Ned, who had her in his arms, felt her head fall down, and on looking at her, he perceived that she had actually passed away into the happiness of God's love, which, no doubt, diffused its radiance through her spirit that was now made perfect.
"Yes," said Father Roche, wiping his eyes, "a pure and noble spirit has indeed passed from a life of great trial and crushing, calamity into one of glory and immortality. There is a proof, and a consoling proof, of the lustre which so often irradiates the death-beds of the humble classes in Ireland, who die far from the knowledge and notice of the great, whom their toil probably goes to support."
"Yes," replied Ned, bitterly; "it's an aisy thing for Lord Cumber to know what's either good or bad upon his estate--how the people live, or how they die--very aisy, indeed, for a man who never puts a foot on it, but leaves them to the mercy of such villains as M'Clutchy. Had he been livin' on his property, or looked afther it as he ought to do, I don't think it's lyin' stretched, far from house or habitation, that you would be this night, my blessed mother--my poor father, and your childre cut down by persecution, and yourself, without house or home, runnin' an'
unhappy, deranged creature about the country, and now lyin' there widout a roof to cover your poor remains."
"Do not say so," replied Father Roche; "she shall be waked in my house, and buried at my expense."
"If you'll allow her to be waked there, I will thank you, Father Eoche; but the expenses of her burial, I am myself able to pay; and so long as I am, you know, I could not suffer any one else to intherfare; many thanks to you, sir, in the meantime."
"Well then," said the priest, "as I know and understand the feeling, I shall not press the matter; but since the body cannot be left without protection, I think you had better go down, and fetch a few neighbors with a door, and let her be removed forthwith. I shall remain till you return."
"It's a very hard thing, Father Roche, that you should be put to sich a duty," replied O'Regan; "but the truth is, I wouldn't take all the money in the King's exchequer, and remain here by myself."
"But I have no such fears," said the priest; "I shall stay within the shelter of this old ruin until your return, which will be as quick, I trust, as possible."
O'Regan was about to start off at the top of his speed; and Father Roche began to walk to and fro the old ruin, struck by the pale moonlight, as it fell through the gray stone windows, loopholes, and breaches of the walls, lighting up some old remnant of human ambition, or perhaps exposing a grinning skull, bleached by time and the elements into that pale white, which is perhaps the most ghastly exponent of death and the dead. At this moment, however, they were each in no small degree startled by the sound of human voices; and, to complete their astonishment, two figures approached the humble grave on which the dead body of Mary O'Regan lay stretched. On turning towards the moon they were both immediately recognized by the priest and O'Regan, who looked on in silence and wonder, and waited to hear, if possible, the object of their visit.
"I say again," said Phil, "I say my jolly ph-foolosophy--eh foolosopher--that is to say, you deal in foolosophy--an ex-excellent trade for a fool--I say again, you have brought me the wrong way, or misled me somehow--upon my honor and reputation, Rimon, I rather think you're short of sense, my man. Come, I say, let us be off home again--what the devil did you bring me to a church-yard for?--eh?"
"Whisht," said Raymond, "let us see--who have we here? Ah," said he, stooping down and feeling the chill of death upon her features, "it is Mary O'Regan, and she's dead--dead!"
"Dead," exclaimed Phil, starting, "curse you, Rimon, let us be off at full speed, I say--Gad, I'm in a nice pickle; and these pistols are of no use against any confounded ghost."
On hearing that Phil carried pistols, O'Regan started, and had it been daylight, a fierce but exulting fire might have been seen to kindle in his eyes.
"What can have brought them here?" asked Father Roche; "I cannot understand their visit at such an hour to such a place as this."
"A few minutes, sir, will make all clear, maybe."
"And what brought poor Mary here to die, do you know?" inquired Raymond; "no you don't," he replied, "but I will tell you--she came to die near poor White-head that she loved so much, and near Torley, and near poor Hugh himself, that the bloodhounds--"
"Damn my honor, Rimon, if I can stand this any longer--I'm off."
"Hould!" said Raymond, with a shout whose echoes rang through the ruins; "you musn't go till you hear me out," and on uttering the words he gripped him by the arm, and led him over to the dead body.
"I'm goin' to tell you myself," proceeded Raymond; "she came to die here that she might be near them--do you onderstand?" and he involuntarily pressed the arm he still held with his huge iron finger, until Phil told him he could not bear the pain. "She came to die here that she mightn't have far to go to them; for you don't know, maybe, that it's on their grave she is now lyin':--ha, ha; that's one. DID YOU EVER SEE A MURDERED WOMAN, CAPTAIN PHIL?"
"Never," replied Phil, who stood passive in his grip.
"Ha, ha, ha," he chuckled, "that's not a good one. Well, but, did you ever see a murdherer?"
"Some o' the blood-hounds pinked fellows, I believe, but then they were only rebels and Pap-papishes."
