know that such a load of disgrace upon any family is enough to put one
past their temper. I don't care about that, however,” he proceeded; “if
he had betrayed his church and his country ten times over, an' got five
hundred pounds instead of fifty, it wouldn't prevent me from makin' you
my wife.”
Her eyes almost emitted fire at this unconsciously offensive language
of Cavanagh. She calmed herself, however, and assumed a manner that was
cool and cuttingly ironical.
“Wouldn't you, indeed?” she replied; “dear me! I have a right to be
proud of that; and so you'd be mane enough to marry into a family
blackened by disgrace. I thought you had some decent pride, James.”
“But you have done nothing wrong, Dora,” he replied; “'you're free from
any blame of that kind.”
“I have done nothing wrong, haven't I?” she returned. “Ay, a thousand
things--for, thank God, I'm not infallible like your sister. Haven't I
supported my brother in every thing he did? and I tell you that if I had
been in his place I'd just 'a' done what he did. What do you think o' me
now?”
“Why, that every word you say, and every lively look--ay, or angry if
you like--that you give--makes me love you more and more. An' plase God,
my dear Dora, I hope soon to see you my own darlin' wife.”
“That's by no means a certain affair, James; an' don't rely upon it.
Before ever I become your wife Kathleen must change her conduct to my
brother.”
“'Deed and I'm afraid that shell never do, Dora.”
“Then the sorra ring ever I'll put on you while there's, breath in my
body.”
“Why, didn't she give him three months to clear himself?”
“Did she, indeed? And do you think that any young man of spirit would
pay attention to such a stilted pride as that? It was her business to
send for him face to face, and to say--'Bryan M'Mahon, I never knew you
or one of your family to tell a lie or do a dishonest or disgraceful
act'--and here as she spoke the tears of that ancient integrity and
hereditary pride which are more precious relics in a family than
the costliest jewels that ever sparkled in the sun, sprang from her
eyes--'and now, Bryan M'Mahon, I ax no man's word but your own--I ax no
other evidence but your own--I put it to your conscience--to that honor
that has never yet been tarnished by any of your family, I say I put it
to yourself, here face to face with the girl that loves you--and answer
me as you are in the presence of God--did you do what they charge you
with? Did you do wrong knowingly and deliberately, and against your own
conscience?”
The animated sparkle of her face was so delightful and fascinating that
her lover attempted to press her to his bosom; but she would not suffer
it.
“Behave now,” she said firmly; “sorra bit--no,” she proceeded; “and
whilst all the world was against him, runnin' him down and blackenin'
him--was she ever the girl to stand up behind his back and defend him
like a--hem--defend him, I say, as a girl that loved him ought, and a
generous-girl would?”
“But how could she when she believed, him to be wrong?”
“Why did she believe him to be wrong upon mere hearsay? and granting
that he was wrong! do you think now if you had done what they say he did
(and they lie that say it), an' that I heard the world down on you for
your first slip, do you think, I say, that I'd not defend you out of
clane contrariness,--and to vex them--ay, would I.”
“I know, darlin', that you'd do everything that's generous an' right;
but settin' that affair aside, my dear Dora, what are you and I to do?”
“I don't know what we're to do,” she replied; “it's useless for you to
ax me from my father now; for he wouldn't give me to you,--sorra bit.”
“But you'll give me yourself, Dora, darling.”
“Not without his consent, no nor with it,--as the families stand this
moment; for I tell you again that the sorra ring ever I'll put on you
till your sister sends for my brother, axes his pardon, and makes up
with him, as she ought to do. Oh why, James dear, should she be so harsh
upon him,” she said, softening at once; “she that is so good an' so
faultless afther all? but I suppose that's the raison of it--she doesn't
know what it is to do anything that's not right.”
“Dora,” said her lover, “don't be harsh on Kathleen; you don't know what
she's sufferin'. Dora, her heart's broke--broke.”
The tears were already upon Dora's cheeks, and her lover, too, was
silent for a moment.
“She has,” resumed the warm-hearted girl, “neither brother nor sister
that loves her, or can love her, better than I do, afther all.”
“But in our case, darling, what's to be done?” he asked, drawing her
gently towards him.
“I'll tell you then what I'd recommend you to do,” she replied; “spake
to my brother Bryan, and be guided by him. I must go now, it's quite
dusk.”
There was a moment's pause, then a gentle remonstrance on the part of
Dora, followed, however, by that soft sound which proceeds from the
pressure of youthful lips--after which she bade her lover a hasty
good-night and hurried home.
[Illustration: PAGE 623-- I must leave you--I must go]
CHAPTER XXV.--The Old Places--Death of a Patriarch.
As the day appointed for the auction of the M'Mahon's stock, furniture,
etc., etc., at Carriglass drew near, a spirit of deep and unceasing
distress settled upon the whole family. It had not been their purpose to
apprise the old man of any intention on their part to emigrate at all,
and neither indeed had they done so. The fact, however, reached him from
the neighbors, several of whom, ignorant that it was the wish of his
family to conceal the circumstance from him--at least as long as they
could--entered into conversation with him upon it, and by this means
he became acquainted with their determination. Age, within the last
few months--for he was now past ninety--had made sad work with both his
frame and intellect. Indeed, for some time past, he might be said
to hover between reason and dotage. Decrepitude had set in with such
ravages on his constitution that it could almost be marked by daily
stages. Sometimes he talked with singular good sense and feeling; but
on other occasions he either babbled quite heedlessly, or his intellect
would wander back to scenes and incidents of earlier life, many of which
he detailed with a pathos that was created and made touching by the
unconsciousness of his own state while relating them. They also observed
that of late he began to manifest a child-like cunning in many things
connected with himself and family, which, though amusing from its very
simplicity, afforded at the same time a certain indication that the
good old grandfather whom they all loved so well, and whose benignant
character had been only mellowed by age into a more plastic affection
for them all, was soon to be removed from before their eyes, never again
to diffuse among them that charm of domestic truth and love, and the
holy influences of all those fine old virtues which ancestral integrity
sheds over the heart, and transmits pure and untarnished from generation
to generation.
On the day he made the discovery of their intention, he had been sitting
on a bench in the garden, a favorite seat of his for many a long year
previously; “And so,” said he to the neighbor with whom he had been
speaking, “you tell me that all our family is goin' to America?”
