--Receives his Sentence from Kathleen, and Resolves to Emigrate.
Whatever difficulty Bryan M'Mahon had among his family in defending the
course he had taken at the election, he found that not a soul belonging
to his own party would listen to any defense from him. The indignation,
obloquy, and spirit of revenge with which he was pursued and harassed,
excited in his heart, as they would in that of any generous man
conscious of his own integrity, a principle of contempt and defiance,
which, however they required independence in him, only made matters far
worse than they otherwise would have been. He expressed neither regret
nor repentance for having voted as he did; but on the contrary asserted
with a good deal of warmth, that if the same course lay open to him he
would again pursue it.
“I will never vote for a scoundrel,” said he, “and I don't think that
there is anything in my religion that makes it a duty on me to do so. If
my religion is to be supported by scoundrels, the sooner it is forced
to depend on itself the better. Major Vanston is a good landlord, and
supports the rights of his tenantry, Catholic as well as Protestant; he
saved me from ruin when my own landlord refused to interfere for me,
an' Major Vanston, if he's conscientiously opposed to my religion, is an
honest man at all events, and an honest man I'll ever support against
a rogue, and let their politics go where they generally do, go to the
devil.”
Party is a blind, selfish, infatuated monster, brutal and vehement, that
knows not what is meant by reason, justice, liberty, or truth. M'Mahon,
merely because he gave utterance with proper spirit to sentiments of
plain common sense, was assailed by every description of abuse, until he
knew not where to take refuge from that cowardly and ferocious tyranny
which in a hundred shapes proceeded from the public mob. On the
Sunday after the election, his parish priest, one of those political
fire-brands, who whether under a mitre or a white band, are equally
disgraceful and detrimental to religion and the peaceful interests
of mankind--this man, we say, openly denounced him from the altar, in
language which must have argued but little reverence for the sacred
place from which it was uttered, and which came with a very bad grace
from one who affected to be an advocate for liberty of conscience and a
minister of peace.
“Ay,” he proceeded, standing on the altar, “it is well known to our
disgrace and shame how the election was lost. Oh, well may I say to our
disgrace and shame. Little did I think that any one, bearing the once
respectable name of M'Mahon upon him, should turn from the interests of
his holy church, spurn all truth, violate all principle, and enter into
a league of hell with the devil and the enemies of his church. Yes, you
apostate,” he proceeded, “you have entered into a league with him, and
ever since there is devil within you. You sold yourself to his agent and
representative, Vanston, You got him to interfere for you with the
Board of Excise, and the fine that was justly imposed on you for your
smugglin' and distillin' whiskey--not that I'm runin' down our whiskey,
because it's the best drinkin of that kind we have, and drinks beautiful
as scalhleen, wid a bit of butther and sugar in it--but it's notorious
that you went to Vanston, and offered if he'd get the fine off you,
that you'd give him your vote; an' if that's not sellin' yourself to the
devil, I don't know what is. Judas did the same thing when he betrayed
our Savior--the only difference is--that he got a thirty shilling
note--an' God knows it was a beggarly bargain--when his hand was in he
ought to have done the thing dacent--and you got the fine taken off
you; that's the difference--that's the difference. But there's more to
come--more corruption where that was. Along wid the removal of the fine
you got a better note than Mr. Judas got. Do you happen to know anything
about a fifty pound note cut in two halves? Eh? Am I tickling you? Do
you happen to know anything about that, you traicherous apostate? If
you don't, I do; and plaise God before many hours the public will know
enough of it, too. How dare you, then, polute the house of God, or come
in presence of His Holy altar, wid such a crust of crimes upon your
soul? Can you deny that you entered into a league of hell wid the devil
and Major Vanston, and that you promised him your vote if he'd get the
fine removed?”
“I can,” replied Bryan; “there's not one word of truth in it.”
“Do you hear that, my friends?” exclaimed the priest; “he calls your
priest a liar upon the altar of the livin' God.”
Here M'Mahon was assailed by such a storm of groans and hisses as, to
say the least of it, was considerably at variance with the principles of
religion and the worship of God.
“Do you deny,” the priest proceeded, “that you received a bribe of fifty
pounds on the very day you voted? Answer me that.”
