C.
Representations like these, aided by that most foolish and besotted tendency which so many of the ignorant and uneducated peasantry have of entering into such associations, did not fail in working out M'Clutchy's designs. Most of those in whose houses these papers were placed, fled the country, among whom was O'Regan, whose dying son Deaker's Dashers treated with such indefensible barbarity; and what made everything appear to fall in with his good fortune, it was much about this period that Grimes, the unfeeling man whom O'Regan appeared to have in his eye when he uttered such an awful vow of vengeance, was found murdered not far from his own house, with a slip of paper pinned to his coat, on which were written, in a disguised hand the words--"Remember O'Regan's son, and let tyrants tremble."
Many strong circumstances appeared to bring this murder home to O'Regan.
From the day of his son's death until the illegal papers were found in the eave of his house, he had never rested one moment. His whole soul seemed darkly to brood over that distressing event, and to have undergone a change, as it were, from good to evil. His brow lowered, his cheek got gaunt and haggard, and his eye hollow and wolfish with ferocity. Neither did he make any great secret of his intention to execute vengeance on those who hurried his dying child out of life whilst in the very throes of dissolution. He was never known, however, to name any names, nor to mark out any particular individual for revenge. His denunciations were general, but fearful in their import.
The necessity, too, of deserting his wife and child sealed his ruin, which was not hard to do, as the man was at best but poor, or merely able, as it is termed, to live from hand to mouth. His flight, therefore, and all the circumstances of the case considered, it is not strange that he was the object of general suspicion, and that the officers of justice were sharply on the lookout for a clue to him.
In this position matters were, when the Castle Cumber corps of cavalry made their appearance under all the glitter of new arms, housings and uniforms, with Valentine M'Clutchy as their captain and paymaster, and graceful Phil as lieutenant. Upon what slight circumstances do great events often turn. Because Phil had an ungainly twist in his legs, or in other words, because he was knock-kneed, and could not appear to advantage as an infantry officer, was the character of the corps changed from foot to cavalry, so that Phil and Handsome Harry had an opportunity of exhibiting their points together. A year had now elapsed, and the same wintry month of December had again returned, and yet no search had been successful in finding any trace of O'Regan; but if our readers will be so good as to accompany us to another scene, they will have an opportunity of learning at least the character which M'Clutchy's new corps had won in the country.
CHAPTER VIII.--Poverty and Sorrow
A Winter Morning--Father Roche--A Mountain Journey--Raymond Na-hattha--Cabin on the Moors--M'Clutchy's Bloodhounds--The Conflict--A Treble Death.
It is the chill and ghastly dawn of a severe winter morning; the gray, cheerless opening of day borrows its faint light only for the purpose of enabling you to see that the country about you is partially covered with snow, and that the angry sky is loaded with storm. The rising sun, like some poverty-stricken invalid, driven, as it were, by necessity, to the occupation of the day, seems scarcely able to rise, and does so with a sickly and reluctant aspect. Abroad, there is no voice of joy or kindness--no cheerful murmur with which the heart can sympathize--all the warm and exhilarating harmonies that breathe from nature in her more genial moods are silent. A black freezing spirit darkens the very light of day, and throws its dismal shadow upon everything about us, whilst the only sounds that fall upon the ear are the roaring of the bitter winds among the naked trees, or the hoarse voice of the half-frozen river, rising and falling--now near, and now far away in the distance.
On such a morning as this it was, and at such an hour, that a pale-faced, thin woman, with all the melancholy evidences of destitution and sorrow about her, knocked at the door of her parish priest, the Rev. Francis Roche. The very knock she gave had in it a character of respectful but eager haste. Her appearance, too, was miserable, and as she stood in the cold wintry twilight, it would have satisfied any one that deep affliction and wasting poverty were both at her humble heart.
She had on neither shoe nor stocking, and the consequence was, that the sharp and jagged surface of the frozen ground, rendered severer by the impatient speed of her journey, had cut her feet in such a manner that the blood flowed from them in several places. Cloak or bonnet she had none; but instead of the former her humble gown was turned over her shoulders, and in place of the latter she wore a thin kerchief, drawn round her head, and held under her chin with one hand, as the lower classes of Irishwomen do in short and hasty journeys. Her journey, however, though hasty in this instance, was by do means short; and it was easy to perceive by her distracted manner and stifled sobs, that however poorly protected against the bitter elements, she had a grief within which rendered her insensible to their severity.