“Why, dear me,” replied his acquaintance, “is it possible you didn't
know it?”
“Ha!” he exclaimed, “I undherstand now why they used to be whisperin'
together so often, and lookin' at me; but indeed they might spake loud
enough now, for I'm so deaf that I can hardly hear anything. Howaniver,
Ned, listen--they all intend to go, you say; now listen, I say--I know
one that won't go; now, do you hear that? You needn't say anything about
it, but this I tell you--listen to me, what's your name? Barney, is it?”
“Why, is it possible, you don't know Ned Gormley?”
“Ay, Ned Gormley--och, so it is. Well listen, Ned--there's one they
won't bring; I can tell you that--the sorra foot I'll go to--to--where's
this you say they're goin' to, Jemmy?”
Gormley shook his head. “Poor Bryan,” said he, “it's nearly all over wid
you, at any rate. To America, Bryan,” he repeated, in a loud voice.
“Ay, to America. Well, the sorra foot ever I'll go to America--that one
thing I can tell them. I'm goin' in. Oh! never mind,” he exclaimed,
on Gormley offering him assistance, “I'm stout enough still; stout an'
active still; as soople as a two-year ould, thank God. Don't I bear up
wonderfully?”
“Well, indeed you do, Bryan; it is wonderful, sure enough.”
In a few minutes they arrived at the door; and the old man, recovering
as it were a portion of his former intellect, said, “lavin' this
place--these houses--an' goin' away--far, far away--to a strange
country--to strange people! an' to bring me, the ould white-haired
grandfather, away from all! that would be cruel; but my son Tom will
never do it.”
“Well, at any rate, Bryan,” said his neighbor, “whether you go or stay,
God be wid you. It's a pity, God knows, that the like of you and your
family should leave the country; and sure if the landlord, as they say,
is angry about it, why doesn't he do what he ought to do? an' why does
he allow that smooth-tongued rap to lead him by the nose as he does?
Howandiver, as I said, whether you go or stay, Bryan, God be wid you!”
During all that morning Thomas M'Mahon had been evidently suffering very
deeply from a contemplation of the change that was about to take place
by the departure of himself and his family from Carriglass. He had been
silent the greater part of the morning, and not unfrequently forced to
give away to tears, in which he was joined by his daughters, with the
exception of Dora, who, having assumed the office of comforter, felt
herself bound to maintain the appearance of a firmness which she did
not feel. In this mood he was when “grandfather,” as they called him,
entered the house, after having been made acquainted with their secret.
“Tom,” said he, approaching his son, “sure you wouldn't go to bring an
ould man away?”
“Where to, father?” asked the other, a good deal alarmed.
“Why, to America, where you're all goin' to. Oh! surely you wouldn't
bring the old man away from the green fields of Carriglass? Would you
lay my white head in a strange land, an' among a strange people? Would
you take poor ould grandfather away from them that expects him down, at
Carndhu where they sleep? Carndhu's a holy churchyard. Sure there never
was a Protestant buried in it but one, an' the next mornin' there was a
boortree bush growin' out o' the grave, an' it's there yet to prove the
maricle. Oh! ay, Carndhu's holy ground, an' that's where I must sleep.”
These words were uttered with a tone of such earnest and childlike
entreaty as rendered them affecting in a most extraordinary degree, and
doubly so to those who heard him. Thomas's eyes, despite of every effort
to the contrary, filled with tears. “Ah!” he exclaimed, “he has found it
out at last; but how can I give him consolation, an' I stands in need of
it so much myself?”
“Father,” said he, rising and placing the old man in the arm-chair,
which for the last half century had been his accustomed seat, “father,
we will go together--we will all be wid you. You'll not be among
strangers--you'll have your own about you still.”
“But what's takin' you all away?”
“Neglect and injustice, an' the evil tongues of them that ought to know
us betther. The landlord didn't turn out to be what he ought to be. May
God forgive him! But at any rate I'm sure he has been misled.”
“Ould Chevydale,” said his father, “never was a bad landlord, an' he'd
not become a bad one now. That's not it.”
“But the ould man's dead, father, an' its his son we're spakin' of.”
“And the son of ould Chevydale must have something good about him. The
heart was always right wid his father, and every one knows there's a
great deal in true blood. Sooner or later it'll tell for itself--but
what is this? There was something troublin' me this minute. Oh! ay,
you're goin' away, then, to America; but, mark my words:--I won't go.
You may, but I'll stay here. I won't lave the green fields of Carriglass
for any one. It's not much I'll be among them now, an' it isn't worth
your while to take me from them. Here's where I was born--here's where
the limbs that's now stiff an' feeble was wanst young and active--here's
where the hair that's white as snow was fair an' curlin' like
goold--here's where I was young--here's where I grew ould--among these
dark hills and green fields--here you all know is where I was born; and,
in spite o' you all, here's where I'll die.”
The old man was much moved by all these recollections; for, as he
proceeded, the tears fell fast from his aged eyes, and his voice became
tremulous and full of 'sorrow.
“Wasn't it here, too,” he proceeded, “that Peggy Slevin, she that was
famed far an' near for her beauty, and that the sweet song was made
upon--'Peggy Na Laveen'---ay--ay, you may think yourselves fine an'
handsome; but, where was there sich a couple as grandfather and Peggy Na
Laveen was then?”
As he uttered these words, his features that had been impressed by
grief, were lit up by a smile of that simple and harmless vanity which
often attends us to the very grave; after which he proceeded:--
“There, on the side of that hill is the roofless house where she was
born; an' there's not a field or hill about the place that her feet
didn't make holy to me. I remember her well. I see her, an' I think I
hear her voice on the top of Lisbane, ringin' sweetly across the valley
of the Mountain Wather, as I often did. An' is it to take me away now
from all this? Oh! no, childre', the white-haired grandfather couldn't
go. He couldn't lave the ould places--the ould places. If he did, he'd
die--he'd die. Oh, don't, for God's sake, Tom, as you love me!”
There was a spirit of helpless entreaty in these last words that touched
his son, and indeed all who heard him, to the quick.
“Grandfather dear, be quiet,” he replied; “God will direct all things
for the best. Don't cry,” he added, for the old man was crying like an
infant; “don't cry, but be quiet, and everything will be well in time.
