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The little fellow clapped his hands with glee, and seemed delighted at all he heard.
“Poor darlin',” muttered Owen, sorrowfully; “he doesn't know 'tis the sad day for him;” and as he spoke, the wind from the valley bore on it the mournful cadence of a death-cry, as a funeral moved along the road. “His father's berrin'!” added he. “God help us! how fast misfortune does be overtaking us at the time our heart's happiest! It will be many a day before he knows all this morning cost him.”
The little child meanwhile caught the sounds, and starting up in Owen's arms, he strained his eyes to watch the funeral procession as it slowly passed on. Owen held him up for a few seconds to see it, and wiped the large tears that started to his own eyes. “Maybe Martin and poor Ellen's looking down on us now!” and with that he laid the little boy back in his arms and plodded forward.
It was but seldom that Owen Connor ascended that steep way without halting to look down on the wide valley, and the lake, and the distant mountains beyond it. The scene was one of which he never wearied; indeed, its familiarity had charms for him greater and higher than mere picturesque beauty can bestow. Each humble cabin with its little family was known to him; he was well read in the story of their lives; he had mingled in all their hopes and fears from childhood to old age; and, as the lights trembled through the dark night, and spangled the broad expanse, he could bring before his mind's eye the humble hearths round which they sat, and think he almost heard their voices. Now, he heeded not these things, but steadily bent his steps towards home.
At last, the twinkle of a star-like light shewed that he was near his journey's end. It shone from the deep shadow of a little glen, in which his cabin stood. The seclusion of the spot was in Owen's eyes its greatest charm. Like all men who have lived much alone, he set no common store by the pleasures of solitude, and fancied that most if not all of his happiness was derived from this source. At this moment his gratitude was more than usual, as he muttered to himself, “Thank God for it! we've a snug little place away from the sickness, and no house near us at all;” and with this comforting reflection he drew near the cabin. The door, contrary to custom at nightfall, lay open; and Owen, painfully alive to any suspicious sign, from the state of anxiety his mind had suffered, entered hastily.
“Father! where are you?” said he quickly, not seeing the old man in his accustomed place beside the fire; but there was no answer. Laying the child down, Owen passed into the little chamber which served as the old man's bedroom, and where now he lay stretched upon the bed in his clothes. “Are ye sick, father? What ails ye, father dear?” asked the young man, as he took his hand in his own.
“I'm glad ye've come at last, Owen,” replied his father feebly. “I've got the sickness, and am going fast.”
“No—no, father! don't be down-hearted!” cried Owen, with a desperate effort to suggest the courage he did not feel; for the touch of the cold wet hand had already told him the sad secret. “'Tis a turn ye have.”
“Well, maybe so,” said he, with a sigh; “but there's a cowld feeling about my heart I never knew afore. Get me a warm drink, anyway.”
While Owen prepared some cordial from the little store he usually dispensed among the people, his father told him, that a boy from a sick house had called at the cabin that morning to seek for Owen, and from him, in all likelihood, he must have caught the malady. “I remember,” said the old man, “that he was quite dark in the skin, and was weak in his limbs as he walked.”
“Ayeh!” muttered Owen, “av it was the 'disease' he had, sorra bit of this mountain he'd ever get up. The strongest men can't lift a cup of wather to their lips, when it's on them; but there's a great scarcity in the glen, and maybe the boy eat nothing before he set out.”
Although Owen's explanation was the correct one, it did not satisfy the old man's mind, who, besides feeling convinced of his having the malady, could not credit his taking it by other means than contagion. Owen never quitted his side, and multiplied cares and attentions of every kind; but it was plain the disease was gaining ground, for ere midnight the old man's strength was greatly gone, and his voice sunk to a mere whisper. Yet the malady was characterised by none of the symptoms of the prevailing epidemic, save slight cramps, of which from time to time he complained. His case seemed one of utter exhaustion. His mind was clear and calm; and although unable to speak, except in short and broken sentences, no trait of wandering intellect appeared. His malady was a common one among those whose fears, greatly excited by the disease, usually induced symptoms of prostration and debility, as great, if not as rapid, as those of actual cholera. Meanwhile his thoughts were alternately turning from his own condition to that of the people in the glen, for whom he felt the deepest compassion. “God help them!” was his constant expression. “Sickness is the sore thing; but starvation makes it dreadful. And so Luke Clancy's dead! Poor ould Luke! he was seventy-one in Michaelmas. And Martin, too! he was a fine man.”
The old man slept, or seemed to sleep, for some hours, and on waking it was clear daylight. “Owen, dear! I wish,” said he, “I could see the Priest; but you mustn't lave me: I couldn't bear that now.”
Poor Owen's thoughts were that moment occupied on the same subject, and he was torturing himself to think of any means of obtaining Father John's assistance, without being obliged to go for him himself.
“I'll go, and be back here in an hour—ay, or less,” said he, eagerly; for terrible as death was to him, the thought of seeing his father die unanointed, was still more so.
“In an hour—where'll I be in an hour, Owen dear? the blessed Virgin knows well, it wasn't my fault—I'd have the Priest av I could—and sure, Owen, you'll not begrudge me masses, when I'm gone. What's that? It's like a child crying out there.”
“'T'is poor Martin's little boy I took home with me—he's lost father and mother this day;” and so saying, Owen hastened to see what ailed the child. “Yer sarvent, sir,” said Owen, as he perceived a stout-built, coarse-looking man, with a bull-terrier at his heels, standing in the middle of the floor; “Yer sarvent, sir. Who do ye want here?”
“Are you Owen Connor?” said the man, gruffly.
“That same,” replied Owen, as sturdily.
“Then this is notice for you to come up to Mr. Lucas's office in Galway before the twenty-fifth, with your rent, or the receipt for it, which ever you like best.”
“And who is Mr. Lucas when he's at home?” said Owen, half-sneeringly.
“You'll know him when you see him,” rejoined the other, turning to leave the cabin, as he threw a printed paper on the dresser; and then, as if thinking he had not been formal enough in his mission, added, “Mr. Lucas is agent to your landlord, Mr. Leslie; and I'll give you a bit of advice, keep a civil tongue in your head with him, and it will do you no harm.”
This counsel, delivered much more in a tone of menace than of friendly advice, concluded the interview, for having spoken, the fellow left the cabin, and began to descend the mountain.
Owen's heart swelled fiercely—a flood of conflicting emotions were warring within it; and as he turned to throw the paper into the fire, his eye caught the date, 16th March. “St. Patrick's Eve, the very day I saved his life,” said he, bitterly. “Sure I knew well enough how it would be when the landlord died! Well, well, if my poor ould father doesn't know it, it's no matter.—Well, Patsy, acushla, what are ye crying for? There, my boy, don't be afeard, 'tis Nony's with ye.”
The accents so kindly uttered quieted the little fellow in a moment, and in a few minutes after he was again asleep in the old straw chair beside the fire. Brief as Owen's absence had been, the old man seemed much worse as he entered the room. “God forgive me, Owen darling,” said he, “but it wasn't my poor sowl I was thinking of that minit. I was thinking that you must get a letter wrote to the young landlord about this little place—I'm sure he'll never say a word about rent, no more nor his father; and as the times wasn't good lately—”
“There, there, father,” interrupted Owen, who felt shocked at the old man's not turning his thoughts in another direction; “never mind those things,” said he; “who knows which of us will be left? the sickness doesn't spare the young, no more than the ould.”
