"Do not expect me, sir," said Hartley, who felt that the delicacy of his position with regard to Lord Cumber, rendered it altogether impossible that he could be the guest of a man with whose brother he was likely soon to fight a duel.
"Well," replied Topertoe, "if you cannot come I shall regret it."
"It is really out of my power, I assure you," replied Hartley, as he bade him fare-Well.
The sheriff accepted the invitation; and after shaking hands with, and congratulating Messrs. M'Loughlin and Harman, also took his leave. He had scarcely gone, when a magnificent carriage and four dashed up to the door, in which Topertoe, accompanied by Hickman, took his seat, and again drove off towards. Castle Cumber, where the said carriage only had arrived that morning from, the metropolis.
Darby was certainly confounded by the unwelcome intelligence respecting the loss of the Gaolership, which was conveyed to him in such an unpleasant manner by Mr. Topertoe. He knew his own powers of wheedling, however, too well, to despair of being able, could he see Lucre, to replace himself as firmly as ever in his good opinion. With this purpose in view, he wended his way to the Glebe House, where he understood the newly made bishop yet was, having made arrangements to proceed the next morning to Dublin, in order to be consecrated. There was, therefore, no time to be lost, and he accordingly resolved to effect an interview if he could. On arriving, the servant, who was ignorant of the change against him which had been produced in his master's sentiments, instantly admitted him; and the bishop, who had expected a present of game from his neighbor, Lord Mountmortgage, desired him to be admitted--the servant having only intimated that the man was come."
"How is this?" said the Prelate in a loud and angry voice; "how did you get in, sir?"
"Plaise your Lordship," replied Darby, "I came in by the door, of course--an' that, your Lordship, is generally the right way; for as holy Scripture says," he proceeded, anxious to let his Lordship see how deeply he was imbued with Scriptural truth--"as holy Scripture says, 'Verily, verily, I say unto you, he that entereth not by the door into the sheep-fold, but climbeth up some other way, the same is a thief and a robber,' Indeed, my Lord, I never knewn the consolation that's in Scripture antil lately, glory be to God!"
The bishop looked at him with an angry and scrutinizing eye; for Darby's deportment, to say truth, puzzled him very much. Whether his conduct proceeded from audacity, or shear simplicity, he felt unable to determine, from anything that he could see in Darby's imperturbable features.
"What is your business with me now? asked the prelate.
"Why, your Lordship," replied Darby, "I've made out a couple of proserlytes, that will be a credit to our blessed Establishment, as soon as they're convarted. One of them, my Lord, is called Barney Butther, an' the other Tom Whiskey, in regard of--"
"Go about your business, sir," replied the prelate, reddening with indignation; "begone."
"I will, my Lord; only, my Lord, just before I go--about the Undher Gaolership?"
"Your appointment to it is cancelled," replied the other, "for many reasons; you avoided prosecuting that wild priest."
"But sure I said, my Lord, that when I'd get into my situation--"
"Your appointment to it is cancelled, I repeat; the fact is, O'Drive, I have too much regard for your morals and the advances you have recently made in scriptural knowledge to place you in such a situation. It is only some hardened sinner, some irreclaimable knave, and not an honest man like you, that oughht to be appointed to such an office; the nature of its duties would only draw you into bad habits and corrupt your principles. The fact is, your very virtues and good qualities; prevent you from getting it--for get it, you assuredly shall not."
"Is that your last detarmination, my Lord?"
"My last respecting that matter," replied the prelate.
"Then, upon my conscience," returned Darby, "according to that rule, hell resave the ha'porth of the kind there was to prevent you from bein'
a bishop. I hear you're goin' up to Dublin to be consecrated, and be me sowl, you want it; but I'd take my book oath that all the grace in your church won't be able to consecrate you into thrue religion. The back o'
my hand to you, I say; for I hate everything that is ungrateful."
It often happens that a petty insult, coming from an unexpected source, excites our indignation more than an offence from a higher quarter. The new made prelate actually got black in the face, and giddy in the head, with the furious fit of passion which seized him on hearing this language from Darby.
In the meantime, we leave him to cool as best he can, and follow Darby to Castle Cumber, where he thought it probable he might meet Father M'Cabe; nor was he mistaken. He found that very zealous gentleman superintending the erection of a new chapel on a site given to Father Roche by Mr Hartley. The priest, who knew that the other had recently avoided him, felt considerably surprised at seeing the bailiff approach him of his own free will.
"Well," said he, in a voice which contained equal parts of irony and anger, "what do you want with me, Mr. Protestant? Ah, what a blessed Protestant you are! and what a hawl they made when they caught you! What do you want, you shuffling scoundrel?"
"Troth, the grace o' God, I fear," replied Darby, humbly.
"And what brings you to me then? I mean, sirra, what's your business now?"
"Why, sir, devil a one o' me but's come jack to the ould creed. Troth, your Reverence, the impressions you made on me the day we had the great argument, was, wondherful. Be my sowl, it's yourself that can send home the whi--word, your Rev-a-ence, in a way that it won't aisly be forgotten. How-an-iver, sure hell resave the wie o me, but threwn back his dirty religion to Lucre--an' left him an' it--although he offered, if I'd remain wid them, to put Johnny Short out, and make me full gaoler. My Lord,' says I, 'thruth's best. I've heard both sides o'
the argument from you and Father M'Cabe; an' be me sowl, if you were a bishop ten times over, you couldn't hould a candle to him at arguin'
Scripture; neither are you the mild and forgiving Christian that he is.