It's a great trial, I know; but any change is better than to remain
here till we come, like so many others, to beggary. God will support us,
father.”
The old man wiped his eyes, and seemed as if he had taken comfort
from the words of his son; whereas, the fact was, that his mind had
altogether passed from the subject; but not without that unconscious
feeling of pain which frequently remains after the recollection of that
which has occasioned it has passed away.
It was evident, from the manner of the old man, that the knowledge
of their intended emigration had alarmed into action all the dormant
instincts of his nature; but this was clearly more than they were
competent to sustain for any length of time. Neither the tottering
frame, nor the feeble mind was strong enough to meet the shock
which came so unexpectedly upon them. The consequence may be easily
anticipated. On the following day he was able to be up only for an hour;
yet he was not sick, nor did he complain of any particular pain. His
only malady appeared to consist in that last and general prostration of
bodily and intellectual strength, by which persons of extreme old age,
who have enjoyed uninterrupted health, are affected at, or immediately
preceding their dissolution. His mind, however, though wandering and
unsteady, was vigorous in such manifestations as it made. For instance,
it seemed to be impressed by a twofold influence,--the memory of his
early life,--mingled with a vague perception of present anxiety, the
cause of which he occasionally was able to remember, but as often tried
to recollect in vain.
On the second day after his discovery he was unable to rise at all; but,
as before, he complained of nothing, neither were his spirits depressed.
On the contrary they were rather agitated--sometimes into cheerfulness,
but more frequently into an expression of sorrow and lamentation, which
were, however, blended with old by-gone memories that were peculiarly
reflecting to those who heard them. In this way he went on, sinking
gradually until the day previous to the auction. On that morning, to
their surprise, he appeared to have absolutely regained new strength,
and to have been gifted with something like renovated power of speech.
“I want to get up,” said he, “and it's only Tom an' Dora that I'll allow
to help me. You're all good, an' wor always good to grandfather, but Tom
was my best son, and signs on it--everything thruv wid him, an' God will
prosper an' bless him. Where's Dora?”
“Here, grandfather.”
“Ay, that's the voice above all o' them that went like music to my
heart; but well I know, and always did, who you have that voice from;
ay, an' I know whose eyes--an' it's them that's the lovely eyes--Dora
has. Isn't the day fine, Dora?”
“It is, grandfather, a beautiful day.”
“Ay, thank God. Well then I want to go out till I look--take one look at
the ould places; for somehow I think my heart was never so much in them
as now.”
It is impossible to say how or why the feeling prevailed, but the fact
was, that the whole family were impressed with a conviction that this
partial and sudden restoration of his powers was merely what is termed
the lightening before death, and the consequence was, that every word he
spoke occasioned their grief, for the loss of the venerable and virtuous
patriarch, to break out with greater force. When he was dressed he
called Dora to aid her father in bringing him out, which she did with
streaming eyes and sobbings that she could scarcely restrain. After
having reached a little green eminence that commanded a glorious view of
the rich country beneath and around them, he called for his chair; “an',
Bryan,” said he, “the manly and honest-hearted, do you bring it to me.
A blessin' will follow you, Bryan--a blessin' will follow my manly
grandson, that I often had a proud heart out of. An'; Bryan,” he
proceeded, when the latter had returned with the chair and placed him
in it, “listen, Bryan--when you and Kathleen Cavanagh's married--but I
needn't say it--where was there one of your name to do an unmanly thing
in that respect?--but when you and Kathleen's married, be to her as your
own father was to her that's gone--ever and always kind and lovin',
an' what your grandfather that's now spaking to you, maybe for the last
time, was to her that's long, long an angel in heaven--my own Peggy
Slevin--but it's the Irish sound of it I like--Peggy Na Laveen. Bring
them all out here--but what is this?--why are you all cryin'? Sure;
there's nothing wrong--an' why do you cry?”
The other members of the family then assembled with tearful faces, and
the good old man proceeded:--
“Thomas M'Mahon, stand before me.” The latter, with uncovered head, did
so; and his father resumed:--“Thomas M'Mahon, you're the only livin' son
I have, an' I'm now makin' my Will. I lave this farm of Carriglass to
you, while you live, wid all that's on it and in it;--that is, that I
have any right to lave you--I lave it to you wid my blessin', and may
God grant you long life and health to enjoy it. Ahadarra isn't mine to
give, but, Bryan, it's your's; an' as I said to your father, God grant
you health and long life to enjoy it, as he will to both o' you.”
“Oh! little you know, grandfather dear,” replied Shibby, “that we've
done wid both of them for ever.”
“Shibby, God bless you, achora,” he returned; “but the ould man's lips
can spake nothing now but the truth; an' my blessin' an' my wish, comin'
from the Almighty as they do, won't pass away like common words.” He
then paused for a few minutes, but appeared to take a comprehensive view
of the surrounding country.
“But, grandfather,” proceeded simple-hearted Shibby, “sure the match
between Bryan and Kathleen Cavanagh is broken up, an' they're not to be
married at all.”
“Don't I say, darlin', that they will be married, an' be happy--ay,
an' may God make them happy! as He will, blessed be His holy name! God,
acushla, can bring about everything in His own good way.”
After another pause of some minutes he murmured to himself--“Peggy Na
Laveen--Peggy Na Laveen--how far that name has gone! Turn me round a
little. What brought us here, childre'? Oh! ay--I wanted to see the ould
places--there's Claghleim, where the walls of the house she was born
in, and the green garden, is both to the fore; yet I hope they won't be
disturbed, if it was only for the sake of them that's gone; an' there's
the rock on the top of Lisbane,where, in the summer evening, long, long
ago, I used to sit an' listen to Peggy Na Laveen singin' over our holy
songs--the darlin' ould songs of the counthry. Oh! clear an' sweet they
used to ring across the glen of the Mountain Wather. An' there's the
hills an' the fields where she an' I so often sported when we wor both
young; there they are, an' many a happy day we had on them; but sure God
was good to us, blessed be His name, as He ever will be to them that's
obadient to His holy will!”