“Nor the rich, no more nor the poor,” chimed in the old man, with a kind of bitter satisfaction, as he thought on the landlord's death; for of such incongruous motives is man made up, that calamities come lighter when they involve the fall of those in station above our own. “'Tis a fine day, seemingly,” said he, suddenly changing the current of his thoughts; “and elegant weather for the country; we'll have to turn in the sheep over that wheat; it will be too rank: ayeh,” cried he, with a deep sigh, “I'll not be here to see it;” and for once, the emotions, no dread of futurity could awaken, were realised by worldly considerations, and the old man wept like a child.
“What time of the month is it?” asked he, after a long interval in which neither spoke; for Owen was not really sorry that even thus painfully the old man's thoughts should be turned towards eternity.
“'Tis the seventeenth, father, a holy-day all over Ireland!”
“Is there many at the 'station?'—look out at the door and see.”
Owen ascended a little rising ground in front of the cabin, from which the whole valley was visible; but except a group that followed a funeral upon the road, he could see no human thing around. The green where the “stations” were celebrated was totally deserted. There were neither tents nor people; the panic of the plague had driven all ideas of revelry from the minds of the most reckless; and, even to observe the duties of religion, men feared to assemble in numbers. So long as the misfortune was at a distance, they could mingle their prayers in common, and entreat for mercy; but when death knocked at every door, the terror became almost despair.
“Is the 'stations' going on?” asked the old man eagerly, as Owen re-entered the room. “Is the people at the holy well?”
“I don't see many stirring at all, to-day,” was the cautious answer; for Owen scrupled to inflict any avoidable pain upon his mind.
“Lift me up, then!” cried he suddenly, and with a voice stronger, from a violent effort of his will. “Lift me up to the window, till I see the blessed cross; and maybe I'd get a prayer among them. Come, be quick, Owen!”
Owen hastened to comply with his request; but already the old man's eyes were glazed and filmy. The effort had but hastened the moment of his doom; and, with a low faint sigh, he lay back, and died.
To the Irish peasantry, who, more than any other people of Europe, are accustomed to bestow care and attention on the funerals of their friends and relatives, the Cholera, in its necessity for speedy interment, was increased in terrors tenfold. The honours which they were wont to lavish on the dead—the ceremonial of the wake—the mingled merriment and sorrow—the profusion with which they spent the hoarded gains of hard-working labour—and lastly, the long train to the churchyard, evidencing the respect entertained for the departed, should all be foregone; for had not prudence forbid their assembling in numbers, and thus incurring the chances of contagion, which, whether real or not, they firmly believed in, the work of death was too widely disseminated to make such gatherings possible. Each had some one to lament within the limits of his own family, and private sorrow left little room for public sympathy. No longer then was the road filled by people on horseback and foot, as the funeral procession moved forth. The death-wail sounded no more. To chant therequiemof the departed, a few—a very few—immediate friends followed the body to the grave, in silence unbroken. Sad hearts, indeed, they brought, and broken spirits; for in this season of pestilence few dared to hope.
By noon, Owen was seen descending the mountain to the village, to make the last preparations for the old man's funeral. He carried little Patsy in his arms; for he could not leave the poor child alone, and in the house of death. The claims of infancy would seem never stronger than in the heart sorrowing over death. The grief that carries the sufferer in his mind's eye over the limits of this world, is arrested by the tender ties which bind him to life in the young. There is besides a hopefulness in early life—it is, perhaps, its chief characteristic—that combats sorrow, better than all the caresses of friendship, and all the consolations of age. Owen felt this now—he never knew it before. But yesterday, and his father's death had left him without one in the world on whom to fix a hope; and already, from his misery, there arose that one gleam, that now twinkled like a star in the sky of midnight. The little child he had taken for his own was a world to him; and as he went, he prayed fervently that poor Patsy might be spared to him through this terrible pestilence.
When Owen reached the carpenter's, there were several people there; some, standing moodily brooding over recent bereavements; others, spoke in low whispers, as if fearful of disturbing the silence; but all were sorrow-struck and sad.
“How is the ould man, Owen?” said one of a group, as he came forward.
“He's better off than us, I trust in God!” said Owen, with a quivering lip. “He went to rest this morning.”
A muttered prayer from all around shewed how general was the feeling of kindness entertained towards the Connors.
“When did he take it, Owen?”
“I don't know that he tuk it at all; but when I came home last night he was lying on the bed, weak and powerless, and he slept away, with scarce a pain, till daybreak; then—”
“He's in glory now, I pray God!” muttered an old man with a white beard. “We were born in the same year, and I knew him since I was a child, like that in your arms; and a good man he was.”
“Whose is the child, Owen?” said another in the crowd.
“Martin Neale's,” whispered Owen; for he feared that the little fellow might catch the words. “What's the matter with Miles? he looks very low this morning.”
This question referred to a large powerful-looking man, who, with a smith's apron twisted round his waist, sat without speaking in a corner of the shop.
“I'm afeard he's in a bad way,” whispered the man to whom he spoke. “There was a process-server, or a bailiff, or something of the kind, serving notices through the townland yesterday, and he lost a shoe off his baste, and would have Miles out, to put it on, tho' we all tould him that he buried his daughter—a fine grown girl—that mornin'. And what does the fellow do, but goes and knocks at the forge till Miles comes out. You know Miles Regan, so I needn't say there wasn't many words passed between them. In less nor two minutes—whatever the bailiff said—Miles tuck him by the throat, and pulled him down from the horse, and dragged him along to the lake, and flung him in. 'Twas the Lord's marcy he knew how to swim; but we don't know what'll be done to Miles yet, for he was the new agent's man.”
“Was he a big fellow, with a bull-dog following him?” asked Owen.
“No; that's another; sure there's three or four of them goin' about. We hear, that bad as ould French was, the new one is worse.”
“Well—well, it's the will of God!” said Owen, in that tone of voice which bespoke a willingness for all endurance, so long as the consolation remained, that the ill was not unrecorded above; while he felt that all the evils of poverty were little in comparison with the loss of those nearest and dearest. “Come, Patsy, my boy!” said he at last, as he placed the coffin in the ass-cart, and turned towards the mountain; and, leading the little fellow by the hand, he set out on his way—“Come home.”
It was not until he arrived at that part of the road from which the cabin was visible, that Owen knew the whole extent of his bereavement; then, when he looked up and saw the door hasped on the outside, and the chimney from which no smoke ascended, the full measure of his lone condition came at once before him, and he bent over the coffin and wept bitterly. All the old man's affection for him, his kind indulgence and forbearance, his happy nature, his simple-heartedness, gushed forth from his memory, and he wondered why he had not loved his father, in life, a thousand times more, so deeply was he now penetrated by his loss. If this theme did not assuage his sorrows, it at least so moulded his heart as to bear them in a better spirit; and when, having placed the body in the coffin, he knelt down beside it to pray, it was in a calmer and more submissive frame of mind than he had yet known.
It was late in the afternoon ere Owen was once more on the road down the mountain; for it was necessary—or at least believed so—that the internment should take place on the day of death.