Sure I know your church well,' says I up to him. 'It's a fat church, no doubt; an' I'll tell you what's in it.'"
"'What's that, you backslidin' vagabone?'" says he.
"'Why, then, plenty of mait,' says I, 'but no salvation;' an' salvation to me, your Reverence, but he got black over the whole face and shullers wid rank passion. But sure--would your Reverence come a little more this way; I think the men's listenin' to us--but sure," continued Darby, in a low, wheedling, confidential, and friendly voice, "sure, sir, he wanted me to prosecute you for the religious instruction--for trath it was nothing else, glory be to God--that you gave me the day of the argument; an'---now listen, your Reverence--he offered me a bribe if I'd do it."
"What bribe!"
"Why, sir, he put his hand, under his apron--sure he has a black silk apron on him now, jist for all the world like a big man cook, dressed out in murnin'--he put his hand undher his apron, and wid a hitch got it into his breeches pocket--'here's a fifty pound note for you,' says he, 'if you'll prosecute that wild priest--there's no end to his larnin,'
says he, 'and I want to punish him for it; so, Darby, here's a fifty pound note, an' it'll be yours when the prosecution's over; and I'll bear all the expenses besides.'"
"And what did you say to that?" asked the priest.
"Troth," replied Darby, "I jist bid him considher his fifty pound note as waste paper--an' that Was my answer."
"And there's mine, you lying, hypocritical scoundrel," said the priest, laying his whip across the worthy bailiff's shoulders; "you have been for thirty years in the parish, and no human being ever knew you to go to your duty--you have been a scourge on the poor---you have maligned and betrayed those who placed confidence in you--and the truth is, not a word ever comes out of your lips can be believed or trusted; when you have the marks of repentance and truth about you, I may listen to you, but not until then--begone!"
"Is that your last detarmination?" said Darby.
"No doubt of it," replied the priest; "my last, and I'll stick to it till I see you a different scoundrel from what you are."
"Ay," replied Darby; "then, upon my sowl, you're all of a kidney--all jack fellow like--an' divil rasave the dacent creed among you, barrin'
the Quakers, and may heaven have a hand in me, but I think I was born to be a Quaker, or, any way, a Methodist. I wish to God I understood praichin'--at aitin' the bacon and fowl I am as good a Methodist as any of them--but, be me sowl, as I don't understand praichin', I'll stick to the Quakers, for when a man praiches there, all he has to do is to say nothing." Having uttered these sentiments in a kind of soliloquy, Darby, after having given the priest a very significant look, took his departure.
"Well," said he to himself, "if the Quakers, bad luck to them, won't take me, I know what I'll do--upon my conscience, I'll set up a new religion for myself, and sure I have as good a right to bring out a new religion myself, as many that done so. Who knows but I may have a congregation of my own yet, and troth it may aisily be as respectable as some o' them. But sure I can't be at a loss, for, plaise God, if all fails, I can go to Oxford, where I'm tould there's a manifactory of new religions--the Lord be praised for it!"
* Darby had better success in his speculations than perhaps he ever expected to have. We need not inform the generality of our readers that the sect called Darbyites were founded by him, and have been called after him to the present day, sometimes Darbyites, and sometimes Drivers.
On returning home, Val was observed to be silent and morose. The dashing speed of his ride to M'Loughlin's was not usual to him, for his motions were generally slow; it was significant, however, of the greedy spirit which stimulated him to the long wished for glut of his revenge. Not so his return. He walked his horse as if he had been a philosopher on horseback; and when Phil (now quite tipsy), who expected to see him return with all the savage triumph of vengeance in his looks, saw that he was dumb, spiritless and absolutely crestfallen, and who also observed the symptoms we spoke of, he began naturally enough to suspect that something had gone wrong. His interrogations, however, were fruitless. Val, on his inquiring the cause of these appearances, told him in a petulant fit of that ill-temper which is pecular to cowards, "to go be hanged;" a compliment which dutiful Phil returned to his worthy father with interest. This was all that passed between them, with the single exception of an observation which fell from Phil's lips as he left the dinner-table, late in the evening.
"I tell you what, M'Clutchy, you're a confounded ill-tempered old scoundrel, an-and what-what's more--o-o-over to your disgrace, a d----d bad, rotten, and unsound Protestant. How do you ex-expect, sir, that a Protestant Establishment can be sup-support-ported in this country by such scandalous con-conduct as this? hip, hip, hurra! Instead of-of being an ex-example to your son, it is your-your son, M'Clutchy, that is an example to you, hip, hip, hur--, and so good night to you, I'm--I'm on for a neat bit of business--that's all. Go to bed, you old dog."
CHAPTER XXX.--The Mountain Grave-Yard
--Dreams of a Broken Heart--The Christian Pastor at his Duty--Melancholy Meeting between a Mother and her Son--A Death-Bed that the Great might envy--Phil experiences a Specimen of the Pressure from without--Retribution--The Death of Valentine M'Clutchy.
It was now about seven o'clock in the evening; and up from the moment of Val's return, he had scarcely spoken half a dozen words. As Phil was leaving the room, however, the father called after him:--
"Phil," said he, "come here for a minute."
"Well," said Phil, staggering back, "what's in the wind now?"
"Phil," continued the father, "which of all the blood-hounds is the greatest and most remorseless villain?"