“I did receive a fifty-pound note in a--”
Further he could not proceed. It was in vain that he attempted to give
a true account of the letter and its enclosure; the enmity was not
confined to either groans or hisses. He was seized upon in the very
chapel, dragged about in all directions, kicked, punched, and beaten,
until the apprehension of having a murder committed in presence of
God's altar caused the priest to interfere. M'Mahon, however, was
ejected from the chapel; but in such a state that, for some minutes, it
could scarcely be ascertained whether he was alive or dead. After he had
somewhat recovered, his friends assisted him home, where he lay confined
to a sick bed for better than a week.
Such is a tolerably exact description of scenes which have too
frequently taken place in the country, to the disgrace of religion and
the dishonor of God. We are bound to say, however, that none among
the priesthood encourage or take a part in them, unless those low and
bigoted firebrands who are alike remarkable for vulgarity and ignorance,
and who are perpetually inflamed by that meddling spirit which tempts
them from the quiet path of duty into scenes of political strife and
enmity, in which they seem to be peculiarly at home. Such scenes are
repulsive to the educated priest, and to all who, from superior minds
and information, are perfectly aware that no earthly or other good, but,
on the contrary, much bitterness, strife, and evil, ever result from
them.
Gerald Cavanagh was by no means so deeply affected by M'Mahon's vote
as were his two daughters. He looked upon the circumstance as one
calculated to promote the views which he entertained for Kathleen's
happiness. Ever since the notion of her marriage with Hycy Burke or
his brother--it mattered little to him which--he felt exceedingly
dissatisfied with her attachment to M'Mahon. Of this weakness, which we
may say, was the only one of the family, we have already spoken. He
lost little time, however, in going to communicate his daughter's
determination to that young man. It so happened, however, that,
notwithstanding three several journeys made for the purpose, he could
not see him; the fact being that Bryan always happened to be from
home when he went. Then came the denouncing scene which we have just
described, when his illness put it out of his power, without danger to
himself, to undergo anything calculated to discompose or disturb him.
The popular feeling, however, was fearfully high and indignant against
him. The report went that he had called Father M'Pepper, the senior
curate, a liar upon the very altar; and the commencement of
his explanation with respect to the fifty-pound note, was, not
unnaturally--since they would not permit him to speak--construed into an
open admission of his having been bribed.
This was severe and trying enough, but it was not all. Chevydale, whom
he unseated by his vote, after having incurred several thousand pounds
of expense, was resolved to make him suffer for the loss of his seat, as
well as for having dared to vote against him--a purpose in which he was
strongly supported, or into which, we should rather say, he was urged by
Fethertonge, who, in point of fact, now that the leases had dropped, was
negotiating a beneficial bargain with the gauger, apart from Chevydale's
knowledge, who was a feeble, weak-minded man, without experience or a
proper knowledge of his duties. In fact, he was one of,those persons
who, having no fixed character of their own, are either good or evil,
according to the principles of those by whom they happen for the time to
be managed. If Chevydale had been under the guidance of a sensible and
humane agent, he would have been a good landlord; but the fact being
otherwise, he was, in Fethertonge's hands, anything but what a landlord
ought to be. Be this as it may, the period of M'Mahon's illness passed
away, and, on rising from his sick bed, he found the charge of bribery
one of universal belief, against which scarcely any person had the
courage to raise a voice. Even Hycy suffered himself, as it were, with
great regret and reluctance, to become at length persuaded of its truth.
Kathleen, on hearing that he himself had been forced to admit it in the
chapel, felt that the gloom which had of late wrapped her in its
shadow now became so black and impervious that she could see
nothing distinctly. The two facts--that is to say, the vote and the
bribery--seemed to her like some frightful hallucination which lay upon
her spirits--some formidable illusion that haunted her night and day,
and filled her whole being with desolation and sorrow.
With respect to his own feelings, there was but one thought which gave
him concern, and this was an apprehension that Kathleen might be carried
away by the general prejudice which existed against him.