“I never thought it would be this way you'd go to your last home, father dear,” said Owen aloud and in a voice almost stifled with sobs; for the absence of all his friends and relatives at such a moment, now smote on the poor fellow's heart, as he walked beside the little cart on which the coffin was laid. It was indeed a sight to move a sterner nature than his: the coffin, not reverently carried by bearers, and followed by its long train of mourners, but laid slant-wise in the cart, the spade and shovel to dig the grave beside it, and Patsy seated on the back of the ass, watching with infant glee the motion of the animal, as with careful foot he descended the rugged mountain. Poor child! how your guileless laughter shook that strong man's heart with agony!
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It was a long and weary way to the old churchyard. The narrow road, too, was deeply rutted and worn by wheel-tracks; for, alas, it had been trodden by many, of late. The grey daylight was fast fading as Owen pushed wide the old gate and entered. What a change to his eyes did the aspect of the place present! The green mounds of earth which marked the resting-place of village patriarchs, were gone; and heaps of fresh-turned clay were seen on every side, no longer decorated, as of old, with little emblems of affectionate sorrow; no tree, nor stone, not even a wild flower, spoke of the regrets of those who remained. The graves were rudely fashioned, as if in haste—for so it was—few dared to linger there!
Seeking out a lone spot near the ruins, Owen began to dig the grave, while the little child, in mute astonishment at all he saw, looked on.
“Why wouldn't you stay out in the road, Patsy, and play there, till I come to you? This is a cowld damp place for you, my boy.”
“Nony! Nony!” cried the child, looking at him with an affectionate smile, as though to say he'd rather be near him.
“Well, well, who knows but you're right? if it's the will of God to take me, maybe you might as well go too. It's a sore thing to be alone in the world, like me now!” And as he muttered the last few words he ceased digging, and rested his head on the cross of the spade.
“Was that you, Patsy? I heard a voice somewhere.”
The child shook his head in token of dissent.
“Ayeh! it was only the wind through the ould walls; but sure it might be nat'ral enough for sighs and sobs to be here: there's many a one has floated over this damp clay.”
He resumed his work once more. The night was falling fast as Owen stepped from the deep grave, and knelt down to say a prayer ere he committed the body to the earth.
“Kneel down, darlin', here by my side,” said he, placing his arm round the little fellow's waist; “'tis the likes of you God loves best;” and joining the tiny hands with his own, he uttered a deep and fervent prayer for the soul of the departed. “There, father!” said he, as he arose at last, and in a voice as if addressing a living person at his side; “there, father: the Lord, he knows my heart inside me; and if walking the world barefoot would give ye peace or ease, I'd do it, for you were a kind man and a good father to me.” He kissed the coffin as he spoke, and stood silently gazing on it.
Arousing himself with a kind of struggle, he untied the cords, and lifted the coffin from the cart. For some seconds he busied himself in arranging the ropes beneath it, and then ceased suddenly, on remembering that he could not lower it into the grave unassisted.
“I'll have to go down the road for some one,” muttered he to himself; but as he said this, he perceived at some distance off in the churchyard the figure of a man, as if kneeling over a grave. “The Lord help him, he has his grief too!” ejaculated Owen, as he moved towards him. On coming nearer he perceived that the grave was newly made, and from its size evidently that of a child.
“I ax your pardon,” said Owen, in a timid voice, after waiting for several minutes in the vain expectation that the man would look up; “I ax your pardon for disturbing you, but maybe you'll be kind enough to help me to lay this coffin in the ground. I have nobody with me but a child.”
The man started and looked round. Their eyes met; it was Phil Joyce and Owen who now confronted each other. But how unlike were both to what they were at their last parting! Then, vindictive passion, outraged pride, and vengeance, swelled every feature and tingled in every fibre of their frames. Now, each stood pale, care-worn, and dispirited, wearied out by sorrow, and almost brokenhearted. Owen was the first to speak.
“I axed your pardon before I saw you, Phil Joyce, and I ax it again now, for disturbing you; but I didn't know you, and I wanted to put my poor father's body in the grave.”
“I didn't know he was dead,” said Phil, in a hollow voice, like one speaking to himself. “This is poor little Billy here,” and he pointed to the mound at his feet.
“The heavens be his bed this night!” said Owen, piously; “Good night!” and he turned to go away; then stopping suddenly, he added, “Maybe, after all, you'll not refuse me, and the Lord might be more merciful to us both, than if we were to part like enemies.”
“Owen Connor, I ask your forgiveness,” said Phil, stretching forth his hand, while his voice trembled like a sick child's. “I didn't think the day would come I'd ever do it; but my heart is humble enough now, and maybe 'twill be lower soon. Will you take my hand?”
“Will I, Phil? will I, is it? ay, and however ye may change to me after this night, I'll never forget this.” And he grasped the cold fingers in both hands, and pressed them ardently, and the two men fell into each other's arms and wept.
Is it a proud or a humiliating confession for humanity—assuredly it is a true one—that the finest and best traits of our nature are elicited in our troubles, and not in our joys? that we come out purer through trials than prosperity? Does the chastisement of Heaven teach us better than the blessings lavished upon us? or are these gifts the compensation sent us for our afflictions, that when poorest before man we should be richest before God? Few hearts there are which sorrow makes not wiser—none which are not better for it. So it was here. These men, in the continuance of good fortune, had been enemies for life; mutual hatred had grown up between them, so that each yearned for vengeance on the other; and now they walked like brothers, only seeking forgiveness of each other, and asking pardon for the past.
The old man was laid in his grave, and they turned to leave the churchyard.
“Won't ye come home with me, Owen?” said Phil, as they came to where their roads separated; “won't ye come and eat your supper with us?”
Owen's throat filled up: he could only mutter, “Not to-night, Phil—another time, plaze God.” He had not ventured even to ask for Mary, nor did he know whether Phil Joyce in his reconciliation might wish a renewal of any intimacy with his sister. Such was the reason of Owen's refusal; for, however strange it may seem to some, there is a delicacy of the heart as well as of good breeding, and one advantage it possesses—it is of all lands, and the fashion never changes.
Poor Owen would have shed his best blood to be able to ask after Mary—to learn how she was, and how she bore up under the disasters of the time; but he never mentioned her name: and as for Phil Joyce, his gloomy thoughts had left no room for others, and he parted from Owen without a single allusion to her. “Good night, Owen,” said he, “and don't forget your promise to come and see us soon.”
“Good night, Phil,” was the answer; “and I pray a blessing on you and yours.” A slight quivering of the voice at the last word was all he suffered to escape him; and they parted.
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From that day, the pestilence began to abate in violence. The cases of disease became fewer and less fatal; and at last, like a spent bolt, the malady ceased to work its mischief. Men were slow enough to recognise this bettered aspect of their fortune. Calamity had weighed too heavily on them to make them rally at once. They still walked like those who felt the shadow of death upon them, and were fearful lest any imprudent act or word might bring back the plague among them.
With time, however, these features passed off: people gradually resumed their wonted habits; and, except where the work of death had been more than ordinarily destructive, the malady was now treated as “a thing that had been.”
If Owen Connor had not escaped the common misfortune of the land, he could at least date one happy event from that sad period—his reconciliation with Phil Joyce. This was no passing friendship. The dreadful scenes he had witnessed about him had made Phil an altered character. The devotion of Owen—his manly indifference to personal risk whenever his services were wanted by another—his unsparing benevolence,—all these traits, the mention of which at first only irritated and vexed his soul, were now remembered in the day of reconciliation; and none felt prouder to acknowledge his friendship than his former enemy.