As he uttered the last words he clasped his two hands together, and,
having closed his eyes, he muttered something internally which they
could not understand. “Now,” said he, “bring me in again; I have got my
last look at them all--the ould places, the brave ould places! oh, who
would lave them for any other country? But at any rate, Tom, achora,
don't take me away from them; sure you wouldn't part me from the green
fields of Carriglass? Sure you'd not take me from the blessed graveyard
of Carndhu, where we all sleep. I couldn't rest in a sthrange grave,
nor among strange people; I couldn't rest, barrin' I'm wid her, Peggy Na
Laveen.” These words he uttered after his return into the house.
“Grandfather,” said Bryan, “make your mind aisy; we won't take you
from the brave ould places, and you will sleep in Carndhu with Peggy Na
Laveen; make your heart and mind easy, then, for you won't be parted.”
He turned his eyes upon the speaker, and a gleam of exultation and
delight settled upon his worn but venerable features; nor did it wholly
pass away, for, although his chin sank upon his breast, yet the placid
expression remained. On raising his head they perceived that this fine
and patriarchal representative of the truthful integrity and simple
manners of a bygone class had passed into a life where neither age
nor care can oppress the spirit, and from whose enjoyment no fear of
separation can ever disturb it.
It is unnecessary to describe the sorrow which they felt. It must be
sufficient to say that seldom has grief for one so far advanced in
years been so sincere and deep. Age, joined to the knowledge of his
affectionate heart and many virtues, had encircled him with a halo of
love and pious veneration which caused his disappearance from among them
to be felt, as if a lamb of simple piety and unsullied truth had been
removed from their path for ever.
That, indeed, was a busy and a melancholy day with the M'Mahons; for,
in addition to the death of the old grandfather, they were obliged to
receive farewell visits to no end from their relations, neighbors, and
acquaintances. Indeed it would be difficult to find a family in a state
of greater distress and sorrow. The auction, of course, was postponed
for a week--that is, until after the old man's funeral--and the
consequence was that circumstances, affecting the fate of our _dramatis
personae_ had time to be developed, which would otherwise have occurred
too late to be available for the purposes of our narrative. This renders
it necessary that we should return to a period in it somewhat anterior
to that at which we have now arrived.
CHAPTEE XXVI.--Containing a Variety of Matters.
Our readers cannot have forgotten the angry dialogue which Kate Hogan
and her male relations indulged in upon the misunderstanding that had
occurred between the Cavanaghs and M'Mahons, and its imputed cause.
We stated at the time that Hycy Burke and the Hogans, together with a
strange man and woman, were embarked in some mysterious proceedings from
which both Kate Hogan and Teddy Phats had been excluded. For some time,
both before and after that night, there had been, on the other hand,
a good, deal of mysterious communication between several of our other
characters. For instance Kate Hogan and Nanny Peety had had frequent
interviews, to which, in the course of time, old Peety, Teddy Phats,
and, after him, our friend the schoolmaster had been admitted. Nanny
Peety had also called on Father Magowan, and, after him, upon young
Clinton; and it was evident, from the result of her disclosures to the
two latter, that they also took a warm interest, and were admitted to a
participation in, the councils we mention. To these proceedings Clinton
had not been long privy when he began to communicate with Vanston, who,
on his part, extended the mystery to Chevydale, between whom and himself
several confidential interviews had already taken place. Having thrown
out these hints to our readers, we beg them to accompany us once more to
the parlor of Clinton the gauger and his nephew.
“So, uncle, now that you have been promoted to the Supervisorship, you
abandon the farm; you abandon Ahadarra?”
“Why, won't I be out of the district, you blockhead? and you persist in
refusing it besides.”
“Most positively; but I always suspected that Fethertonge was a
scoundrel, as his conduct in that very business with you was a
proo--hem, ahem.”
“Go on,” said the uncle, coolly, “don't be ashamed, Harry; I was nearly
as great a scoundrel in that business as he was. I told you before that
I look upon the world as one great pigeon, which every man who can,
without exposing, himself, is obliged to pluck. Now, in the matter of
the farm, I only was about to pluck out a feather or two to put in my
own nest--or yours, if you had stood it.”
“At any rate, uncle, I must admit that you are exceedingly candid.”
“No such thing, you fool; there is scarcely an atom of candor in my
whole composition--I mean to the world, whatever I may be to you.
Candor, Harry, my boy, is a virtue which very few in this life, as it
goes, can afford to practice--at least I never could.”
“Well but, uncle, is it not a pity to see that honest family ruined and
driven out of the country by the villany of Burke on the one hand,
and the deliberate fraud and corruption of Fethertonge, on the
other. However, now that you are resolved to unmask Fethertonge, I am
satisfied. It's a proof that you don't wish to see an honest family
oppressed and turned, without reasonable compensation, out of their
property.”
“It's a proof of no such thing, I tell you. I don't care the devil had
the M'Mahons; but I am bound to this ninnyhammer of a landlord, who has
got me promoted, and who promises, besides, to get an appointment for
you. I cannot see him, I say, fleeced and plucked by this knavish agent,
who winds him about his finger like a thread; and, as to those poor
honest devils of M'Mahons, stop just a moment and I will show you a
document that may be of some value to them. You see, Fethertonge, in
order to enhance the value of his generosity to myself, or, to come
nearer the truth, the value of Ahadarra, was the means of placing a
document, which I will immediately show you, in my hands.”
He went to his office or study, and, after some search, returned
and handed the other a written promise of the leases of Ahadarra and
Carriglass, respectively, to Thomas M'Mahon and his son Bryan, at a
certain reasonable rent offered by each for their separate holdings.
“Now,” he proceeded, “there's a document which proves Fethertonge,
notwithstanding his knavery, to be an ass; otherwise he would have
reduced it to ashes long ago; and, perhaps, after having turned it to
his account, he would have done so, were it not that I secured it. Old
Chevydale, it appears, not satisfied with giving his bare word, strove,
the day before he died, to reduce his promise about the lease to
writing, which he did, and entrusted it to the agent for the M'Mahons,
to whom, of course, it was never given.”
“But what claim had you to it, uncle?”
“Simply, if he and I should ever come to a misunderstanding, that I
might let him know he was in my power, by exposing his straightforward
methods of business; that's all. However, about the web that this fellow
Burke has thrown around these unfortunate devils the M'Mahons, and those
other mighty matters that you told of, let me hear exactly what it is
all about and how they stand. You say there is likely to be hanging or
transportation among them.”