“I know Kathleen, however,” he would say; “I know her truth, her good
sense, and her affection; and, whatever the world may say, she won't
follow its example and condemn me without a hearing. I will see her
tomorrow and explain all to her. Father,” he added, “will you ask Dora
if she will walk with me to the Long-shot Meadow? I think a stroll round
it will do me good. I haven't altogether recovered my strength yet.”
“To be sure I will go with you, Bryan,” said the bright-eyed and
affectionate sister; “to be sure I will; it's on my way to Gerald
Cavanagh's; and I'm going down to see how they are, and to know if
something I heard about them is thrue. I want to satisfy myself; but
they musn't get on their high horse with me, I can tell them.”
“You never doubted me, Dora,” said Bryan, as they went along--“you never
supposed for a moment that I could”--he paused. “I know,” he added,
“that it doesn't look well; but you never supposed that I acted from
treachery, or deceit, or want of affection or respect for my religion?
You don't suppose that what all the country is ringin' with--that I took
a bribe or made a bargain with Vanston--is true?”
“Why do you ask me such questions?” she replied. “You acted on the spur
of the minute; and I say, afther what you heard from the landlord and
agent, if you had voted for him you'd be a mane, pitiful hound, unworthy
of your name and family. You did well to put him out. If I had been in
your place, 'out you go,' I'd say, 'you're not the man for my money.'
Don't let what the world says fret you, Bryan; sure, while you have
Kathleen and me at your back, you needn't care about them. At any rate,
it's well for Father M'Pepper that I'm not a man, or, priest as he
is, I'd make a stout horsewhip tiche him to mind his religion, and not
intermeddle in politics where he has no business.”
“Why, you're a great little soldier, Dora,” replied Bryan, smiling on
her with affectionate admiration.
“I hate anything tyrannical or overbearing,” she replied, “as I do
anything that's mane and ungenerous.”
“As to Father M'Pepper, we're not to take him as an example of what his
brother priests in general are or ought to be. The man may think he is
doing only his duty; but, at all events, Dora, he has proved to me, very
much at my own cost, I grant, that he has more zeal than discretion! May
God forgive him; and that's the worst I wish him. When did you see or
hear from Kathleen? I long to give her an explanation of my conduct,
because I know she will listen to raison.”
“That's more than I know yet, then,” replied Dora. “She has awful high
notions of our religion, an' thinks we ought to go about huntin' after
martyrdom. Yes, faix, she thinks we ought to lay down our lives for our
religion or our counthry, if we were to be called on to do so. Isn't
that nice doctrine? She's always reading books about them.”
“It is, Dora, and thrue doctrine; and so we ought--that is, if our
deaths would serve either the one or the other.”
“And would you die for them, if it went to that? because if you would, I
would; for then I'd know that I ought to do it.”
“I don't know, Dora, whether I'd have strength or courage to do so, but
I know one who would.”
“I know too--Kathleen.”
“Kathleen? you have said it. She would, I am certain, lay down her
life for either her religion or the welfare of her country, if such a
sacrifice could be necessary.”
“Bryan, I have heard a thing about her, and I don't know whether I ought
to tell it to you or not.”
“I lave that to your own discretion, Dora; but you haven't heard, nor
can you tell me anything, but what must be to her credit.”
“I'll tell you, then; I heard it, but I won't believe it till I satisfy
myself--that your family daren't name your name to her at home, and that
everything is to be over between you. Now, I'm on my way there to know
whether this is true or not; if it is, I'll think less of her than I
ever did.”
“And I won't Dora; but will think more highly of her still. She thinks
I'm as bad as I'm reported to be.”
“And that's just what she ought not to think. Why not see you and ask
you the raison of it like a--ha! ha!--I was goin' to say like a man?
Sure if she was as generous as she ought to be, she'd call upon you to
explain yourself; or, at any rate, she'd defend you behind your back,
and, when the world's against you, whether you wor right or wrong.”
“She'd do nothing at the expense of truth,” replied her brother.
“Truth!” exclaimed the lively and generous girl, now catching the warmth
from her own enthusiasm, “truth! who'd regard truth--”
“Dora!” exclaimed Bryan, with a seriocomic smile.