Notwithstanding all this, Owen did not dare to found a hope upon his change of fortune; for Mary was even more distant and cold to him than ever, as though to shew that, whatever expectations he might conceive from her brother's friendship, he should not reckon too confidently on her feelings. Owen knew not how far he had himself to blame for this; he was not aware that his own constrained manner, his over-acted reserve, had offended Mary to the quick; and thus, both mutually retreated in misconception and distrust. The game of love is the same, whether the players be clad in velvet or in hodden grey. Beneath the gilded ceilings of a palace, or the lowly rafters of a cabin, there are the same hopes and fears, the same jealousies, and distrusts, and despondings; the wiles and stratagems are all alike; for, after all, the stake is human happiness, whether he who risks it be a peer or a peasant! While Owen vacillated between hope and fear, now, resolving to hazard an avowal of his love and take his stand on the result, now, deeming it better to trust to time and longer intimacy, other events were happening around, which could not fail to interest him deeply. The new agent had commenced his campaign with an activity before unknown. Arrears of rent were demanded to be peremptorily paid up; leases, whose exact conditions had not been fulfilled, were declared void; tenants occupying sub-let land were noticed to quit; and all the threatening signs of that rigid management displayed, by which an estate is assumed to be “admirably regulated,” and the agent's duty most creditably discharged.
Many of the arrears were concessions made by the landlord in seasons of hardship and distress, but were unrecorded as such in the rent-roll or the tenant's receipt. There had been no intention of ever redemanding them; and both parties had lost sight of the transaction until the sharp glance of a “new agent” discovered their existence. So of the leases: covenants to build, or plant, or drain, were inserted rather as contingencies, which prosperity might empower, than as actual conditions essential to be fulfilled; and as for sub-letting, it was simply the act by which a son or a daughter was portioned in the world, and enabled to commence the work of self-maintenance.
This slovenly system inflicted many evils. The demand of an extravagant rent rendered an abatement not a boon, but an act of imperative necessity; and while the overhanging debt supplied the landlord with a means of tyranny, it deprived the tenant of all desire to improve his condition. “Why should I labour,” said he, “when the benefit never can be mine?” The landlord then declaimed against ingratitude, at the time that the peasant spoke against oppression. Could they both be right? The impossibility of ever becoming independent soon suggested that dogged indifference, too often confounded with indolent habits. Sustenance was enough for him, who, if he earned more, should surrender it; hence the poor man became chained to his poverty. It was a weight which grew with his strength; privations might as well be incurred with little labour as with great; and he sunk down to the condition of a mere drudge, careless and despondent. “He can only take all I have!” was the cottier's philosophy; and the maxim suggested a corollary, that the “all” should be as little as might be.
But there were other grievances flowing from this source. The extent of these abatements usually depended on the representation of the tenants themselves, and such evidences as they could produce of their poverty and destitution. Hence a whole world of falsehood and dissimulation was fostered. Cabins were suffered to stand half-roofed; children left to shiver in rags and nakedness; age and infirmity exhibited in attitudes of afflicting privation; habits of mendicity encouraged;—all, that they might impose upon the proprietor, and make him believe that any sum wrung from such as these must be an act of cruelty. If these schemes were sometimes successful, so in their failure they fell as heavy penalties upon the really destitute, for whose privations no pity was felt. Their misery, confounded in the general mass of dissimulation, was neglected; and for one who prospered in his falsehood, many were visited in their affliction.
That men in such circumstances as these should listen with greedy ears to any representation which reflected heavily on their wealthier neighbours, is little to be wondered at. The triumph of knavery and falsehood is a bad lesson for any people; but the fruitlessness of honest industry is, if possible, a worse one. Both were well taught by this system. And these things took place, not, be it observed, when the landlord or his agent were cruel and exacting—very far from it. They were the instances so popularly expatiated on by newspapers and journals; they were the cases headed—“Example for Landlords!” “Timely Benevolence!” and paragraphed thus:—“We learn, with the greatest pleasure, that Mr. Muldrennin, of Kilbally-drennin, has, in consideration of the failure of the potato-crop, and the severe pressure of the season, kindly abated five per cent of all his rents. Let this admirable example be generally followed, and we shall once more see,” &c. &c. There was no explanatory note to state the actual condition of that tenantry, or the amount of that rent from which the deduction was made. Mr. Muldrennin was then free to run his career of active puffery throughout the kingdom, and his tenantry to starve on as before.
Of all worldly judgments there is one that never fails. No man was ever instrumental, either actively or through neglect, to another's demoralisation, that he was not made to feel the recoil of his conduct on himself. Such had been palpably the result here. The confidence of the people lost, they had taken to themselves the only advisers in their power, and taught themselves to suppose that relief can only be effected by legislative enactments, or their own efforts. This lesson once learned, and they were politicians for life. The consequence has been, isolation from him to whom once all respect and attachment were rendered; distrust and dislike follow—would that the catalogue went no further!
And again to our story. Owen was at last reminded, by the conversation of those about, that he too had received a summons from the new agent to attend at his office in Galway—a visit which, somehow or other, he had at first totally neglected; and, as the summons was not repeated, he finally supposed had been withdrawn by the agent, on learning the condition of his holding. As September drew to a close, however, he accompanied Phil Joyce on his way to Galway, prepared, if need be, to pay the half-year's rent, but ardently hoping the while it might never be demanded. It was a happy morning for poor Owen—the happiest of his whole life. He had gone over early to breakfast at Joyce's, and on reaching the house found Mary alone, getting ready the meal. Their usual distance in manner continued for some time; each talked of what their thoughts were least occupied on; and at last, after many a look from the window to see if Phil was coming, and wondering why he did not arrive, Owen drew a heavy sigh and said, “It's no use, Mary; divil a longer I can be suffering this way; take me or refuse me you must this morning! I know well enough you don't care for me; but if ye don't like any one else better, who knows but in time, and with God's blessin', but ye'll be as fond of me, as I am of you?”
“And who told ye I didn't like some one else?” said Mary, with a sly glance; and her handsome features brightened up with a more than common brilliancy.
“The heavens make him good enough to desarve ye, I pray this day!” said Owen, with a trembling lip. “I'll go now! that's enough!”
“Won't ye wait for yer breakfast, Owen Connor? Won't ye stay a bit for my brother?”
“No, thank ye, ma'am. I'll not go into Galway to-day.”
“Well, but don't go without your breakfast. Take a cup of tay anyhow, Owen dear!”
“Owen dear! O Mary, jewel! don't say them words, and I laving you for ever.”
The young girl blushed deeply and turned away her head, but her crimsoned neck shewed that her shame was not departed. At the moment, Phil burst into the room, and standing for a second with his eyes fixed on each in turn, he said, “Bad scran to ye, for women; but there's nothing but decate and wickedness in ye; divil a peace or ease I ever got when I quarrelled with Owen, and now that we're friends, ye're as cross and discontented as ever. Try what you can do with her yourself, Owen, my boy; for I give her up.”
“'Tis not for me to thry it,” said Owen, despondingly; “'tis another has the betther luck.”
