"No, no," said she, shaking her head, and speaking as much to herself as to Darby; "I know him too well; no earthly power will put him out of his own way, once he takes it into his head. This minute, if I had spoke another word about the blessin', Mr. M'Clutchy would a got another curse; yet, except in these fits, my poor child is kindness and tendheress itself."
"Well now," said Darby, "that that's over, can you tell me, Poll, what's the news? When were you in Dublin?"
"I've given that up," replied Poll; "I'm too ould and stiff for it now.
As for the news, you ought to know what's goin' as well as I do. You're nearly as much on the foot."
"No; nor if every head in the parish was 'ithin side o'mine, I wouldn't know as much in the news line as you, Poll."
"The news that's goin' of late, Darby, is not good, an' you know it.
There's great grumlin' an' great complaints, ever since. Val, the lad, became undher agent; and you know that too."
"But how can I prevent that?" said Darby; "sure I'd side wid the people if I could."
"You'd side wid the people, an' you'd side wid the man that oppresses them, even in spite of Mr. Hickman."
"God bless Mr. Hickman!" said Raymond, "and the divil curse him! and sure 'tis well known that the divil's curse is only another name for God's blessin'. God bless, Mr. Hickman!"
"Amen, my darlin' child, wid all my heart," said Poll; "but, Darby," she continued, "take my word for it, that these things won't end well. The estate and neighborhood was peaceable and quiet till the Vulture began his pranks, and now----"
"Very well," said Darby, "the blame be his, an' if it comes to that, the punishment; so far as myself's consarned, I say, let every herrin' hang by its own tail--I must do my duty. But tell me, Poll--hut, woman, never mind the Vulture--let him go to the devil his own way--tell me do you ever hear from your son Frank, that Brian M'Loughlin sent acrass?"
"No," said she, "not a word; but the curse o' heaven on Brian M'Loughlin! Was my fine young man worth no more than his garran of a horse, that he didn't steal either, till he was put to it by the Finigans."
"Well, sure two o' them were sent over soon afther him, if that's any comfort."
"It's no comfort," replied Poll, "but I'll tell you what's a comfort, the thought that I'll never die till I have full revenge on Brian M'Loughlin--ay, either on him or his--or both. Come, Raymond, have you ne'er a spare curse now for Brian M'Loughlin?--you could give a fat one to M'Clutchy this minute and have you none for Brian M'Loughlin?"
"No," replied, the son, "he doesn't be harryin' the poor."
"Well, but he transported your brother.
"No matter; Frank used to beat me--he was bad, an Brian M'Loughlin was good to me, and does be good to me; he gives me my dinner or breakfast whenever I go there--an' a good bed in the barn. I won't curse him.
Now!"
"It's no use," continued Poll, whose thin features had not yet subsided from the inflammatory wildness of expression which had been awakened by the curse, "it's no use, he'll only do what he likes himself, an' the best way is to never heed him."
"I believe so," said Darby, "but where's your daughter Lucy now, Poll?"
"Why," said Poll, "she has taken to my trade, an' thravels up to the Foundling; although, dear knows, it's hardly worth her while now--it won't give her salt to her kale, poor girl."
"Why, are the times mendin'?" asked Darby, who spoke in a moral point of view.
"Mendin'!" exclaimed Poll, "oh, ay indeed--Troth they're not fit to be named in the one day with what they used to be. But indeed, of late I'm happy to say that they are improvin' a bit," said she, speaking professionally. "M'Clutchy's givin' them a lift, for I've ever an'
always remarked, that distress, and poverty, and neglect o' the poor, and hardship, and persecution, an' oppression, and anything that way, was sure to have my very heart broke wid business."
"And tell me, Poll, did you ever happen to get a job from a sartin pious gentleman, o' the name of M'Slime?--now tell the truth."
"It's a question," replied Poll, "you have no right to axe--you must know, Darby O'Drive, that I've had my private business, as well as my public business, an' that I'd suffer that right hand to be cut off sooner than betray trust. Honor bright, or what's the world good for!"
They now reached a spot where the road branched into two, but Poll still kept to that which led to M'Clutchy's. "Are you for the Cottage too,"
asked Darby.
"I am," replied Poll, "I've been sent for; but what he wants wid me, I know no more than the man in the moon."
Just then the tramp of a horse's feet was heard behind' them, and in a minute or two, Solomon M'Slime, who was also on his way to the Cottage, rode up to them.
"A kind good morning to you Darby, my friend! I trust you did not neglect to avail yourself of the--Ah!" said he complacently on catching a glimpse of Poll's face, "I think I ought to recollect your features, my good woman--but, no--I can't say I do--No, I must mistake them for those of another--but, indeed, the best of us is liable to mistake and error--all frail--flesh is grass."