“Why, the circumstances, sir, are these, as nearly as I am in possession
of them:--There is or was, at least a day or two ago, a very pretty
girl--”
“Ay, ay--no fear but there must be that in it; go along.”
“A very pretty girl, named Nanny Peety, a servant in old Jemmy Burke's,
Hycy's father. It appears that his virtuous son Hycy tried all the
various stratagems of which he is master to debauch the morals of this
girl, but without success. Her virtue was incorruptible.”
“Ahem! get along, will you, and pass that over.”
“Well, I know that's another of your crotchets, uncle; but no matter, I
should be sorry, from respect to my mother's memory, to agree with you
there: however to proceed; this Nanny Peety at length--that is about a
week ago--was obliged to disclose to her father the endless persecution
which she had to endure at the hands of Hycy Burke; and in addition to
that disclosure, came another, to the effect that she had been for
a considerable period aware of a robbery which took place in old
Burke's--you may remember the stir it made--and which robbery was
perpetrated by Bat Hogan, one of these infamous tinkers that live in
Gerald Cavanagh's kiln, and under the protection of his family. The
girl's father--who, by the way, is no other than the little black
visaged mendicant who goes about the country--”
“I know him--proceed.”
“Her father, I say, on hearing these circumstances, naturally indignant
at Hycy Burke for his attempts to corrupt the principles of his
daughter, brought the latter with him to Father Magowan, in whose
presence she stated all she knew; adding, that she had secured Bat
Hogan's hat and shoes, which, in his hurry, he had forgotten on the
night of the robbery. She also requested the priest to call upon me,
'as she felt certain,' she said, 'in consequence of a letter of Burke's
which I happened to see as she carried it to the post-office, that I
could throw some light upon his villany. He did so.' It was on that
affair the priest called here the other day, and I very candidly
disclosed to him the history of that letter, and its effect in causing
the seizure of the distillery apparatus--the fact being that everything
was got up by Hycy himself--I mean at his cost, with a view to ruin
M'Mahon. And this I did the more readily, as the scoundrel has gone far
to involve me in the conduct imputed to M'Mahon, as his secret abbettor
and enemy.”
“Well,” observed his uncle, “all that's a very pretty affair as it
stands; but what are you to do next?”
“There is worse behind, I can assure you,” continued his nephew. “Hycy
Burke, who is proverbially extravagant, having at last, in an indirect
way, ruined young M'Mahon, from the double motive of ill-will and a wish
to raise money by running illicit spirits--”
“The d--d scoundrel!” exclaimed the gauger, seized with a virtuous
fit of (professional) indignation, “that fellow would scruple at
nothing--proceed.”
“By the way,” observed the other, rather maliciously, “he made a
complete tool of you in M'Mahon's affair.”
“He did, the scoundrel,” replied his uncle, wincing a good deal;
“but, as the matter was likely to turn up, he was only working out my
purposes.”
“He is in a bad mess now, however,” continued his nephew.
“Why, is there worse to come?”
“This same Nanny Peety, you must know, is a relative, it seems, to Bat
Hogan's wife. For some time past there has come a strange man named
Vincent, and his wife, to reside in the neighborhood, and this fellow in
conjunction with the Hogans, was managing some secret proceedings which
no one can penetrate. Now, it appears that Hogan's wife, who has been
kept out of this secret, got Nanny Peety to set her father to work in
order to discover it. Peety, by the advice of Hogan's wife, called in
Teddy Phat's--”
“What's that? Teddy Phats? Now, by the way, Harry, don't abuse poor
Teddy. You will be surprised, Hal, when I tell you that he and I have
played into each other's hands for years. Yes, my boy, and I can assure
you that, owing to him, both Fethertonge and I were aware of Hycy's
Burke's plot against M'Mahon long before he set it a-going. The fellow,
however, will certainly be hanged yet.”
“Faith, sir,” replied Harry, “instead of being hanged himself, he's
likely to hang others. In consequence of an accidental conversation
which Teddy Phats, and Finigan the tippling schoolmaster had, concerning
Vincent, the stranger I spoke of, who, it appears, lives next to
Finigan's school-house, Teddy discovered, through the pedagogue, who, by
the way, is abroad at all hours, that the aforesaid Vincent was in
the habit of going up every night to the most solitary part of the
mountains, but for what purpose, except upon another distillation
affair, he could not say.”
The old gauger or supervisor, as he now considered himself, became
here so comically excited--or, we should rather say, so seriously
excited--that it was with difficulty the nephew could restrain his
laughter. He moved as if his veins had been filled with quicksilver,
his eyes brightened, and his naturally keen and knavish-looking features
were sharpened, as it were, into an expression so acutely sinister, that
he resembled a staunch old hound who comes unexpectedly upon the fresh
slot of a hare.
“Well,” said he, rubbing his hands--“well, go on--what happened? Do you
hear, Harry? What happened? Of course they're at the distillation again.
Don't you hear me, I say? What was the upshot?”
“Why, the upshot was,” replied the other, “that nothing of sufficient
importance has been discovered yet; but we have reason to suppose that
they're engaged in the process of forgery or coining, as they were in
that of illicit distillation under the patronage of the virtuous Hycy
Burke, or Hycy the accomplished, as he calls himself.”
“Tut, tut!” exclaimed Clinton, disappointed--“so after all, there has
been nothing done?”
“Oh, yes, there has been something done; for instance, all these
matters have been laid before Mr. Vanston, and he has had two or three
interviews with Chevydale, in whose estimation he has exonerated young
M'Mahon from the charge of bribery and ingratitude. Fethertonge holds
such a position now with his employer that an infant's breath would
almost blow him out of his good opinion.”
“I'll tell you what, Harry, I think you have it in your power among you
to punish these rogues; and I think, too, it's a pity that Fethertonge
should escape. A breath will dislodge him, you say; but for fear it
should not, we will give him a breeze.”
“I am to meet Vanston at Chevydale's by-and-by, uncle. There's to be an
investigation there; and by the way, allow me to bring Hycy's anonymous
letter with me--it may serve an honest man and help to punish a rogue.
What if you would come down with me, and give him the breeze?”
“Well,” replied the uncle, “for the novelty of the thing I don't care if
I do. I like, after all, to see a rogue punished, especially when he is
not prepared for it.”