“That's not true, anyhow,” cried Phil; “for she told me so herself.”
“What! Mary, did ye say that?” said Owen, with a spring across the room; “did ye tell him that, darling?”
“Sure if I did, ye wouldn't believe me,” said Mary, with a side-look; “women is nothing but deceit and wickedness.”
“Sorra else,” cried Owen, throwing his arm round her neck and kissing her; “and I'll never believe ye again, when ye say ye don't love me.”
“'Tis a nice way to boil the eggs hard,” said Phil, testily; “arrah, come over here and eat your breakfast, man; you'll have time enough for courting when we come back.”
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There needed not many words to a bargain which was already ratified; and before they left the house, the day of the wedding was actually fixed.
It was not without reason, then, that I said it was a happy day for Owen. Never did the long miles of the road seem so short as now; while, with many a plan for the future, and many a day-dream of happiness to come, he went at Phil's side scarce crediting his good fortune to be real.
When they arrived at the agent's office in the square at Galway, they found a great many of their neighbours and friends already there; some, moody and depressed, yet lingered about the door, though they had apparently finished the business which brought them; others, anxious-looking and troubled, were waiting for their turn to enter. They were all gathered into little groups and parties, conversing eagerly together in Irish; and as each came out of the office, he was speedily surrounded by several others, questioning him as to how he had fared, and what success he met with.
Few came forth satisfied—not one happy-looking. Some, who were deficient a few shillings, were sent back again, and appeared with the money still in their hands, which they counted over and over, as if hoping to make it more. Others, trusting to promptitude in their payments, were seeking renewal of their tenures at the same rent, and found their requests coldly received, and no pledge returned. Others, again, met with severe reproaches as to the condition of their dwellings and the neglected appearance of their farms, with significant hints that slovenly tenants would meet with little favour, and, although pleading sickness and distress, found the apology hut slightly regarded.
“We thought the ould agent bad enough; but, faix, this one bates him out, entirely.” Such was the comment of each and all, at the treatment met with, and such the general testimony of the crowd.
“Owen Connor! Owen Connor!” called out a voice, which Owen in a moment recognised as that of the fellow who had visited his cabin; and passing through the densely crowded hall, Owen forced his way into the small front parlour, where two clerks were seated at a table, writing.
“Over here; this way, if you please,” said one of them, pointing with his pen to the place he should stand in. “What's your name?”
“Owen Connor, sir.”
“What's the name of your holding?”
“Ballydorery, Knockshaughlin, and Cushaglin, is the townlands, and the mountain is Slieve-na-vick, sir.”
“Owen Connor, Owen Connor,” said the clerk, repeating the name three or four times over. “Oh, I remember; there has been no rent paid on your farm for some years.''
“You're right there, sir,” said Owen; “the landlord, God be good to him! tould my poor father—”
“Well, well, I have nothing to do with that—step inside—Mr. Lucas will speak to you himself;—shew this man inside, Luffey;” and the grim bailiff led the way into the back parlour, where two gentlemen were standing with their backs to the fire, chatting; they were both young and good-looking, and, to Owen's eyes, as unlike agents as could be. .
“Well, what does this honest fellow want?—no abatement, I hope; a fellow with as good a coat as you have, can't be very ill off.”
“True for you, yer honor, and I am not,” said Owen in reply to the speaker, who seemed a few years younger than the other. “Iwas bid spake to yer honor about the little place I have up the mountains, and that Mr. Leslie gave my father rent-free—”
“Oh, you are the man from Maam, an't you?”
“The same, sir; Owen Connor.”
“That's the mountain I told you of, Major,” said Lucas in a whisper; then, turning to Owen, resumed: “Well, I wished to see you very much, and speak to you. I've heard the story about your getting the land rent-free, and all that; but I find no mention of the matter in the books of the estate; there is not the slightest note nor memorandum that I can see, on the subject; and except your own word—which of course, as far as it goes, is all very well—I have nothing in your favour.”
While these words were being spoken, Owen went through a thousand tortures; and many a deep conflicting passion warred within him. “Well, sir,” said he at last, with a heavily drawn sigh, “well, sir, with God's blessin', I'll do my best; and whatever your honour says is fair, I'll thry and pay it: I suppose I'm undher rent since March last?”
“March! why, my good fellow, there's six years due last twenty-fifth; what are you thinking of?”
“Sure you don't mean I'm to pay, for what was given to me and my father?” said Owen, with a wild look that almost startled the agent.
“I mean precisely what I say,” said Lucas, reddening with anger at the tone Owen assumed. “I mean that you owe six years and a half of rent; for which, if you neither produce receipt nor money, you'll never owe another half year for the same holding.”
“And that's flat!” said the Major, laughing.
“And that's flat!” echoed Lucas, joining in the mirth.
Owen looked from one to the other of the speakers, and although never indisposed to enjoy a jest, he could not, for the life of him, conceive what possible occasion for merriment existed at the present moment.
“Plenty of grouse on that mountain, an't there?” said the Major, tapping his boot with his cane.
But, although the question was addressed to Owen, he was too deeply sunk in his own sad musings to pay it any attention.
“Don't you hear, my good fellow? Major Lynedoch asks, if there are not plenty of grouse on the mountain.”
“Did the present landlord say that I was to pay this back rent?” said Owen deliberately, after a moment of deep thought.
“Mr. Leslie never gave me any particular instructions on your account,” said Lucas smiling; “nor do I suppose that his intentions regarding you are different from those respecting other tenants.”
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“I saved his life, then!” said Owen; and his eyes flashed with indignation as he spoke.
“And you saved a devilish good fellow, I can tell you,” said the Major, smiling complacently, as though to hint that the act was a very sufficient reward for its own performance.
“The sorra much chance he had of coming to the property that day, anyhow, till I came up,” said Owen, in a half soliloquy.
“What! were the savages about to scalp him? Eh!” asked the Major.
Owen turned a scowl towards him that stopped the already-begun laugh; while Lucas, amazed at the peasant's effrontery, said, “You needn't wait any longer, my good fellow; I have nothing more to say.”
“I was going to ask yer honner, sir,” said Owen, civilly, “if I paid the last half-year—I have it with me—if ye'll let me stay in the place till ye'll ask Mr. Leslie—”
“But you forget, my friend, that a receipt for the last half-year is a receipt in full,” said Lucas, interrupting.
“Sure; I don't want the receipt!” said Owen hurriedly; “keep it yourself. It isn't mistrusting the word of a gentleman I'd be.”
“Eh, Lucas! blarney! I say, blarney, and no mistake!” cried the Major, half-suffocated with his own drollery.
“By my sowl! it's little blarney I'd give you, av I had ye at the side of Slieve-na-vick,” said Owen; and the look he threw towards him left little doubt of his sincerity.
“Leave the room, sir! leave the room!” said Lucas, with a gesture towards the door.
“Dare I ax you where Mr. Leslie is now, sir?” said Owen, calmly.
“He's in London: No. 18 Belgrave Square.”
“Would yer honour be so kind as to write it on a bit of paper for me?” said Owen, almost obsequiously.
Lucas sat down and wrote the address upon a card, handing it to Owen without a word.
