Irwin had him again by the neck--"Silence," said he, "or, as heaven's above mo, I'll drive your brainless skull in with the butt of my pistol."
"You are satisfied," continued M'Loughlin, "that there are no arms here.
I hope you will now withdraw. As for you, treacherous and cowardly spawn of a treacherous and cowardly father, go home and tell him to do his worst.--that I scorn and defy him--that I will live to see him----; but I am wrong,he is below our anger, and I will not waste words upon him."
"You will find you have used a thrifle too many for all that," said another of them; "when he hears them, you may be sure he'll put them in his pocket for you--as hear them he will."
"We don't care a d--n," said another, "what he does to blackguard Papishes, so long as he's a right good Orangeman, and a right good Protestant, too."
"Come now," said Irwin, "our duty is over--let us start for home; we have no further business here."
"Won't you give us something to drink?" asked a new voice; "I think we desarve it for our civility. We neither broke doors nor furniture, nor stabbed either bed or bed-clothes. We treated you well, and if you're dacent you'll treat us well."
"Confound him," said a fresh hand; "I'd not drink his cursed Papish whiskey. Sure the Papishes gets the priest to christen it for them. I wouldn't drink his cursed Papish whiskey."
"No, nor I," said several voices;--upon which a loud and angry dispute arose among them, as to whether it were consistent with true loyalty, and the duties of a staunch Protestant and Orangeman, to drink 'Papish liquor,' as they termed it, at all.
Irwin, who joined the negative party, insisted strongly that it would be disgraceful for any man who had drunk the glorious, pious, and immortal memory, ever to contaminate his loyal lips with whiskey that had been made a Papish of by the priest. This carried the argument, or otherwise it is hard to say what mischief might have arisen, had they heightened their previous intoxication.
Phil, during this dialogue, still retained his place in the centre of his friends; but from time to time he kept glancing from under his eyebrows at M'Loughlin and his sons, in that spaniel-like manner, which betrays a consciousness of offence and a dread of punishment.
Irwin now caused them to move off; and, indeed, scarcely anything could be more ludicrous than the utter prostration of all manly feeling upon the part of the chief offender. On separating, the same baleful and pallid glances were exchanged between the brothers, who clearly possessed an instinctive community of feeling upon the chief incident of the night--we mean that of finding M'Clutchy in their sister's bedroom.
Irwin noticed their mute, motionless, but ghastly resentment, as did Phil himself, who, whether they looked at him or not, felt that their eyes were upon him, and that come what might, so long as he remained in the country he was marked as their victim. This consciousness of his deserts was not at all lessened by the observations of Irwin upon his conduct; for be it known, that although there subsisted a political bond that caused Phil and the violent spirits of the neighborhood to come frequently together, yet nothing could exceed the contempt which they felt for him in his private and individual capacity.
"Brother M'Clutchy," said Irwin, "I'm afraid you've made a bad night's work of it. By the moon above us, I wouldn't take the whole Castle Cumber property and stand in your shoes from this night out."
"Why so?" said Phil, who was now safe and beyond their immediate reach; "why so, Irwin? I'll tell you what, Irwin; d---- my honor, but I think you're cowardly. Did you see how steady I was to-night? Not a syllable escaped my lips; but, zounds, didn't you see how my eye told?"
"Faith, I certainly did, brother Phil, and a devilish bad tale it told, too, for yourself. Your father has promised me a new lease, with your life in it; but after this night, and after what I saw, I'll beg to have your name left out of that transaction."
"But didn't you see, George," returned Phil, "that a man of them durstn't look me in the face? They couldn't stand my eye; upon my honor they couldn't."
"Ay," said Burke, "that's because they're Papishes. A rascally Papish can never look a Protestant in the face."
"Well but," said Phil, "you would not believe that the girl was so fond of me as she is, until you saw it. I knew very well they had no arms; so, as I wished to give you an opportunity of judging for yourselves, I put the journey upon that footing."
"Well," said Irwin, "we shall see the upshot--that's all."
They then escorted Phil home, after which they dispersed.
When M'Loughlin's family assembled in the parlor, after their departure, a deep gloom I brooded over them for some minutes. Mary herself was the first to introduce the incident which gave them so much distress, and in which she herself had been so painfully involved. She lost not a moment, therefore, in relating fully and candidly the whole nature of her intercourse with Poll Doolin, and the hopes held out to her of Harman's safety, through Phil M'Clutchy. At the same time, she expressed in forcible language, the sacrifice of feeling which it had cost her, and the invincible disgust with which she heard his very name alluded to. She then simply related the circumstance of his entering her room through the open window, and her belief, in consequence of the representations of Poll Doolin, that he did so out of his excessive anxiety to prevent bloodshed by the troopers--the trampling of whose horses' feet and the ringing of whose arms had so completely overpowered her with the apprehension of violence, that she became incapable of preventing M'Clutchy's entrance, or even of uttering a word for two or three minutes.
"However," said she, "I now see their design, which was to' ruin my reputation, and throw a stain upon my character and good name. So far, I fear, they have succeeded." Tears then came to her relief, and she wept long and bitterly.
"Do not let it trouble you, my darling," said her father. "Your conscience and heart are innocent, and that is a satisfaction greater than anything can deprive you of. You were merely wrong in not letting us know the conversation that took place between Poll Doolin and you; because, although you did not know it, we could have told you that Poll is a woman that no modest female ought to speak to in a private way.
