"'There,' said he, I saw it all; 'twas the blood-hounds. He died, and her white-headed boy died; him, you know, that wouldn't waken--there is where they both died; and see here'--there was at this moment a most revolting expression of ferocious triumph in his eye as he spoke--'see, here the blood-hound dropped, for the bullet went through him!--Ha, ha, that's one; the three dead--the three dead! Come now, come, come.' He then seemed much changed, for he shuddered as he spoke, and after a little time, much to my astonishment, a spirit of tenderness and humanity settled on his face, his eyes filled with tears, and he exclaimed, 'Poor Mary! they're all gone, and she will never see his white head again; and his eyes won't open any more; no, they're all gone, all gone: oh! come away!'
"I had heard as much of this brutal tragedy as made his allusions barely intelligible, but on attempting to gain any further information from him, he relapsed, as he generally did, into his usual abruptness of manner. He now passed down towards the cultivated country, at a pace which I was once more obliged to request him to moderate.
"'Well,' said he, 'if you don't care, I needn't, for we'll have it--I know by the roarin' of the river and by the look of the mountains there above.'
"'What shall we have, Raymond?' I inquired.
"'No matther,' said he, rather to himself than to me, 'we can cross the stick.* But I'll show you the place, for I was there at the time, and his coffin was on the top of his father's. Ha, ha, I liked that, and they all cried but Mary, and she laughed and sung, and clapped her hands when the clay was makin' a noise upon them, and then the people cried more. I cried for him in the little coffin, for I loved him--I wondher God doesn't kill M'Clutchy--the curse o' God, and the blessin' o' the devil on him! Ha, ha, there's one now: let him take it.'
* In mountain rivers a "stick," or plank, is frequently a substitute for a bridge.
"We still proceeded at a brisk pace for about a mile and a half, leaving the dark and savage hills behind us, when Raymond turning about, directed my attention to the mountains. These were overhung by masses of black clouds, that were all charged with rain and the elements of a tempest. From one of these depended a phenomenon which I had never witnessed before--I mean a water spout, wavering in its black and terrible beauty over this savage scenery, thus adding its gloomy grandeur to the sublimity of the thunder-storm, which now deepened, peal after peal, among the mountains. To such as are unacquainted with mountain scenery, and have never witnessed an inland water spout, it is only necessary to say, that it resembles a long inverted cone, that hangs from a bank of clouds whose blackness is impenetrable. It appears immovable at the upper part, where it joins the clouds; but, as it gradually tapers to a long and delicate point, it waves to and fro with a beautiful and gentle motion, which blends a sense of grace with the very terror it excites. It seldom lasts more than a few minutes, for, as soon as the clouds are dispersed by the thunder it disappears so quickly, that, having once taken your eye off it when it begins to diminish, it is gone before you can catch it again--a fact which adds something of a wild and supernatural character to its life-like motion and appearance. The storm in which we saw it, was altogether confined to the mountains, where it raged for a long time, evidently pouring down deluges of rain, whilst on the hill side which we traversed, there was nothing but calmness and sunshine.
"'It will be before us,' said Raymond, pointing to a dry torrent bed close beside us; 'whisht, here it is---ha, ha, I like that--see it, see it!'
"I looked in the direction of his hand, and was entranced in a kind of wild and novel delight, by witnessing a large bursting body of water, something between a dark and yellow hue, tumbling down the bed of the river, with a roaring noise and impetuosity of which I had never formed any conception before. From the spot we stood on, up to its formation among the mountains, the river was literally a furious mountain torrent, foaming over its very banks, whilst from the same place down to the cultivated country it was almost dry, with merely an odd pool, connected here and there by a stream too shallow to cover the round worn stones in its channel. So rapid, and, indeed dangerous, is the rise of a mountain flood, that many a life of man and beast have fallen victims to the fatal speed of its progress. Raymond now bent his steps over to the left, and, in a few minutes, we entered a graveyard, so closely surrounded by majestic whitethorns, that it came upon me by surprise.