It was also apparent, that, though humble in life, she possessed, like thousands of her countrywomen, a mind of sufficient compass and strength to comprehend, when adequately moved, the united working of more than one principle at the same moment. We have said it was evident that she was under the influence of deep sorrow, but this was not all--a second glance might disclose the exhibition of a still higher principle. The woman was at prayer, and it was easy to perceive by the beads which she held in her fervently clasped hands, by the occasional knocking of her breast, and the earnest look of supplication to heaven, that her soul poured forth its aspirations in the deep-felt and anxious spirit of that religion, which affliction is found so often to kindle in the peasant's heart. She had only knocked a second time when the door was opened, and having folded up her beads, she put them into her bosom, and entering the priest's house, immediately found herself in the kitchen. In a moment a middle-aged woman, with a rush light in her hand, stirred up the greeshough, and raking the live turf out of it, she threw on a dozen well-dried peats out of the chimney corner, and soon had a comfortable and blazing fire, at which the afflicted creature, having first intimated her wish that his reverence should accompany her home, was desired to sit until he should be ready to set out.
"Why, then," exclaimed the good-natured woman, "but you had abitther thramp of it this cowld and cuttin' mornin'--and a cowld and cuttin'
mornin' it is--for sure didn't I feel as if the very nose was whipt off o' me when I only wint to open the door for you. Sit near the fire, achora, and warm yourself--throth myself feels like a sieve, the way the cowld's goin' through me;--sit over, achora, sit over, and get some heat into you."
"Thank you," said the woman, "but you know it's not a safe thing to go near the fire when one is frozen or very cowld--'twould only make me worse when I go out again, besides givin' me pain now."
"Och, troth you're right, I forgot that--but you surely didn't come far, if one's to judge by your dress; though, God knows, far or near, you have the light coverin' an you for such a morning as this is, the Lord be praised!"
"I came better than three miles," replied the woman.
"Than what?"
"Than three miles."
"Saver above, is it possible! without cloak or bonnet, shoe or stockin'--an' you have your affliction at home, too, poor thing; why the Lord look down an you, an' pity you I pray his blessed name this day!
Stop, I must warm you a drink of brave new milk, and that'll help to put the cowld out of your heart--sit round here, from the breath of that back door--I'll have it ready for you in a jiffey; throth will I, an'
you'll see it'll warm you and do you good."
"God help me," exclaimed the woman, "I'll take the drink, bekase I wouldn't refuse your kind heart; but it's not meat, nor drink, nor cowld, nor storm, that's throublin' me--I could bear all that, and many a time did--but then I had _him!_ but now who's to comfort us--who are we to look to--who is to be our friend? Oh, in the wide world--but God is good!"--said she, checking herself from a pious apprehension that she was not sufficiently submissive to his will, "God is good--but still it's hard to think of losing him."
"Well, you won't lose him, I hope," said the good creature, stirring the new milk with a spoon, and tasting it to ascertain if it was warm enough--"Of coorse it's your husband you--whitch! whitch!--the divil be off you for a skillet, I've a'most scalded myself wid you--it's so thin that it has a thing boilin' before you could say Jack Robinson. Here now, achora, try it, an' take care it's not a trifle too hot--it'll comfort you, anyhow."
It is in a country like Ireland, where there is so much of that close and wasting poverty which constitutes absolute misery, that these beautiful gushes of pure and tender humanity are to be found, which spring in the obscurity of life out of the natural goodness and untutored piety of the Irish heart. It is these virtues, unseen and unknown, as they generally are, except by the humble individuals on whom they are exerted--that so often light up by their radiance the darkness and destitution of the cold and lowly cabin, and that gives an unconscious sense of cheerfulness under great privations, which those who do not know the people often attribute to other and more discreditable causes.
While the poor woman in question was drinking the warm milk--the very best restorative by the way which she could get--for poverty is mostly forced to find out its own humble comforts--Father Roche entered the kitchen, buttoned up and prepared for the journey. On looking at her he seemed startled by the scantiness of her dress on such a morning--and when she rose up at his entrance and dropped him a curtesy, exclaiming, "God save you, Father!"--at the same time swallowing down the remainder of the milk that she might not lose a moment; he cast his eye round the kitchen to see whether she had actually come in the dress she wore.
"How far have you come this morning, my poor woman?" he inquired.
"From the ride of the Sliebeen More Mountains, plaise your reverence."
"What, in your present dress! without shoe or stocking?"
"True enough, sir; but indeed it was little the cowld, or sleet, or frost, troubled me."
"Yes, God help you, I can believe that too--for I understand the cause of it too well--but have hope--Katty, what was that you gave her?"
"A mouthful of warm milk, your reverence, to put the cowld out of her heart."
"Ah, Katty, I wish we could put sorrow and affliction out of it--but you did well and right in the meantime; still you must do better, Katty, lend her your cloak--and your shoes and stockings too, poor thing!"
"I'm oblaged to your reverence," she replied, "but indeed I won't feel the want of them; as I said, there's only one thought that I am suffering about--and that is, for your reverence to see my husband before he departs."