"You might often see my face," returned Poll, "but I don't think ever we spoke before. I know you to look at you, sir, that's all--an' it's thrue what you say too, sir, there's nothing but frailty in the world--divil a much else--howsomever, be that as is may, honor bright's my motive."
"And a good motto it is, my excellent woman--is that interesting young man your son?"
"He is, sir; but he's a poor innocent that, hasn't the full complement of wit, sir, God help him!"
"Well, my good woman," continued Solomon, "as he appears to be without shoes to his feet, will you accept of five shillings, which is all the silver I have about me, to buy him a pair."
"Many thanks, Mr. M'Sl--hem--many thanks, sir; honor bright's my motive."
"And let it always be so, my excellent, woman; a good morning to you very kindly! Darby, I bid you also good morning, and peace be with you both."
So saying, he rode on at a quiet, easy amble, apparently at peace with his heart, his conscience, his sleek cob, and all the world besides.
The sessions of Castle Cumber having concluded as sessions usually conclude, we beg our reader to accompany us to Deaker Hall the residence of M'Clutchy's father, the squire. This man was far advanced in years, but appeared to have been possessed of a constitution which sustains sensuality, or perhaps that retrospective spirit which gloats over its polluted recollections, on the very verge of the grave. In the case before us, old age sharpened the inclination to vice in proportion as it diminished the power of being vicious, and presented an instance of a man, at the close of a long life, watching over the grave of a corrupted heart, with a hope of meeting the wan spectres of his own departed passions, since he could not meet the passions themselves; and he met them, for they could not rest, but returned to their former habitation, like unclean spirits as they were, each bringing seven more along with it, but not to torment him. Such were the beings with which the soul of this aged materialist was crowded. During life his well known motto was, "let us eat, and drink and be merry, for to-morrow we die." Upon this principle, expanded into still wider depravity, did he live and act during a protracted existence, and to those who knew him, and well known he was, there appeared something frightfully revolting in the shameless career of this impenitent old infidel.
Deaker was a large man, with a rainbow protuberance before, whose chin, at the time we speak of, rested upon his breast, giving to him the exact character which he bore--that of a man who to the last was studious of every sensual opportunity. His gray, goatish eye, was vigilant and.
circumspect, and his under lip protruded in a manner, which, joined to the character of his age, left no one at a loss for the general subject matter of his thoughts. He always wore top boots, and generally went on horseback, having that part of his hat which rested on the collar of his coat, turned up and greasy.
Squire Deaker's language was not more moral than his life--for he not only enforced his principles by his example, but also by his precept.
His conversation consequently resolved itself into a mingled stream of swearing and obscenity. Ridicule of religion, and a hardened triumph in his own iniquitous exploits, illustrated and confirmed by a prodigality of blasphemous asservations, constituted the staple of his thoughts and expressions. According to his own principles he could not look forward to another life, and consequently all that remained for him was to look back upon an unbroken line of seduction and profligacy--upon wealth and influence not merely abused, but prostituted to the lowest and grossest purposes of our worst passions--upon systematic crime--unmanly treachery--and that dishonest avarice which constituted the act of heartless desertion in himself the ultimate ruin and degradation of his victims. Such was this well known squire of the old school, whose portrait, taken from life, will be recognized by every one who ever knew him, should any such happen to peruse these pages.
At the period of which we write Squire Deaker was near eighty, and although feeble and broken down, he still exhibited the remains of a large, coarse, strong-boned animal, not without a vigorous twinkle of low cunning in his eye, and a duplicity of character and principle about his angular and ill-shaped eye-brows which could not be mistaken. He was confined to his bed, and for the first time during many years, was unable to attend the Castle Cumber quarter sessions.
It was the second or third day after their close that about the hour of ten o'clock, a.m., he awoke from a heavy and unhealthy doze, which could scarcely be termed sleep, but rather a kind of middle state between that and waking. At length he raised his head, gasped, and on finding no one in the room, he let fly a volley of execrations, and rang the bell.
"Is there any one there? Any one within hearing? I say Isabel, Isabel, jezabel, are you all dead and d----d?"
"No, your honor, not yet--some of us at least," replied a shrewd-looking lad of about eighteen, nicking his appearance.
"Ha, Lanty--it's you, is it? What do you mean by that, you devil's pick-tooth? Where's Isabel? Where's Jezabel? Playing her pranks, I suppose--where is she, you devil's tooth-brush? eh?"
"Do you want your brandy and wather, sir?"
"Brandy and h--l, you scoundrel! Where's Miss Puzzle?"
"Why, she's just rinsing her mouth, sir, wid a drop of "--
"Of what, you devil's imp; but I know--she's drinking--she's drunk, you young candidate for perdition?"
"I'm not an ould one, sir, any how; as to Miss Fuzzle, sir, she bid me say, that she's doin' herself the pleasure of drinkin' your health"--