“I humbly ax yer pardon, gentlemen, if I was rude to either of ye,” said Owen, with a bow, as he moved towards the door; “but distress of mind doesn't improve a man's manners, if even he had more nor I have; but if I get the little place yet, and that ye care for a day's sport—”
“Eh, damme, you're not so bad, after all,” said the Major: “I say, Lucas—is he, now?”
“Your servant, gentlemen,” said Owen, who felt too indignant at the cool insolence with which his generous proposal was accepted, to trust himself with more; and with that, he left the room.
“Well, Owen, my boy,” said Phil, who long since having paid his own rent, was becoming impatient at his friend's absence; “well, Owen, ye might have settled about the whole estate by this time. Why did they keep you so long?”
In a voice tremulous with agitation, Owen repeated the result of his interview, adding, as he concluded, “And now, there's nothing for it, Phil, but to see the landlord himself, and spake to him. I've got the name of the place he's in, here—it's somewhere in London; and I'll never turn my steps to home, before I get a sight of him. I've the half-year's rent here in my pocket, so that I'll have money enough, and to spare; and I only ax ye, Phil, to tell Mary how the whole case is, and to take care of little Patsy for me till I come back—he's at your house now.”
“Never fear, we'll take care of him, Owen; and I believe you're doing the best thing, after all.”
The two friends passed the evening together, at least until the time arrived, when Owen took his departure by the mail. It was a sad termination to a day which opened so joyfully, and not all Phil's endeavours to rally and encourage his friend could dispossess Owen's mind of a gloomy foreboding that it was but the beginning of misfortune. “I have it over me,” was his constant expression as they talked; “I have it over me, that something bad will come out of this;” and although his fears were vague and indescribable, they darkened his thoughts as effectually as real evils.
The last moment came, and Phil, with a hearty '“God speed you,” shook his friend's hand, and he was gone.
It would but protract my story, without fulfilling any of its objects, to speak of Owen's journey to England and on to London. It was a season of great distress in the manufacturing districts; several large failures had occurred—great stagnation of trade existed, and a general depression was observable over the population of the great trading cities. There were daily meetings to consider the condition of the working classes, and the newspapers were crammed with speeches and resolutions in their favour. Placards were carried about the streets, with terrible announcements of distress and privation, and processions of wretched-looking men were met with on every side.
Owen, who, from motives of economy, prosecuted his journey on foot, had frequent opportunities of entering the dwellings of the poor, and observing their habits and modes of life. The everlasting complaints of suffering and want rung in his ears from morning till night; and yet, to his unaccustomed eyes, the evidences betrayed few, if any, of the evils of great poverty. The majority were not without bread—the very poorest had a sufficiency of potatoes. Their dwellings were neat-looking and comfortable, and, in comparison with what he was used to, actually luxurious. Neither were their clothes like the ragged and tattered coverings Owen had seen at home. The fustian jackets of the men were generally whole and well cared for; but the children more than all struck him. In Ireland, the young are usually the first to feel the pressure of hardship—their scanty clothing rather the requirement of decency, than a protection against weather: here, the children were cleanly and comfortably dressed—none were in rags, few without shoes and stockings.
What could such people mean by talking of distress, Owen could by no means comprehend. “I wish we had a little of this kind of poverty in ould Ireland!” was the constant theme of his thoughts. “'Tis little they know what distress is! Faix, I wondher what they'd say if they saw Connemarra?” And yet, the privations they endured were such as had not been known for many years previous. Their sufferings were really great, and the interval between their ordinary habits as wide, as ever presented itself in the fortunes of the poor Irishman's life. But poverty, after all, is merely relative; and they felt that as “starvation” which Paddy would hail as a season of blessing and abundance.
“With a fine slated house over them, and plenty of furniture inside, and warm clothes, and enough to eat,—that's what they call distress! Musha! I'd like to see them, when they think they're comfortable,” thought Owen, who at last lost all patience with such undeserved complainings, and could with difficulty restrain himself from an open attack on their injustice.
He arrived in London at last, and the same evening hastened to Belgrave Square; for his thoughts were now, as his journey drew to a close, painfully excited at the near prospect of seeing his landlord. He found the house without difficulty: it was a splendid town-mansion, well befitting a man of large fortune; and Owen experienced an Irishman's gratification in the spacious and handsome building he saw before him. He knocked, at first timidly, and then, as no answer was returned, more boldly; but it was not before a third summons that the door was opened; and an old mean-looking woman asked him what he wanted.
“I want to see the masther, ma'am, av it's plazing to ye!” said Owen, leaning against the door-jamb as he spoke.
“The master? What do you mean?”
“Mr. Leslie himself, the landlord.”
“Mr. Leslie is abroad—in Italy.”
“Abroad! abroad!” echoed Owen, while a sickly faint-ness spread itself through his frame. “He's not out of England, is he?”
“I've told you he's in Italy, my good man.”
“Erra! where's that at all?” cried Owen, despairingly.
“I'm sure I don't know; but I can give you the address, if you want it.”
“No, thank ye, ma'am—it's too late for that, now,” said he. The old woman closed the door, and the poor fellow sat down upon the steps, overcome by this sad and unlooked-for result.
It was evening. The streets were crowded with people,—some on foot, some on horseback and in carriages. The glare of splendid equipages, the glittering of wealth—the great human tide rolled past, unnoticed by Owen, for his own sorrows filled his whole heart.
Men in all their worldliness,—some, on errands of pleasure, some, care-worn and thoughtful, some, brimful of expectation, and others, downcast and dejected, moved past: scarcely one remarked that poor peasant, whose travelled and tired look, equally with his humble dress, bespoke one who came from afar.
“Well, God help me, what's best for me to do now?” said Owen Connor, as he sat ruminating on his fortune; and, unable to find any answer to his own question, he arose and walked slowly along, not knowing nor caring whither.
There is no such desolation as that of a large and crowded city to him, who, friendless and alone, finds himself a wanderer within its walls. The man of education and taste looks around him for objects of interest or amusement, yet saddened by the thought that he is cut off from all intercourse with his fellow-men; but, to the poor unlettered stranger, how doubly depressing are all these things! Far from speculating on the wealth and prosperity around him, he feels crushed and humiliated in its presence. His own humble condition appears even more lowly in contrast with such evidences of splendour; and instinctively he retreats from the regions where fashion, and rank, and riches abound, to the gloomy abodes of less-favoured fortunes.
When Owen awoke the following morning, and looked about him in the humble lodging he had selected, he could scarcely believe that already the end of his long journey had been met by failure. Again and again he endeavoured to remember if he had seen his landlord, and what reply he had received; but except a vague sense of disappointment, he could fix on nothing. It was only as he drew near the great mansion once more, that he could thoroughly recollect all that had happened; and then, the truth flashed on his mind, and he felt all the bitterness of his misfortune. I need not dwell on this theme. The poor man turned again homeward; why, he could not well have answered, had any been cruel enough to ask him. The hope that buoyed him up before, now spent and exhausted, his step was slow and his heart heavy, while his mind, racked with anxieties and dreads, increased his bodily debility, and made each mile of the way seem ten.
On the fourth day of his journey—wet through from morning till late in the evening—he was seized with a shivering-fit, followed soon after by symptoms of fever. The people in whose house he had taken shelter for the night, had him at once conveyed to the infirmary, where for eight weeks he lay dangerously ill; a relapse of his malady, on the day before he was to be pronounced convalescent, occurred, and the third month was nigh its close, ere Owen left the hospital.