"'Whisht,' said he, 'she's often here--behind this ould chapel. For 'tis there they are, the two big coffins and the little one--but I liked the little one best.'
"He conducted me to an old mullioned window in the gable, through which a single glance discovered to me the female of whose insanity, and the dreadful cause of it, I had before heard. Whilst pointing her out to me, he laid his hand upon my shoulder, and, heavy as it was, I could feel the more distinctly by its vibrations that he trembled; and, on looking into his face I perceived that he had got deadly pale, and that the same spirit of humanity and compassion, to which I have alluded, had returned to it once more. There was not reason in his face, to be sure, but there certainly was an expression there, trembling, and mild, and beautiful, as is the light of the morning star, before the glory of the sun has unveiled itself in heaven. To Raymond's mind that early herald had indeed come, but that was all--to him had never arisen the light of perfect day.
"'There she is,' said he, 'look at her, but don't spake.'
"I looked at her with deep and melancholy interest. She sat on a broken tombstone that lay beside the grave of those in whom her whole happiness in this life had centered. Her dress was wofully neglected, her hair loose, that is, it escaped from her cap, her white bosom was bare, and her feet without shoe or stocking. I could easily perceive, that great as her privations had been, God had now, perhaps in mercy, taken away her consciousness of them, for she often smiled whilst talking to herself, and occasionally seemed to feel that fulness of happiness which, whether real or not, appears so frequently in the insane.
At length she stooped down, and kissed the clay of their graves, exclaiming--
"'There is something here that I love; but nobody will tell me what it is--no, not one. No matter, I know I love something--I know I love somebody--somebody--and they love me--but now will no one tell me where they are? Wouldn't Hugh come to me if I called him? but sure I did, and he won't come--and Torley, too, won't come, and my own poor white-head, even he won't come to me. But whisht, may be they're asleep; ay, asleep, and ah, sure if ever any creatures wanted sleep, they do--sleep, darlin's, sleep--I'll not make a noise to waken one of you--but what's that?'
"Here she clasped her hands, and looked with such a gaze of affright and horror around her, as I never saw on a human face before.
"'What's that? It's them, it's them,' she exclaimed--'I hear their horses' feet, I hear them cursin' and swearin'--but no matther, I'm not to be frightened. Amn't I Hugh Roe's wife?--Isn't here God on my side, an' are ye a match for him.--Here--here's my breast, my heart, and through that you must go before you touch him. But then,' she added, with a sigh, 'where's them that I love, an' am waitin' for, an' why don't they come?'
"She once more stooped down, and kissing the grave, whispered, but loud enough to be heard, 'are ye here? If ye are, ye may speak to me--it's not them, they don't know where ye are yet--but sure ye may speak to me.
It's Mary, Hugh--your mother, Torley--your own mother, Brian dear, with the fair locks.'
"'Ay,' said Raymond, 'that's the white-head she misses--that's him that I loved--but sure she needn't call him for he won't waken. I'll spake to her.' As he uttered the words he passed rapidly out of a broken portion of the wall, and, before she was aware of his approach, stood beside her. I thought she would have been startled by his unexpected appearance, but I was mistaken; she surveyed him not only without alarm, but benignly; and after having examined him for some moments, she said, 'there are three of them, but they will not come--don't you know how I loved somebody?'
"'Which o' them?' said Raymond.
"'It's a long sleep,' she said, without noticing the question, 'a long sleep--well, they want it, poor things, for there was but little for them but care, and cowld, and hardship--Sure we had sickness--Torley left us first; but,--let me see,--where did Poor Brian go? Well, no matter, we had sickness, as I said, and sometimes we had little or nothing to eat, but sure still wasn't my hand tendher about them. I felt my heart in my fingers when I touched them, and, if I gave them a drink didn't my heart burn, and oh! it was then I knew how I loved them!