After a little delay they repaired to Chevydale's house, armed with
Hycy's anonymous letter to Clinton, as well as with the document which
the old squire, as he was called, had left for Thomas M'Mahon and his
son. They found the two gentlemen on much better terms than one would
have expected; but, in reality, the state of the country was such as
forced them to open their eyes not merely to the folly of harboring mere
political resentments or senseless party prejudices against each other,
but to the absolute necessity that existed for looking closely into the
state of their property, and the deplorable condition to which, if
they did not take judicious and decisive steps, it must eventually be
reduced. They now began to discover a fact which they ought, long since,
to have known--viz.:--that the condition of the people and that of their
property was one and the same--perfectly identical in all things; and
that a poor tenantry never yet existed upon a thriving or independent
estate, or one that was beneficial to the landlord.
Vanston had been with his late opponent for some time before the arrival
of Clinton and his nephew; and, as their conversation may not, perhaps,
be without some interest to our readers, we shall detail a portion of
it.
“So,” says Vanston, “you are beginning to feel that there is something
wrong on your property, and that your agent is not doing you justice?”
“I have reason to suspect,” replied Chevydale, “that he is neither more
nor less than feathering his own nest at the expense of myself and my
tenantry. I cannot understand why he is so anxious to get the M'Mahons
off the estate; a family unquestionably of great honesty, truth, and
integrity, and who, I believe, have been on the property before it
came into our possession at all. I feel--excuse me, Vanston, for the
admission, but upon my honor it is truth--I feel, I say, that, in the
matter of the election--that is, so far as M'Mahon was concerned, he--my
agent--made a cat's paw of me. He prevented me from supporting young
M'Mahon's memorial; he--he--prejudiced me against the family in several
ways, and now, that I am acquainted with the circumstances of strong and
just indignation against me under which M'Mahon voted, I can't at all
blame him. I would have done the same thing myself.”
“There is d----d villany somewhere at work,” replied Vanston. “They talk
of a fifty-pound note that I am said to have sent to him by post. Now, I
pledge my honor as an honest man and a gentleman, that I have sifted and
examined all my agents, and am satisfied that he never received a penny
from me. Young Burke did certainly promise to secure me his vote; but I
have discovered Burke to be a most unprincipled profligate, corrupt and
dishonest. For, you may think it strange that, although he engaged to
procure me M'Mahon's vote, M'Mahon himself, whom I believe, assured me
that he never even asked him for it, until after he had overheard, in
the head inn, a conversation concerning himself that filled him with
bitter resentment against you and your agent.”
“I remember it,” replied Chevydale, “and; yet my agents told me that
Burke did everything in his power to prevent M'Mahon from voting for
you.”
“That,” replied the other, “was to preserve his own character from the
charge of inconsistency; for, I again assure you that he had promised us
M'Mahon's vote, and that he urged him privately to vote against you. But
d--n the scoundrel, he is not worth the conversation we had about him.
Father Magowan, in consequence of whose note to me I wrote to ask you
here, states in the communication I had from him, that the parties will
be here about twelve o'clock--Burke himself, he thinks, and M'Mahon
along with the rest. The priest wishes to have these Hogans driven out
of the parish--a wish in which I most cordially join him. I hope we
shall soon rid the country of him and his villanous associates. Talking
of the country, what is to be done?”
“Simply,” replied Chevydale, “that we, the landed proprietors of
Ireland, should awake out of our slumbers, and forgetting those vile
causes of division and subdivision that have hitherto not only disunited
us, but set us together by the ears, we should take counsel among
ourselves, and after due and serious deliberation, come to the
determination that it is our duty to prevent Irish interests from being
made subservient to English interests, and from being legislated for
upon English principles.”
“I hope, Chevydale, you are not about to become a Repealer.”
“No, sir; I am, and ever have been sickened by that great imposture.
Another half century would scarcely make us fit for home legislation.
When we look at the conduct of our Irish members in the British
Parliament--I allude now, with few exceptions, to the Repeal
members--what hope can we entertain of honesty and love of country from
such men? When we look, too, at many of our Corporations and strike an
average of their honesty and intellect, have we not a right to thank God
that the interests of our country are not confided to the management of
such an arrogant, corrupt, and vulgar crew as in general compose them.
The truth is, Vanston, we must become national in our own defense, and
whilst we repudiate, with a firm conviction of the folly on the one
hand, and the dishonesty on the other, of those who talk about Repeal,
we shall find it our best policy to forget the interests of any
particular class, and suffer ourselves to melt down into one great
principle of national love and good-will toward each other. Let us only
become unanimous, and England will respect us as she did when we were
unanimous upon other occasions.”
“I feel, and am perfectly sensible of the truth of what you say,”
replied Vanston, “and I am certain that, in mere self-defence, we must
identify ourselves with the people whose interests most unquestionably
are ours.”
“As to myself,” continued Chevydale, “I fear I have much to repair in
my conduct as an Irish landlord. I have been too confiding and easy--in
fact, I have not thought for myself; but been merely good or evil,
according to the caprice of the man who managed me, and whom, up until
now, I did not suspect.”
“The man, my good friend, is probably not worse in general than others,”
replied Vanston; “but the truth is, that there has been such a laxity
of management in Irish property--such indifference and neglect upon our
part, and such gross ignorance of our duties, that agents were, and in
most cases are, at liberty to act as they please in our names, and under
show of our authority; you can scarcely suppose this man, consequently,
much worse than others who are placed in similar circumstances.”
The dialogue was here interrupted by the entrance of old Clinton and his
nephew; but, as our readers are already in possession of the proofs they
brought against Hycy Burke and Fethertonge, it is not necessary that we
should detail there conversation at full length.
“I must confess,” said Clinton, “that I would have some reason to feel
ashamed of my part in the transactions with respect to Ahadarra, were it
not, in the first place, that I have never been much afflicted with the
commodity; and, in the next, that these transactions are too common to
excite any feeling one way or the other.”
“But you must have known, Clinton,” said Chevydale, “that it was a most
iniquitous thing in you to enter into a corrupt bargain with a dishonest
agent for the property which you knew to belong to another man.”
“What other man, Mr. Chevydale? Had not M'Mahon's lease expired?”