“Ha! ha! ha!--truth! what was I sayin'? No, I didn't mean to say
anything against truth; oh, no, God forgive me!” she added, immediately
softening, whilst her bright and beautiful eyes filled with tears, “oh,
no, nor against my darlin' Kathleen either; for, Bryan, I'm tould that
she has never smiled since; and that the color that left her cheeks when
she heard of your vote has never come back to it; and that, in short,
her heart is broken. However, I'll soon see her, and maybe I won't plade
your cause; no lawyer could match me. Whisht!” she exclaimed, “isn't
that Gerald himself comin' over to us?”
“It is,” replied Bryan, “let us meet him;” and, as he spoke, they turned
their steps towards him. As they met, Bryan, forgetting everything that
had occurred, and influenced solely by the habit of former friendship
and good feeling, extended his hand with an intention of clasping that
of his old acquaintance, but the latter withdrew, and refused to meet
this usual exponent of good will.
“Well, Gerald,” said M'Mahon, smiling, “I see you go with the world
too; but, since you won't shake hands with me, allow me to ask your
business.”
“To deliver a message to you from my daughter, and she'd not allow me to
deliver it to any one but yourself. I came three times to see you before
your sickness, but I didn't find jou at home.”
“What's the message, Gerald?”
“The message, Bryan, is--that you are never to spake to her, nor will
she ever more name your name. She will never be your wife; for she says
that the heart that forgets its duty to God, and the hand that has been
soiled by a bribe, can never be anything to her but the cause of shame
and sorrow; and she bids me say that her happiness is gone and her heart
broken. Now, farewell, and think of the girl you have lost by disgracin'
your religion and your name.”
Bryan paused for a moment, as if irresolute how to act, and exchanged
glances with his high-minded little sister.
“Tell Kathleen, from me,” said the latter, “that if she had a little
more feeling, and a little less pride or religion, I don't know which,
she'd be more of a woman and less of a saint. My brother, tell her, has
disgraced neither his religion nor his name, and that he has too much of
the pride of an injured man to give back any answer to sich a message.
That's my answer, and not his, and you may ask her if it's either
religion or common justice that makes her condemn him she loved without
a hearing? Goodbye, now, Gerald; give my love to Hanna, and tell her
she's worth a ship-load of her stately sister.”
Bryan remained silent. In fact, he felt so completely overwhelmed that
he was incapable of uttering a syllable. On seeing Cavanagh return, he
was about to speak, when he looked upon the glowing cheeks, flashing
eyes, and panting bosom of his heroic little sister.
“You are right, my darling Dora. I must be proud on receiving such a
message. Kathleen has done me injustice, and I must be proud in my own
defence.”
The full burthen of this day's care, however, had not been yet laid upon
him. On returning home, he heard from one of his laborers that a notice
to quit his farm of Ahadarra had been left at his house. This, after
the heavy sums of money which he had expended in its improvement and
reclamation, was a bitter addition to what he was forced to suffer. On
hearing of this last circumstance, and after perusing the notice which
the man, who had come on some other message, had brought with him, he
looked around him on every side for a considerable time. At length he
said, “Dora, is not this a fine country?”
“It is,” she replied, looking at him with surprise.
“Would you like,” he added, “to lave it?”
“To lave it, Bryan!” she replied. “Oh, no, not to lave it;” and as she
spoke, a deadly paleness settled upon her face.
“Poor Dora,” he said, after surveying her for a time with an expression
of love and compassion, “I know your saicret, and have done so this long
time; but don't be cast down. You have been a warm and faithful little
friend to me, and it will go hard or I'll befriend you yet.”
Dora looked up into his face, and as she did, her eyes filled with
tears. “I won't deny what you know, Bryan,” she replied; “and unless
he----”
“Well, dear, don't fret; he and I will have a talk about it; but, come
what may, Dora, in this neglected and unfortunate country I will not
stay. Here, now, is a notice to quit my farm, that I have improved at an
expense of seven or eight hundred pounds, an' its now goin' to be taken
out of my hands, and every penny I expended on it goes into the pocket
of the landlord or agent, or both, and I'm to be driven out of house
and home without a single farthing of compensation for the buildings and
other improvements that I made on that farm.”
