Several months passed quietly by. It was winter, and the heaviest snow that had fallen within the memory of that personage so universally known and respected—namely, the oldest inhabitant—now lay upon the ground; and all in town and country who were partial to the exercise of skating could enjoy it freely. But the severe cold confined the delicate invalids to their heated rooms, and fair Annie Lee again found herself shut up to the tiresome routine of sick-room pleasures, only varied by intervals of suffering. The pleasure, however, predominated. She seemed almost to forget her pain and increasing languor in her unceasing efforts to instruct her young nurse.
Annorah, on her part, thirsted for knowledge,especially for the wisdom that cometh from above. She improved, too, rapidly enough to satisfy a less partial teacher. In the varied arts of housewifery, and in the more intricate use of the needle, she had also become quite expert, and, to use Mrs. Lee’s own words, “was quite a treasure in every part of the house.”
Little lame Phelim came for an hour each afternoon to Miss Annie’s room to be made a “schollard, shure;” and every Saturday evening found Annorah, with her Bible, seated by her mother’s fireside, reading, and in her own earnest but uncouth manner expounding the truths she read.
One Sabbath evening in March, Father M‘Clane set out for a walk to Mrs. Dillon’s cottage. His prospects and reflections had been of a grave and sad character throughout the day, and his threadbare coat and lean purse had been more than usually suggestive of the great truth, that all earthly comforts are fleeting and transitory.
For the first time Biddy had that day absented herself from the Catholic chapel. Annorah had lately added to her Scripture reading, “Kirwan’s Letters to Archbishop Hughes.” She read it to her mother whenever a spare hour enabled her to run home. Biddy had been greatly interested in the appeals and arguments of her talentedcountryman, and deeply impressed by his life-like delineation of the follies and superstitions of the Romish ritual.
“It’s rasonable he is intirely,” she said, “and a bright son o’ the ould counthree, blessin’s on it! It’s him who spakes well o’ the poor ruined crathers, and praises us all for the natural generous-sowled people we are. He knows us intirely, Norah dear. Shure he’s a wonderful man and a bould, let alone the thrue son o’ ould Ireland, for doing the beautiful thing. Read us one more letther, mavourneen, before ye are off, and lave the book here. Mayhap Phelim will spell out a morsel or so when the Sabbath even is coom.”
“You will not go to confession to-morrow, dear mother?” said Annorah.
“Not I,” replied Biddy firmly.
“It goes to my heart, mother, that the money we earn so hardly, and which should be kept to comfort your old age, should go for nothing, or worse.”
“I will do it no more. Make yer heart aisy, honey. Never a penny o’ mine will the praste hould in his hand again.”
“He will visit you, mother.”
“An’ what o’ that? Let him coom. He is welcome an’ he minds his own business, and only dhraps in for a bit o’ gossip; but an’ he interferesin me private consarns, it’s soon he’ll find himself relaved o’ all throuble on account o’ us.”
Annorah saw that there was no reason now to fear that her mother would be overawed by the priest; but she still lingered anxiously. Her mother saw the shade on her face, and asked,—
“What is it, Norah? Are you in throuble?”
“Do not quarrel with him, mother,” replied the daughter.
“Let him be dacent, and it’s ceevil treatment he’ll get; but no man shall browbeat me on me own floor,” said Biddy, in a tone which declared the firmness of her purpose.
It was on the night succeeding this conversation, that Father M‘Clane visited the cottage. As he approached the house he paused at the unusual sound of a voice reading. It was Phelim imperfectly spelling out to his mother and a few of the neighbours one of the letters of Kirwan. The priest, who was not remarkably well versed in the books of the day, did not know the work, but supposed that it was the Bible to which they were so profoundly listening. His face grew as dark as the night shades around him.
“I’ve caught ye at last!” he exclaimed, as, without ceremony, he burst into the room. “This tells the story. It’s not that ye are ill in bed, or hindered by the rain, or the could; it’sbecause ye are heretics all, that ye shun the confession and the holy mass. Do ye know what the Church has power to do wi’ the like o’ ye? Arrah! it was the heavenly and not the mortal wisdom that made the hot fires o’ purgatory for such. Small help will ye get from me when the flames are scorching ye. Never a mass shall be said for a sowl o’ ye, unless ye repent at once.”