Whisht, then, poor things--och sure I'll do my best--I'll struggle for you as well as I can--you have none but me to do it--it's not the black wather I'd give my darlin' child if I had betther; but gruel is what I can't get, for the sorra one grain of mail is undher the roof wid me; but I'll warm the cowld potato for my pet, and you can play wid it till you fall asleep, accushla. Yes, I will kiss you; for afther all, isn't that the richest little treat that your poor mother has to comfort you with in your poor cowld sick bed--one and all o' ye.'
"Here she rocked herself to and fro, precisely as if she had been sitting by the sick bed, then stooping down a third time, she kissed the earth that contained them once more--
"'Ah,' she exclaimed, 'how cowld their lips are! how cowld my white-haired boy's lips are! and their sleep is long--Oh! but their sleep is long!'
"Raymond, during these incoherent expressions, stood mutely beside her, his lips, however, often moving, as if he were communing with himself, or endeavoring to shape some words of rude comfort in her sorrows; but ever and anon, as he seemed to go about it, his face moved with feelings which he could not utter, like the surface of a brook stirred by the breeze that passes over it. At length he laid his hand gently on her shoulder, and exclaimed in a tone of wild and thrilling compassion--
"'Mary!'
"She then started for a moment, and looking around her with something like curiosity rather than alarm, replied--
"'Well--'
"'Mary,' said he, 'make haste and go to heaven; make haste and go to heaven--you'll find them all there--Hugh Regan, and Torley, and little Brian. Don't stop here, for there will be more blood, more bloodhounds, and more Val M'Clutchy's.'
"She did not seem to have noticed his particular words, but there appeared to have been some association awakened which gave a new impulse to her thoughts--
"'Come away,' said she, 'come away!'
"Raymond turned, and looking towards where I stood, beckoned me to follow them; and truly it was a touching sight to see this unregulated attempt of the poor innocent, to sooth the heavy sorrows--if such they were now--of one of whose malady could appreciate no sympathy, and whose stricken heart was apparently beyond the reach of consolation forever.
"Both now proceeded in silence, Raymond still holding her by the hand, and affording her every assistance, as we crossed the fields, in order to shorten the path which led us to the Castle Cumber road. On coming to a ditch, for instance, he would lift her, but still with care and gentleness, in his powerful arms, and place her, with scarcely any effort of her own strength, which, indeed, was nearly gone, safely and easily upon the other side.
"We had now crossed that part of the sloping upland which led us out upon a bridle road, that passed close by M'Loughlin's house and manufactory, and which, slanted across a ford in the river, a little above their flax-mill. Having got out upon this little road, Raymond, who, as well as his companion, had for some time past proceeded in silence, stopped suddenly, and said--'Where is heaven, Mary?'
"She involuntarily looked up towards the sky, with a quick but more significant glance than any I had yet seen her give; but this immediately passed away, and she said in a low voice, very full of the usual tones of sorrow:--'Heaven--it's there,' she replied, pointing behind her, towards the burying-place, 'in their graves!'
"Raymond looked at me, and smiled, as if much pleased with the answer.
'Ay,' said he, 'so it is--wherever his white head lies is heaven.'
"I cannot tell how it happened, but I know that I felt every source of tenderness and compassion in my heart moved and opened more by these simple words on both sides, than by all that had passed since we met her.
"In a few minutes more we reached that part of the road immediately adjoining M'Loughlin's house, and which expanded itself as it reached the river, that here became a ford, being crossed in ordinary cases by stone steps. As is usual in the case of such, floods, which fall as rapidly as they rise, we found about a dozen persons of both sexes, some sitting, others standing, but all waiting until the river should subside so as to be passed with safety--the little wooden bridge alluded to having been literally swept away. Among these was Poll Doolin, the mother of Raymond, who, however, did not appear to take any particular notice of her, but kept close by, and directed all his attention to, unhappy Mary O'Regan. About half an hour, had elapsed, when Raymond, casting his eye upon the decreasing torrent, said--
"'It is now low enough--come, Mary, I will carry you safe over--Raymond has often crossed it higher, ay, when it was over the rock there to our right--come.' He lifted her up in his arms without another word, and, with firm and confident steps, proceeded to ford the still powerful and angry stream.