“It's a hard and cruel case,” said Dora; “an there can be no doubt but
that the landlord and Fethertonge are both a pair of great rogues. Can't
you challenge them, an' fight them?”
“Why, what a soldier you are, Dora!” replied her brother, smiling; “but
you don't know that their situation in life and mine puts that entirely
out o' the question. If a landlord was to be called upon to fight every
tenant he neglects, or is unjust to, he would have a busy time of it.
No, no, Dora dear, my mind's made up. We will lave the country. We will
go to America; but, in the mean time, I'll see what I can do for you.”
“Bryan, dear,” she said in a voice of entreaty, “don't think of it.
Oh, stay in your own country. Sure what other country could you like as
well?”
“I grant you that, Dora; but the truth is, there seems to be a curse
over it; whatever's the raison of it, nothing goes right in it. The
landlords in general care little about the state and condition of their
tenantry. All they trouble themselves about is their rents. Look at my
own case, an' that's but one out of thousands that's happenin' every
day in the country. Grantin' that he didn't sarve me with this notice
to quit, an' supposin' he let me stay in the farm, he'd rise it on me in
sich a way as that I could hardly live in it; an' you know, Dora, that
to be merely strugglin' an' toilin' all one's life is anything but a
comfortable prospect. Then, in consequence of the people depondin upon
nothing but the potato for food, whenever that fails, which, in general,
it does every seventh or eighth year, there's a famine, an' then the
famine is followed by fever an' all kinds of contagious diseases,
in sich a way that the kingdom is turned into one great hospital and
grave-yard. It's these things that's sendin' so many thousands out of
the country; and if we're to go at all, let us go like the rest, while
we're able to go, an' not wait till we become too poor either to go or
stay with comfort.”
“Well, I suppose,” replied his sister, “that what you say is true
enough; but for all that I'd rather bear anything in my own dear country
than go to a strange one. Do you think I'd not miss the summer sun
rising behind the Althadawan hills? an' how could I live without seein'
him set behind Mallybeney? An' then to live in a country where I'd not
see these ould hills, the green glens, and mountain rivers about us,
that have all grown into my heart. Oh, Bryan, dear, don't think of
it--don't think of it.”
[Illustration: PAGE 603-- country where I'd not see these ould hills]
“Dora,” replied the other, his fine countenance overshadowed with, deep
emotion as he spoke, “you cannot love these ould hills, as you cull
them, nor these beautiful glens, nor the mountain rivers better than I
do. It will go to my heart to leave them; but leave them I will--ay, and
when I go, you know that I will leave behind me one that's dearer ten
thousand times than them all. Kathleen's message has left me a heavy and
sorrowful heart.”
“I pity her now,” replied the kind-hearted girl; “but, still, Bryan, she
sent you a harsh message. Ay, I pity her, for did you observe how the
father looked when he said that she bid him tell you her happiness was
gone, and her heart broken; still, she ought to have seen yourself and
heard your defence.”
“I can neither blame her, nor will; neither can I properly justify my
vote, I grant; it was surely very wrong or she wouldn't feel it as she
does. Indeed. I think I oughtn't to have voted at all.”
“I differ with you there, Bryan,” replied Dora, with animation, “I would
rather, ten times over, vote wrongly, than not vote from cowardice.
It's a mane, skulkin', shabby thing, to be afeard to vote when one has a
vote--it's unmanly.”
“I know it is; and it was that very thought that made me vote. I felt
that it would look both mane and cowardly not to vote, and accordingly
I did vote.”
“Ay, and you did right,” replied his spirited sister, “and I don't care
who opposes you, I'll support you for it, through thick and thin.”
“And I suppose you may say through right and wrong, too?”
“Ay, would I,” she replied; “eh?--what am I sayin?--throth, I'm a little
madcap, I think. No, I won't support you through right and wrong--it's
only when you're right you may depend on me.”
They had now been more than an hour strolling about the fields, when
Bryan, who did not feel himself quite so strong as he imagined he was,
proposed to return to his father's, where, by the way, he had been
conveyed from the chapel on the Sunday when he had been so severely
maltreated.
They accordingly did so, for he felt himself weak, and unable to prolong
his walk to any greater distance.