“And what call have ye to spake the like o’ that,” said Biddy, “and me sitting peaceably by me own fire wi’ the neighbours?” She spoke in a low, uncertain tone, for his sudden appearance had startled her. A hush had fallen on the little assembly, and signs of terror flitted across the faces of the most timid, as the familiar voice of the priest recalled their old Popish fears. He was not slow to perceive this, or to take advantage of it.
“And who taught yer lame boy to read at all? Who brought the heretic Bible into yer house? And who gathered the poor neighbours together to hear the false words that lead to perdition? Answer me that, Misthress Dillon,” said the priest in a tone of anger.
Biddy did not reply, though she had quite regained her usual courage.
“I’ll ask ye a plain question, Biddy Dillon, and I want a straight answer. Will ye, or willye not, give up these heretic doings, and stay in the communion o’ the holy Church?”
“An’ it plaze yer riverence,” replied Biddy, no ways disconcerted, “yer blessed saints are nothing to me; an’ I shall do as I plaze.”
“Hear the woman! Do you hear the bould blasphemer?” he exclaimed.
“An’ what if they do hear? It were a sore pity they should be sthruck deaf to plaze ye,” replied Biddy, her eyes flashing with excitement. “I would ye were in ould Ireland, or, for the matther o’ that, in purgatory itself.”
“We would—” said the priest.
“No doubt o’ it. But it’s here I am, at yer service,” interrupted Biddy.
“Yes, and it’s here ye’ve been bought for a wee pinch o’ tae and a few poor, lean chickens. Sowl and body ye’ve been bought, and a mighty poor bargain have the blind purchasers made o’ it.”
“Plazing yer riverence, ye know nought o’ what ye are saying, and small throuble ye’ll make wi’ yer idle words. It’s not a turkey, duck, or hen could buy Biddy Dillon. Ye’ve tried it yerself, father, and so ye know.”
“It’s a black heart ye have,” said the priest, whose courage was hardly equal to his anger, and whose valour speedily cooled before resoluteopposition. “It’s blacker than ink ye are, Biddy Dillon, with the wicked heresy.”
Like most Irish women, Biddy was well skilled in the art of scolding, and among her neighbours was considered rather more expert in the business than themselves. When angry, abusive epithets seemed to fall as naturally from her tongue as expressions of endearment when she was pleased.
“A black heart, did ye say?” she cried, rising and facing the priest, who involuntarily retired a step from her; “the same to yerself! An’ ye were bathed in Lough Ennel, and rinsed in the Shannon at Athlone, it would not half clane out the vile tricks ye are so perfect in. A black heart has Biddy Dillon? An’ ye were ducked and soaked over night in the Liffey mud at Dublin, ye were claner than now? A black heart? An’ yerself an ould penshioner, idle and mane, stirrin’ up a scrimmage in an honest woman’s house, and repeating yer haythenish nonsense, an’ ye able and sthrong to take hould o’ the heaviest end o’ the work! Are ye not ashamed? What are ye good for?”
“The saints preserve us! what a tongue the woman has!” exclaimed Father M‘Clane, making a futile effort to smile, as he turned his face, now pale as death, toward the company. “ButI have no time to stay longer. I warn ye all, my friends, to kape away from this accursed house, and to turn a deaf ear to all that is said to ye here. Your souls are in peril. Ye are almost caught in the snare. Ye should run for yer lives before ye perish entirely. I shall remember you, Biddy Dillon.”
“In course ye will. An’ ye show yerself here again, barrin’ as a peaceable frind or ould acquaintance, ye’ll find yerself remimbered too, honey.”
There was a silence of some minutes after the priest left the house. It was broken by the most timid of the party.
“Afther all, Biddy, my heart misgives me. Of what use are all the prayers on the beads, the Hail Marys, and the penance, the fasting from meat on Fridays, or even the blessed salt o’ our baptism, if we anger the praste, and he refuse to give us the holy oil at the last? What will become o’ us then?”
“What can a wicked ould praste do to help us? It’s God alone can strengthen us then. I wouldn’t give a penny for the oil. It’s a betther way, darlin’, that God has provided for us. It’s a brave story that Phelim is waiting to read to us. There’s thruth and sense in it, too, ye will find.—It’s a fine counthree is this, MastherBarry, and a free,” added Biddy, turning to a stout man, who, with scarcely a whole article in his apparel, was lounging in the shade of a corner.