“But had you not in your own possession my father's written
promise--written, too, on his death-bed--to these honest men, that they
should have their leases renewed?”
“Yes, but that was your agent's affair, and his dishonesty, too, not
mine.”
“As much yours as his; and, by the way, I don't see upon what principle
you, who are equally involved with him in the profligacy of the
transaction, should come to bear testimony against him now. They say
there is honor among thieves, but I see very little of it here.”
“Faith, to tell you the truth,” replied Clinton, “as I said to Harry
here, because _I like to see a rogue punished, especially when he is not
prepared for it_.”
“Well,” said Chevydale, with a very solemn ironical smile, “I am myself
very much of your way of thinking; and, as a proof of it, I beg to say
that, as your appointment to the office of Supervisor has not yet been
made out, I shall write to my brother, the Commissioner, to take
care that it never shall. To procure the promotion of a man who can
deliberately avow his participation in such shameless profligacy would
be to identify myself with it. You have been doubly treacherous, Mr.
Clinton; first to me, whom you know to be your friend, and, in the next
place, to the unfortunate partner in your villany, and at my expense;
for d----d if I can call it less. What noise is that?”
Clinton the elder here withdrew, and had scarcely disappeared when two
voices were heard in the hall, in a kind of clamorous remonstrance with
each other, which voices were those of Father Magowan and our friend
O'Finigan, as we must now call him, inasmuch as he is, although early in
the day, expanded with that hereditary sense of dignity which will not
allow the great O to be suppressed.
“Behave, and keep quiet, now,” said his Reverence, “you unfortunate
pedagogue you; I tell you that you are inebriated.”
“Pardon me, your Reverence,” replied O'Finigan; “_non ebrius sed vino
gravatus_, devil a thing more.”
“Get out, you profligate,” replied the priest, “don't you know that
either, at this time o' day, is too bad?”
“_Nego, dominie--nego, Dominie revendre_--denial is my principle, I say.
Do you assert that there's no difference between _ebrius_ and _gravatus
vino_?”
“In your case, you reprobate, I do. Where would you get the vino?
However,” he proceeded, “as you are seldom sober, and as I know it is
possible you may have something of importance to say on a particular
subject, I suppose you may as well say it now as any other time, and
it's likely we may get more truth out of you.”
“Ay,” said the schoolmaster, “upon the principle that _in vino veritas_;
but you know that _gravatus vino_ and _ebrius_ are two different
things--_gravatus vino_, the juice o' the grape--och, och, as every one
knows, could and stupid; but _ebrius_ from blessed poteen, that warms
and gives ecstatic nutrition to the heart.”
The altercation proceeded for a little, but, after a short remonstrance
and bustle, the priest, followed by O'Finigan, entered the room.
“Gentlemen,” said the priest, “I trust you will excuse me for the
society in which I happen to appear before you; but the truth is that
this Finigan--”
“Pardon me, your Reverence, O'Finigan if you plaise; we have been shorn
of--”
“Well, then, since he will have it so, this O'Finigan is really
inebriated, and I cannot exactly say why, in this state, his presence
can be of any advantage to us.”
“He says,” replied the master, “that I am _ebrius_, whereas I replied
that I was only _vino gravatus_, by which I only meant _quasi vino
gravatus_; but the truth is, gentlemen, that I'm never properly sober
until I'm half seas over--for it is then that I have all my wits
properly about me.”
“In fact, gentleman,” proceeded the priest, “in consequence of certain
disclosures that have reached me with reference to these Hogans, I
deemed it my duty to bring Nanny Peety before Mr. Chevydale here. She
is accompanied by Kate Hogan, the wife of one of these ruffians, who
refuses to be separated from her--and insists, consequently, on coming
along with her. I don't exactly know what her motive may be in this; but
I am certain she has a motive. It is a gratification to me, however, to
find, gentlemen, that you both happen to be present upon this occasion.
I sent word to Hycy Burke and to Bryan M'Mahon; for I thought it only
fair that Hycy should be present, in order to clear himself in case any
charge may be brought against him. I expect M'Mahon, too.”
“Let us remove, then, to my office,” said, Chevydale--“it is now a few
minutes past twelve, and I dare say they will soon be here.”
They accordingly did so; and, as he had said, the parties almost
immediately made their appearance.
“Now, gentlemen,” said Father Magowan, “I am of opinion that the best
way is for this girl to state what she knows concerning these Hogans;
but I think I can now persave the raison why Kate Hogan has made it a
point to come with her. It is quite evident from her manner that she
wishes to intimidate this girl, and to prevent her from stating fully
and truly what she knows.”
“No,” replied Kate, “it is no such thing--she must either state the
whole truth or nothing; that's what I want, an' what she must do--put
the saddle on the right horse, Nanny--since you will spake.”
“It is a good proverbial illustration,” observed Finigan, “but I will
improve it--put the saddle of infamy, I say, upon the right horse,
Nanny. You see, gintlemen,” he added, turning to the magistrates, “my
improvement elevates the metaphor--proceed, girsha.”
“Gentlemen,” said Hycy, “I received a note from Father Magowan informing
me that it was probable certain charges might be brought against me--or
at least some complaints made,” he added, softening the expression--“and
I should be glad to know what they are all about, before this girl
commences formally to state them; I say so in order that I may not be
taken by surprise.”
“You know,” replied the priest, “that you cannot be taken by surprise;
because I myself told you the substance of the strong suspicions that
are against you.”
Bryan M'Mahon now entered, and was cordially greeted by Vanston--and we
may add rather kindly, in manner at least, by Chevydale.
“By the way,” asked the former of these gentlemen, “does this
investigation bear in any way upon your interests, M'Mahon?”
“Not, sir, so far as I am aware of--I come here because Father Magowan
wished me to come. I have no interests connected with this country
now,” he added in a tone of deep melancholy, “there's an end to that for
ever.”
“Now, my good girl,” said Chevydale, “you will state all you know
connected with these Hogans fully and truly--that is, neither more nor
less than the truth.”
“All the truth, Nanny,” said Kate Hogan, in a voice of strongly
condensed power; “Hycy Burke,” she proceeded, “you ruined Bryan
M'Mahon here--and, by ruinin' him, you broke Miss Kathleen Cavanagh's
heart--she's gone--no docthor could save her now; and for this you'll
soon know what Kate Hogan can do. Go on, Nanny.”