It was more than a week ere he could proceed on his journey, which he did at last, moving only a few miles each day, and halting before nightfall. Thus wearily plodding on, he reached Liverpool at last, and about the middle of January arrived in his native country once more.
His strength regained, his bodily vigour restored, he had made a long day's journey to reach home, and it was about ten o'clock of a bright and starry night that he crossed the mountains that lie between Ballinrobe and Maam. To Owen, the separation from his home seemed like a thing of years long; and his heart was full to bursting as each well-remembered spot appeared, bringing back a thousand associations of his former life. As he strode along he stopped frequently to look down towards the village, where, in each light that twinkled, he could mark the different cabins of his old friends. At length, the long low farmhouse of the Joyces came into view—he could trace it by the line of light that glittered from every window—and from this, Owen could not easily tear himself away. Muttering a heartfelt prayer for those beneath that roof, he at last moved on, and near midnight gained the little glen where his cabin stood. Scarcely, however, had he reached the spot, when the fierce challenge of a dog attracted him. It was not his own poor colley—he knew his voice well—and Owen's blood ran chilly at the sound of that strange bark. He walked on, however, resolutely grasping his stick in his hand, and suddenly, as he turned the angle of the cliff, there stood his cabin, with a light gleaming from the little window.
“'Tis Phil Joyce maybe has put somebody in, to take care of the place,” said he; but his fears gave no credence to the surmise.
Again the dog challenged, and at the same moment the door was opened, and a man's voice called out, “Who comes there?” The glare of the fire at his back shewed that he held a musket in his hand.
“'Tis me, Owen Connor,” answered Owen, half sulkily, for he felt that indescribable annoyance a man will experience at any question, as to his approaching his own dwelling, even though in incognito.
“Stay back, then,” cried the other; “if you advance another step, I'll send a bullet through you.”
“Send a bullet through me!” cried Owen, scornfully, yet even more astonished than indignant. “Why, isn't a man to be let go to his own house, without being fired at?”
“I'll be as good as my word,” said the fellow; and as he spoke, Owen saw him lift the gun to his shoulder and steadily hold it there. “Move one step now, and you'll see if I'm not.”
Owen's first impulse was to rush forward at any hazard, and if not wounded, to grapple with his adversary; but he reflected for a second that some great change must have occurred in his absence, which, in all likelihood, no act of daring on his part could avert or alter. “I'll wait for morning, anyhow,” thought he; and without another word, or deigning any answer to the other, he slowly turned, and retraced his steps down the mountain.
There was a small mud hovel at the foot of the mountain, where Owen determined to pass the night. The old man who lived there, had been a herd formerly, but age and rheumatism had left him a cripple, and he now lived on the charity of the neighbours.
“Poor Larry! I don't half like disturbing ye,” said Owen, as he arrived at the miserable contrivance of wattles that served for a door; but the chill night air, and his weary feet decided the difficulty, and he called out, “Larry—Larry Daly! open the door for me—Owen Connor. 'Tis me!”
The old man slept with the light slumber of age, and despite the consequences of his malady, managed to hobble to the door in a few seconds. “Oh! wirra, wirra! Owen, my son!” cried he, in Irish; “I hoped I'd never see ye here again—my own darlin'.”
“That's a dhroll welcome, anyhow, Larry, for a man coming back among his own people.”
“''Tis a thrue one, as sure as I live in sin. The Lord help us, this is bad fortune.”
“What do you mean, Larry? What did I ever do to disgrace my name, that I wouldn't come back here?”
“'Tisn't what ye done, honey, but what's done upon ye. Oh, wirra, wirra; 'tis a black day that led ye home here.”
It was some time before Owen could induce the old man to moderate his sorrows, and relate the events which had occurred in his absence. I will not weary my reader by retailing the old man's prolixity, but tell them in the fewest words I am able, premising, that I must accompany the narrative by such explanations as I may feel necessary.
Soon after Owen's departure for England, certain disturbances occurred through the country. The houses of the gentry were broken open at night and searched for arms by men with blackened faces and in various disguises to escape recognition. Threatening notices were served on many of the resident families, menacing them with the worst if they did not speedily comply with certain conditions, either in the discharge of some obnoxious individuals from their employment, or the restoration of some plot of ground to its former holder. Awful denunciations were uttered against any who should dare to occupy land from which a former tenant was ejected; and so terrible was the vengeance exacted, and so sudden its execution, that few dared to transgress the orders of these savage denunciators. The law of the land seemed to stand still, justice appeared appalled and affrighted, by acts which bespoke deep and wide-spread conspiracy. The magistrates assembled to deliberate on what was to be done; and the only one who ventured to propose a bold and vigorous course of acting was murdered on his way homeward. Meanwhile, Mr. Lucas, whose stern exactions had given great discontent, seemed determined to carry through his measures at any risk. By influence with the government he succeeded in obtaining a considerable police-force, and, under cover of these, he issued his distress-warrants and executions, distrained and sold, probably with a severity increased by the very opposition he met with.
The measures undertaken by government to suppress outrage failed most signally. The difficulty of arresting a suspected individual was great in a country where a large force was always necessary. The difficulty of procuring evidence against him was still greater; for even such as were not banded in the conspiracy, had a greater dread of the reproach of informer, than of any other imputation; and when these two conditions were overcome, the last and greatest of all difficulties remained behind,—no jury could be found to convict, when their own lives might pay the penalty of their honesty. While thus, on one side, went the agent, with his cumbrous accompaniments of law-officers and parchments, police constables and bailiffs, to effect a distress or an ejectment; the midnight party with arms patrolled the country, firing the haggards and the farmhouses, setting all law at defiance, and asserting in their own bloody vengeance the supremacy of massacre.
Not a day went over without its chronicle of crime; the very calendar was red with murder. Friends parted with a fervour of feeling, that shewed none knew if they would meet on the morrow; and a dark, gloomy suspicion prevailed through the land, each dreading his neighbour, and deeming his isolation more secure than all the ties of friendship. All the bonds of former love, all the relations of kindred and affection, were severed by this terrible league. Brothers, fathers, and sons were arrayed against each other. A despotism was thus set up, which even they who detested dared not oppose. The very defiance it hurled at superior power, awed and terrified themselves. Nor was this feeling lessened when they saw that these dreadful acts—acts so horrible as to make men shudder at the name of Ireland when heard in the farthest corner of Europe—that these had their apologists in the press, that even a designation was invented for them, and murder could be spoken of patriotically as the “Wild Justice” of the people.
There is a terrible contagion in crime. The man whose pure heart had never harboured a bad thought cannot live untainted where wickedness is rife. The really base and depraved were probably not many; but there were hardships and sufferings every where; misery abounded in the land—misery too dreadful to contemplate. It was not difficult to connect such sufferings with the oppressions, real or supposed, of the wealthier classes. Some, believed the theory with all the avidity of men who grasp at straws when drowning; others, felt a savage pleasure at the bare thought of reversing the game of sufferance; while many, mixed up their own wrongs with what they regarded as national grievances, and converted their private vengeance into a patriotic daring. Few stood utterly aloof, and even of these, none would betray the rest.