"Ha, ha," still chuckled Raymond, as he confronted himself by degrees with Phil, "I swore it for poor White-head's sake--and for Mary M'Loughlin's sake--an' for twenty sakes besides."
"God! Rimon, what do you mean?" said Phil, "there's a dreadful look in your eyes Rimon, you are an excellent fellow; but tell me what you mean?"
"To show you a murdherer," he replied; "and now I have one by the throat!"
As he spoke, he clutched him by the neck with a grasp that might strangle a tiger. Then, as before in O'Regan's sheeling, all the fury of the savage came upon him; his eyes blazed fearfully--the white froth of passion, or rather of madness, appeared upon his lips, and his bowlings resembled the roaring of some beast of prey, while tearing up its quivering victim in the furious agonies of protracted hunger. In a moment Phil was down, and truly the comparison of the beast of prey, and his struggling victim, is probably the most appropriate that could be made; when we consider the position of the one writhing helplessly upon the ground, and the other howling in all the insatiable wildness of bloodthirsty triumph over him. So hard and desperate indeed was the tug for life, and so deadly was the immediate sense of suffocation becoming, that Phil, whose eyes were already blinded, and who was only able to utter a low hoarse gurgle, which sounded like the death-rattle in his throat, was utterly unable either to think of or to use his fire-arms.
The onset, too, was so quick, that neither Father Roche nor O'Regan had time to render assistance.
"Great heaven," exclaimed the priest, "is the young man, bad and wicked as he is, to be murdered before our eyes by that gigantic idiot!"
He proceeded to the spot just when Raymond was about to repeat, in reality, the imaginary scene with the pillow.
"Ho, ho," he shouted, "give us betther measure--a little more of it--the same tongue never was your own friend, nor the friend of any one else--ha, ha,--ho, ho, ho. There, that's one--take it out o' that, will you?--whoo, hoo--hello, hach, ach!--This for White-head, and this for Mary M'----"
"What's this, Raymond?" said Father Roche, gently laying his hand upon his huge arm, the muscles of which, now strung into almost superhuman strength, felt as hard as oak. "Stop, Raymond," he proceeded, "would you like that work yourself, my good boy?"
"Father Roche!" said Raymond, relaxing his hold more from surprise than anything else.
"If you will take your hand from his throat, Raymond, my good boy, I will tell you where you will get a cock that no other bird in the country could have a chance with. There's a good boy--let him go. Follow me over here, and leave him."
"A cock that cannot be beat?" exclaimed Raymond, starting at once to his feet, "no, but will you?"
"I will tell you where he is," said the priest, "but do not harm him more," pointing to Phil,--"I only trust in God that it is not too late."
He stooped to examine Phil's countenance, and indeed the sight was as strongly calculated to excite mirth as disgust. There he lay, his foul tongue projecting out of his mouth, which was open and gasped for wind; his huge goggle eyes, too, had their revolting squint heightened by terror into an expression very like that assumed by a clown when he squints and makes faces at the audience, whilst his whole countenance was nearly black from excess of blood, and the veins about his forehead and temples stood out swollen as if filled with ink.
"Aye, you may look at him," said Raymond--"he is apurty boy now, countin' the stars there. A beauty you were, a beauty you are, and so I leave you!"
"Come over," said Father Roche to O'Regan, "and see if you can render him any assistance. You are stronger."
"Would he know me, do you think?" said O'Regan before he went over.
"At present, certainly not," replied Father Roche; "but he is breathing, and in about eight or ten minutes I hope he will probably recover."
O'Regan went over, loosed his cravat, and stayed with him a few moments, after which he returned to Raymond and the priest, who were now in the ruin.
"I think he will be well enough shortly," he observed, "but the truth is, Raymond, that he wasn't worth your vengeance. I will now go and fetch a few of the neighbors to assist in bringing my poor mother down from this lonely spot, that she may at least have a Christian roof over her."
He accordingly departed, and Father Roche in a few minutes had Phil's mind completely disentangled from the train of dark thoughts and affectionate impulses by which it had been for some time past alternately influenced.
"Raymond," said the priest, "how could you think of committing such a frightful act as murder?"
"Ha, ha!" he replied, "sure i'twas when I thought of Mary M'Loughlin and poor White-head."
"And how did it happen that, of all places in the world, you both came here?"
"Becaise White-head and the rest are here. Sure he thought he was comin'
to a poor creature upon no good, and when he was drunk it was aisey to bring him anywhere--ha, ha! that's one too--for I--can manage him."
"I thank the Almighty Father," ejaculated the priest, "that I was able to prevent another murder this night--for most assuredly, Raymond, you would have taken his life."
"Ho, ho!" exclaimed the fool, with a little of his former ferocity, "sure it was for that I brought him here--aye, aye, nothin' else."
"Well, while you live," continued the old man, "never attempt to have the blood of a fellow creature on your soul. I must go over and see how he feels--I perceive he is able to sit up. Young man," he proceeded, addressing Phil, "I render God thanks that I have been instrumental in saving your life this night."