“Thrue for ye,” he replied,—“though it’s little I get out of it, barrin’ the sup o’ whisky wi’ my supper.”
“But ye might—the more shame it is. Ye are weel-conditioned and hearty. It’s no the counthree is to blame, neighbour, nor Katy indade. She works night and day for ye an’ the childer. Ye are better here than over the sae.”
“Oh, then, I don’t know. When I came to this counthree, I had never a rag to me back, an’ now, faith, I’m nothing but rags. A fine, illigant counthree!”
“Lave the liquor alone, Peter Barry, and ye may have the best of the land for yerself. An’ ye would give up the dhrinking, a better lad could not be found, nor a handsomer.”
“It’s too sthrong for me. It’s many a day have I given it up for ever, and been drunk as a beast in an hour. But to-night, says Katy to me, ‘It’s the heretic Bible as is read at Mrs. Dillon’s has a cure in it for weak sinners like you, Peter dear.’ So I came to hear a bit o’ the Bible, an’ ye plaze.”
So Kirwan’s Letters were laid aside, and a NewTestament brought out. Phelim read very poorly, and was often obliged to spell over the long words, and did not always succeed in giving the correct pronunciation; but no fault was found by his eager listeners. He read how Christ healed the leper, and poor Peter Barry found in the story a word of encouragement for him. He read of the Saviour’s gracious compassion for the hungering multitude; and his ignorant auditors praised the divine Being who so sympathized with mortal infirmities. Phelim was often interrupted by remarks or approving comments, but these in no way diminished the interest of the sacred story.
On every pleasant evening Biddy Dillon’s cottage was thronged by those who came to listen to the Word of God. It was in vain that Father M‘Clane opposed these meetings. His threats and arguments, once so potent, seemed now but to lessen his power. He even secured the services of a neighbouring priest, and with him visited each Irish family in succession, coaxing and flattering where his authority was not acknowledged.But, alas for him and his prospects! he could do nothing with the people.
The Protestant clergyman of the village, when he heard of the interest felt in lame Phelim’s reading, readily came to their assistance, and joyfully read and explained the divine lessons. As their knowledge of the right way increased, their impressions of its importance to them personally were deepened, and Annorah soon had the happiness of seeing not only her mother and brother bowing at the foot of the cross of Christ, but many others earnestly seeking the salvation of their souls.
The little Irish neighbourhood had been named New Dublin. It stood quite by itself, a thick belt of wood and the narrow mill-stream isolating it from the large village, where Mr. Lee’s residence stood. Nothing but the smoke, which in summer as well as in winter is ever pouring from Irish chimneys, revealed to a visitor the existence of their pleasant hamlet. Still it was not so far retired but that, when a wake was held for the dead, the noise of the revelry seriously disturbed their quieter neighbours; and when a row ensued, as was often the case, the distant uproar alarmed as well as annoyed the timid women and children. But no one thought of interfering. The wealthy owners of the iron-works and factoriesin the vicinity were glad to secure their labour, because of its cheapness, and never troubled themselves about an occasional noise, if the general interests of their business were not neglected.
There were not wanting those who pitied their low estate, and who would have sincerely rejoiced in their elevation; but until poor invalid Annie Lee began to instruct Annorah, no one had dreamed of winning them, by self-sacrifice and kindness, to a knowledge of the truth. Annie herself, while patiently explaining over and over again what seemed to her as simple and plain as possible, little imagined the glorious results that were indirectly to grow out of her feeble efforts. But God watches the least attempt to do good, and fosters the tiniest seed sown; and Annie, without knowing it, was sowing seed for a plenteous harvest.
But while the good work prospered, she herself was rapidly ripening for heaven. She knew that she was hastening to a better land, even a heavenly; and she strove to improve every moment of the time that remained, in efforts to give stability to Annorah’s religious feelings. Many were the conversations that they had together on the condition of the poor Irish people, and countless almost were the directions that Annorah received in regard to the best methods of winningtheir love and confidence. Young as she was, Annie had learned that all efforts to benefit the unfortunate or ignorant are vain so long as the cold shoulder is turned towards them. She had proved in Annorah’s case the magic effect of loving words and sympathy.