"'Raymond, are you mad?' shouted his mother; 'ten times your strength couldn't stand that flood--come back, you headstrong creature, or you'll both be lost, as sure as you attempt it.'
"Her remonstrances, however, were in vain. Raymond did not even look back, nor pay the slightest attention to what she said.
"'Never mind them,' said he; 'I know best--it's often I crossed it.'
"On reaching the centre of the stream, however, he appeared to feel as if he had miscalculated the strength of either it or himself. He stood for a moment literally shaking like a reed in its strong current--the passive maniac still in his arms, uncertain whether to advance with her or go back. Experience, however, had often told him, that if the fording it were at all practicable, the danger was tenfold to return, for by the very act of changing the position, a man must necessarily lose the firmness of his opposition to the stream, and consequently be borne away without the power of resisting it. Raymond, therefore, balanced himself as steadily as possible, and by feeling and making sure his footing in the most cautious manner--the slightest possible slip or stumble being at that moment fatal--he, with surprising strength and courage, had just succeeded in placing her safely on the rock he had before alluded to, when a stone turned under him--his foot gave way--and the poor creature, whose reason was veiled to almost every impulse but that of a wild and touching humanity, tumbled down the boiling torrent, helpless and unresisting as a child, and utterly beyond the reach of assistance. My own sensations and feelings I really cannot describe, because, in point of fact, such was the tumult--the horror--of my mind at that moment, that I have no distinct recollection of my impressions. I think for a short space I must have lost both my sight and hearing, for I now distinctly remember to have heard, only for the first time, the piercing screams of his mother rising above the wild and alarming cries of the others--but not until he had gone down the stream, and disappeared round a sharp angle or bend, which it formed about eight or ten yards below where he fell.
"There grew a little to the left of the spot where this shocking disaster occurred, a small clump of whitethorn trees, so closely matted together, that it was impossible to see through them. We all, therefore, ran round as if by instinct, to watch the tumbling body of poor Raymond, when what was our surprise to see a powerful young man, about eight or ten yards below us, dashing into the stream; where, although the current was narrower, it was less violent, and holding by a strong projecting branch of hazel that grew on the bank, stretch across the flood, and, as the body of Raymond passed him, seize it with a vigorous grasp, which brought it close to where he stood. Feeling that both were now out of the force of the current, he caught it in his arms, and ere any of us had either time or presence of mind even to proffer assistance, he carried, or rather dragged it out of the water, and laid it on the dry bank.
"'Come,' said he, 'I am afraid there is little time to be lost--help me up with him to my father's, till we see what can be done to recover life, if life is left.'
"The fact is, however, that Raymond was not altogether insensible; for, as young M'Loughlin--the same, by the way, who had sent the message to Phil--had concluded, he opened his eyes, breathed, and after gulping up some water, looked about him.
"'Ah!' said he, 'poor Mary--she's gone to them at last; but she'll be happier with them. Take my hand,' said he to M'Loughlin, 'sure I thought I could do it. Poor Mary!'
"This instantly directed our attention to the unhappy woman, whom we had all overlooked and forgotten for the moment, and I need not say that our satisfaction was complete, on finding her sitting calmly on the rock where Raymond had placed her, at the risk of his life. Poll Doolin, now seeing that her idiot son was safe, and feeling that she was indebted for his life to the son of that man on whom she is said by many to have wreaked such a fearful vengeance, through the ruined reputation of his only daughter, now approached the young man, and with her features deeply convulsed by a sense probably of her obligation to him, she stretched out her hand, 'John M'Loughlin,' said she, 'from this day out may God prosper me here and hereafter, if I'm not the friend of you and yours!'
"'Bad and vindictive woman,' replied the other indignantly, whilst he held back the hand she sought, 'our accounts are now settled--I have saved your son; you have murdered my sister. If you are capable of remorse I now leave you to the hell of your own conscience, which can be but little less in punishment than that of the damned.'
"Raymond, whose attention had been divided between them and Mary O'Regan, now said--