The temporary success of murder, too, became a horrible incentive to its commission. The agent shot, the law he had set in motion stood still, the process fell powerless; the “Wild Justice” superseded the slower footsteps of common law, and the murderer saw himself installed in safety, when he ratified his bond in the blood of his victim.
Habitual poverty involves so much of degradation, that recklessness of life is its almost invariable accompaniment; and thus, many of these men ceased to speculate on the future, and followed the dictates of their leaders in blind and dogged submission. There were many, too, who felt a kind of savage enthusiasm in the career of danger, and actually loved the very hazard of the game. Many more had private wrongs—old debts of injury to wipe out—and grasped at the occasion to acquit them; but even when no direct motives existed, the terror of evil consequences induced great numbers to ally themselves with this terrible conspiracy, and when not active partisans, at least to be faithful and secret confidants.
Among the many dispossessed by the agent was Owen Connor. Scarcely had he left the neighbourhood, than an ejectment was served against him; and the bailiff, by whose representations Owen was made to appear a man of dangerous character, installed in his mountain-farm. This fellow was one of those bold, devil-may-care ruffians, who survive in every contest longer than men of more circumspect courage; and Lucas was not sorry to find that he could establish such an outpost in this wild and dreary region. Well armed, and provided with a sufficiency of ammunition, he promised to maintain his strong-hold against any force—a boast not so unreasonable, as there was only one approach to the cabin, and that, a narrow path on the very verge of a precipice. Owen's unexpected appearance was in his eyes, therefore, a signal for battle; he supposed that he was come back to assert his ancient right, and in this spirit it was, he menaced him with instant death if he advanced another step. Indeed, he had been more than once threatened that Owen's return would be a “dark day” for him, and prepared himself for a meeting with him, as an occasion which might prove fatal to either. These threats, not sparingly bandied by those who felt little inclination to do battle on their own account, had become so frequent, that many looked for Owen's reappearance as for an event of some moment.
Old Larry often heard these reports, and well knowing Owen's ardent disposition and passionate temper, and how easily he became the tool of others, when any deed of more than ordinary hazard was presented to him, grieved deeply over the consequences such promptings might lead to; and thus it was, that he received him with that outburst of sorrow for which Owen was little prepared.
If Owen was shocked as he listened first to the tale of anarchy and bloodshed the old man revealed, a savage pleasure came over him afterwards, to think, what terror these midnight maraudings were making in the hearts of those who lived in great houses, and had wealth and influence. His own wrongs rankled too deeply in his breast to make him an impartial hearer; and already, many of his sympathies were with the insurgents.
It was almost day-break ere he could close his eyes; for although tired and worn out, the exciting themes he was revolving banished every thought of sleep, and made him restless and fretful. His last words to Larry, as he lay down to rest, were a desire that he might remain for a day or two concealed in his cabin, and that none of the neighbours should learn anything of his arrival. The truth was, he had not courage to face his former friends, nor could he bear to meet the Joyces: what step he purposed to take in the mean while, and how to fashion his future course, it is hard to say: for the present, he only asked time.
The whole of the following day he remained within the little hut; and when night came, at last ventured forth to breathe the fresh air and move his cramped limbs. His first object, then, was to go over to Joyce's house, with no intention of visiting its inmates—far from it. The poor fellow had conceived a shrinking horror of the avowal he should be compelled to make of his own failure, and did not dare to expose himself to such a test.
The night was dark and starless: that heavy, clouded darkness which follows a day of rain in our western climate, and makes the atmosphere seem loaded and weighty. To one less accustomed than was Owen, the pathway would have been difficult to discover; but he knew it well in every turning and winding, every dip of the ground, and every rock and streamlet in the course. There was the stillness of death on every side; and although Owen stopped more than once to listen, not the slightest sound could be heard. The gloom and dreariness suited well the “habit of his soul.” His own thoughts were not of the brightest, and his step was slow and his head downcast as he went.
At last the glimmering of light, hazy and indistinct from the foggy atmosphere, came into view, and a few minutes after, he entered the little enclosure of the small garden which flanked one side of the cabin. The quick bark of a dog gave token of his approach, and Owen found some difficulty in making himself recognised by the animal, although an old acquaintance. This done, he crept stealthily to the window from which the gleam of light issued. The shutters were closed, hut between their joinings he obtained a view of all within.
At one side of the fire was Mary—his own Mary, when last he parted with her. She was seated at a spinning-wheel, but seemed less occupied with the work, than hent on listening to some noise without. Phil also stood in the attitude of one inclining his ear to catch a sound, and held a musket in his hand like one ready to resist attack. A farm-servant, a lad of some eighteen, stood at his side, armed with a horse-pistol, his features betraying no very equivocal expression of fear and anxiety. Little Patsy nestled at Mary's side, and with his tiny hands had grasped her arm closely.
They stood there, as if spell-bound. It was evident they were afraid, by the slightest stir, to lose the chance of hearing any noise without; and when Mary at last lifted up her head, as if to speak, a quick motion of her brother's hand warned her to be silent. What a history did that group reveal to Owen, as, with a heart throbbing fiercely, he gazed upon it! But a few short months back, and the inmates of that happy home knew not if at night the door was even latched; the thought of attack or danger never crossed their minds. The lordly dwellers in a castle felt less security in their slumbers than did these peasants; now, each night brought a renewal of their terrors. It came no longer the season of mutual greeting around the wintry hearth, the hour of rest and repose; but a time of anxiety and dread, a gloomy period of doubt, harassed by every breeze that stirred, and every branch that moved.
“'Tis nothingthis time,” said Phil, at last. “Thank God for that same!” and he replaced his gun above the chimney, while Mary blessed herself devoutly, and seemed to repeat a prayer to herself. Owen gave one parting look, and retired as noiselessly as he came.
To creep forth with the dark hours, and stand at this window, became with Owen, now, the whole business of life. The weary hours of the day were passed in the expectancy of that brief season—the only respite he enjoyed from the corroding cares of his own hard fortune. The dog, recognising him, no longer barked as he approached; and he could stand unmolested and look at that hearth, beside which he was wont once to sit and feel at home.
Thus was it, as the third week was drawing to a close, when old Larry, who had ventured down to the village to make some little purchase, brought back the news, that information had been sworn by the bailiff against Owen Connor, for threatening him with death, on pain of his not abandoning his farm. The people would none of them give any credit to the oath, as none knew of Owen's return; and the allegation was only regarded as another instance of the perjury resorted to by their opponents, to crush and oppress them.
“They'll have the police out to-morrow, I hear, to search after ye; and sure the way ye've kept hid will be a bad job, if they find ye after all.”
“Ifthey do, Larry!” said Owen, laughing; “but I think it will puzzle them to do so.” And the very spirit of defiance prevented Owen at once surrendering himself to the charge against him. He knew every cave and hiding-place of the mountain, from childhood upwards, and felt proud to think how he could baffle all pursuit, no matter how persevering his enemies. It was essential, however, that he should leave his present hiding-place at once; and no sooner was it dark, than Owen took leave of old Larry and issued forth. The rain was falling in torrents, accompanied hy a perfect hurricane, as he left the cabin; fierce gusty blasts swept down the bleak mountain-side, and with wild and melancholy cadence poured along the valley; the waters of the lake plashed and beat upon the rocky shore; the rushing torrents, as they forced their way down the mountain, swelled the uproar, in which the sound of crashing branches and even rocks were mingled.