As the spring advanced, Annie grew weaker. The mild air seemed to enervate rather than to brace her system, and she grew daily more emaciated. Her paroxysms of pain were less frequent, and she suffered most from languor and drowsiness. It was apparent to all but her fond parents that her days were numbered. They watched over her with the tenderest affection, hoping when there was no hope, and persuading themselves and each other that she would rally again when the ripe summer brought its gentle breezes and beautiful blossoms.
“She is so fond of flowers and of the open air,” said Mrs. Lee to Annorah, when, after an unusually restless and painful day, Annie had fallen asleep at last, and both left the room to breathe the fresh evening air. “When the weather gets settled so that she can let you draw her little carriage down by the mill-stream again, she will brighten up and get stronger. It is enough to make a well person ill, to be shut up so long.”
“Ye know best, shure,” said Annorah, in hergrief resuming her national accent and brogue—“Ye know best, but it’s thinner and weaker she’s getting, and is a baby for weight in me arms. Och! the dark day it will be for poor Norah when she looks her last on that swate angel face!” And the poor girl burst into tears, and covered her face with her apron. After a few moments she went on to say,—“It’ll go hard wi’ ye all, Mrs. Lee: ye’ll miss her dear ways an’ her heavenly smiles; she is yer own blood, were she not an angel intirely. But oh, ma’am, she’s been to me what no words can tell; and the short life o’ me will seem without end till I go to wait on her above. Oh, what’ll I do without her, when the whole world is dark as night?”
Mrs. Lee could not reply, for she, too, was weeping. There was something in Annorah’s desolate tone that went to her heart, and inspired a pitying affection for the plain-looking girl by her side, which she would once have thought impossible. She began to comprehend the mystery of Annie’s caressing manner to her young nurse.
“Annorah, my poor girl,” she faltered at length.
“Ah, ma’am, in all me troubles, and when I was wickedest, was it not her voice that was full and sweet with the pleasant encouragement? Oh, core o’ me heart, acushla, what’ll I do? what’ll I do?”
“We must trust in God, Annorah. If he takes her from us, it will be for the best, and we must learn to say, ‘His will be done.’ She will leave us her lovely example to guide us, and we shall not forget how she strove to do good. We shall be lonely; but is it not selfish in us to wish her to stay here and suffer? God knows what is best for us all.”
It was but a little time that they were permitted to hope. Fair Annie Lee’s appointed work was done, her mission of love was accomplished, and she was ready to depart. Shut up by her protracted illness from all the ordinary paths of usefulness, she had found out a way to work in her Saviour’s service. Long will it be ere her gentle acts of kindness will be forgotten, or her precious influence cease to be felt by those who knew her.
She died suddenly, perhaps unconsciously at last. Annorah had placed her couch so that she could see the beautiful changes in the rich June sunset; and when she returned after a moment’s absence to her side, she found that, with a sweet smile of joyous triumph on her lips, she had fallen asleep in Jesus.
Annorah, although greatly refined by reading and association with educated people, and especiallyimproved by the happy influence of true religion, yet retains enough of the characteristics of her nation to make her an acceptable visitor in the humblest cottage in New Dublin. It was long after the death of her young mistress before she regained her usual cheerfulness. But time, the great healer of sorrow, has gradually softened her grief, and made her cherished memories of Miss Annie, like beautiful pictures, very pleasant to look upon.
FINIS
Transcriber's NoteMinor typographic punctuation errors have been corrected without note.The frontispiece illustration has been moved to follow the title page.There is a large amount of dialect in this book, which all remains as printed in the original text. This includes some variable spelling, e.g. crather—crathur, plase—plaze.Page55—Sharron amended to Shannon—"... and rinsed in the Shannon at Athlone ..."A table of contents has been added to this version of the e-text, for ease of navigation.
Transcriber's Note
Minor typographic punctuation errors have been corrected without note.
The frontispiece illustration has been moved to follow the title page.
There is a large amount of dialect in this book, which all remains as printed in the original text. This includes some variable spelling, e.g. crather—crathur, plase—plaze.
Page55—Sharron amended to Shannon—"... and rinsed in the Shannon at Athlone ..."
A table of contents has been added to this version of the e-text, for ease of navigation.