There was your error, Mary; but the heart was right with you, and there's no one here going to blame you for a fault that you didn't know to be one."
Mary started on hearing this account of Poll Doolin, for she felt now that the interviews she held with her were calculated to heighten her disgrace, when taken in connection with the occurrence of the night.
Her brothers, however, who knew her truth and many virtues, joined their parents in comforting and supporting her, but without the success which they could have wished. The more she thought of the toils and snares that had been laid for her, the more her perception of the calamity began to gain strength, and her mind to darken. She became restless, perplexed, and feverish--her tears ceased to flow--she sighed deeply, and seemed to sink into that most withering of maladies, dry grief, which, in her case, was certainly the tearless anguish of the heart.
In this state she went to bed, conscious of her own purity, but by no means, in its full extent, of the ruined reputation to which she must awake on the succeeding day.
Mary's brothers, with the exception of the words in which they joined their father and mother in consoling her, scarcely uttered a syllable that night--the same silent spirit, be it of good or evil, remained upon them. They looked at each other, however, from time to time, and seemed to need no other interpreter of what passed within them, but their own wild and deep-meaning glances. This did not escape their father, who was so much struck, perhaps alarmed, by it, that he very properly deemed it his duty to remonstrate with them on the subject.
"Boys," said he, "I don't understand your conduct this night, and, above all, I don't understand your looks--or rather, I think I do, I'm afraid I do--but, listen to me, remember that revenge belongs to God. You know what the Scripture says, 'Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord, and I will repay it.' Leave that bad son of a worse father to God."
"He has destroyed Mary's reputation," said John, the eldest; "I might, possibly, forgive him if he had killed her like a common murderer, but he has destroyed our pure-hearted sister's reputation, ha, ha, ha." The laugh that followed these last words came out so unexpectedly, abruptly, and wildly, that his father and mother both started. He then took the poker in his hands, and, with a smile at his brothers, in which much might be read, he clenched his teeth, and wound it round his arms with apparent ease. "If I gotten thousand pounds," said he, "I could not have done that two hours ago, but I can now--are you satisfied?" said he to his brothers.
"Yes, John," they replied, "we are satisfied--that will do."
"Yes," he proceeded, "I could forgive anything but that. The father's notice to us to quit the holding on which we and our forefathers lived so long, and expended so much money--and his refusal to grant us a lease, are nothing:--now we could forgive all that; but this, this--oh, I have no name for it--the language has not words to express it--but--well, well, no matter for the present. If the cowardly scoundrel would fight!--but he won't, for the courage is not in him."
CHAPTER XV.--Objects of an English Traveller
--Introduction of a New Character--Correspondence between Evory Easel, Esq., and Sam Spinageberd, Esq.--Susanna and the Elder; or, the Conventicle in Trouble--Phils Gallantry and Courage.
It was about eleven o'clock the next day that a person in the garb of a gentleman, that is, the garb was a plain one enough, but the air of the person who wore it was evidently that of a man who had seen and mingled in respectable life, was travelling towards Springfield, the residence of Mr. Hickman, when he overtook two females, one of whom was dressed in such a way as made it clear that she wished to avoid the risk of being known. She was a little above the middle size, and there could be little doubt, from the outline of her figure, that, in the opinion of unsuspicious people, she had reached the dignity of a matron. Her companion was dressed in faded black, from top to toe, and from the expression of her thin, sallow face, and piercing black eyes, there could be little doubt she had seen a good deal of the world as it exists in rustic life. The person who overtook these two females carried a portfolio, and appeared to observe the country and its scenery, as he went along with well marked attention.
"Pray, ma'am," said he, "whose is that fine old building to the right, which appears to be going to ruin? It is evidently not inhabited."
"You're a stranger in the place, then," replied the female, "or you surely might know Castle Cumber House, where old Tom Topertoe used to live before the union came. He was made a lord of for sellin' our parliament, and now his son, the present lord, is leadin' a blessed life abroad, for he never shows his face here."
"He is an absentee, then?"
"To be sure he is, and so is every man of them now, barrin' an odd one. The country's deserted, and although business is lookin' up a little--take your time, Susanna, we needn't be in sich a hurry now--although, as I said, business is lookin' up a little, still it's nothing to what it was when the gentry lived at home wid us."
"Who is agent to this Lord Cumber, pray?"
"A blessed boy, by all accounts, but that's all I'll say about him--I know him too well to make him my enemy."
"Why, is he not popular--is he not liked by the tenantry?"
"Oh, Lord, to be sure--they doat upon him; and, indeed, no wondher, he's so kind and indulgent to the poor. To tell you the truth, he's a great blessin' to the country."
"That, to be sure, is very satisfactory--and, pray, if I may take the liberty, who is his law agent, or has he one?"
"Why, another blessed--hem--a very pious devout man, named Mr. Solomon M'Slime, an attorney--but, indeed, an attorney that almost shames the Bible itself, he's so religious. Isn't he, Susanna?"
"He hath good gifts; if he doth not abuse them."
"Religion is certainly the best principle in life, if sincerely felt, and not prostituted and made a mask of."
"A mask! isn't that, sir, a thing that people put on and off their face, according as it may suit them?"
"Just so, madam; you have exactly described it."
"Oh, the divil a mask ever he made of it, then, for he never lays it aside at all. He has kept it on so steadily, that, I'll take my oath, if he was to throw, it off now, he wouldn't know himself in the looking-glass, it's so long since he got a glimpse of his own face."