“Well, gintlemon,” Nanny began, “in the first place it was Mr. Hycy here
that got the Still up in Ahadarra, in ordher to beggar Bryan M'Mahon by
the fine.”
Hycy laughed. “Excellent!” said he; “Why, really, Mr. Chevydale, I did
not imagine that you could suffer such a farce as this is likely to turn
out to be enacted exactly in your office.”
“Enacted! well, that's, appropriate at any rate,” said the schoolmaster;
“but in the mane time, Mr. Hycy, take care that the farce won't become
a tragedy on your hands, and you yourself the hero of it. Proceed,
girsha.”
“How do you know,” asked Chevydale, “that this charge is true?”
“If I don't know it,” she replied, “my aunt here does,--and I think so
does Mr. Harry Clinton an' others.”
“Pray, my woman, what do you know about this matter?” asked Chevydale,
addressing Kate.
“Why that it was Mr. Hycy Burke that gave the Hogans the money to make
the Still, set it up--and to Teddy Phats to buy barley; and although he
didn't tell them it was to ruin Bryan M'Mahon he did it, sure they all
knew it was--'spishly when he made them change from Glendearg above,
where they were far safer, down to Ahadarra.”
“I assure you, gentlemen,” said Hycy, “that the respectability of the
witnesses you have fished up is highly creditable to your judgments
and sense of justice;--a common vagabond and notorious thief on the one
hand, and a beggarman's brat on the other. However, proceed--I perceive
that I shall be obliged to sink under the force of such testimony--ha!
ha! ha!”
At this moment old Jemmy Burke, having accidentally heard that morning
that such an investigation was to take place, and likely to bear upon
the conduct of his eldest son, resolved to be present at it, and he
accordingly presented himself as Hycy had concluded his observations.
The high integrity of his character was at once recognized--he was
addressed in terms exceedingly respectful, if not deferential, by
the two magistrates--Chevydale having at once ordered the servant in
attendance to hand him a chair. He thanked him, however, but declined it
gratefully, and stood like the rest.
In the meantime the investigation proceeded. “Mr. Burke,” said
Chevydale, addressing himself to the old man, whose features, by the
way, were full of sorrow and distress--“it may be as well to state to
you that we are not sitting now formally in our magisterial capacity, to
investigate any charges that may be brought against your son, but simply
making some preliminary inquiries with respect to other charges, which
we have been given to understand are about to be brought against the
notorious Hogans.”
“Don't lay the blame upon the Hogans,” replied Kate, fiercely--“the
Hogans, bad as people say they are, only acted under Hycy Burke. It was
Hycy Burke.”
“But,” said Chevydale, probably out of compassion for the old man, “you
must know we are not now investigating Mr. Burke's conduct.”
“Proceed, gintlemen,” said his father, firmly but sorrowfully; “I have
heard it said too often that he was at the bottom of the plot that
ruined Bryan M'Mahon, or that wint near to ruin him; I wish to have that
well sifted, gintlemen, and to know the truth.”
“I can swear,” continued Kate, “that it was him got up the whole plan,
and gave them the money for it. I seen him in our house--or, to come
nearer the truth, in Gerald Cavanagh's kiln, where we live--givin' them
the money.”
“As you are upon that subject, gentlemen,” observed Harry Clinton, “I
think it due to the character of Bryan M'Mahon to state that I am in a
capacity to prove that Hycy Burke was unquestionably at the bottom--or,
in point of fact, the originator--of his calamities with reference to
the act of illicit distillation, and the fine which he would have been
called on to pay, were it not that the Commissioners of Excise remitted
it.”
“Thank you, Mr. Clinton,” replied Hycy; “I find I am not mistaken in
you--I think you are worthy of your accomplices”--and he pointed to Kate
and Nanny as he spoke--“proceed.”
“We are passing,” observed Vanston, “from one to another rather
irregularly, I fear; don't you think we had better hear this girl fully
in the first place; but, my good girl,” he added, “you are to understand
that we are not here to investigate any charges against Mr. Hycy Burke,
but against the Hogans. You will please then to confine your charges to
them.”
“But,” replied Nanny, “that's what I can't do, plase your honor, widout
bringin' in Hycy Burke too, bekaise himself an' the Hogans was joined in
everything.”
“I think, gintlemen,” said the priest, “the best plan is to let her tell
her story in her own way.”
“Perhaps so,” said Chevydale; “proceed, young woman, and state fully and
truly whatever you have got to say.”
“Well, then,” she proceeded, “there's one thing I know--I know who
robbed Mr. Burke here;” and she pointed to the old man, who started.
The magistrates also looked surprised. “How,” said Vanston, turning his
eyes keenly upon her, “you know of the robbery; and pray, how long have
you known it?'”
“Ever since the night it was committed, plaise your honor.”
“What a probable story!” exclaimed Hycy; “and you kept it to yourself,
like an honest girl as you are, until now!”
“Why, Mr. Burke,” said Vanston, quickly and rather sharply, “surely you
can have no motive in impugning her evidence upon that subject?”
Hycy bit his lip, for he instantly felt that he had overshot himself by
almost anticipating the charge, as if it were about to be made against
himself;--“What I think improbable in it,” said Hycy, “is that she
should, if in possession of the facts, keep them concealed so long.”
“Oh, never fear, Mr. Hycy, I'll soon make that plain enough,” she
replied.
“But in the mean time,” said Chevydale, “will you state the names of
those who did commit the robbery?”
“I will,” she replied.
“The whole truth, Nanny,” exclaimed Kate.
“It was Bat Hogan, then, that robbed Mr. Burke,” she replied;
“and--and--”
“Out wid it,” said Kate.
“And who besides, my good girl?” inquired Vanston.
The young woman looked round with compassion upon Jemmy Burke, and the
tears started to her eyes. “I pity him!” she exclaimed, “I pity him--that
good old man;” and, as she uttered the words, she wept aloud.
“This, I fear, is getting rather a serious affair,” said Vanston, in a
low voice to Chevydale--“I see how the tide is likely to turn.”
Chevydale merely nodded, as if he also comprehended it. “You were about
to add some other name?” said he; “in the mean time compose yourself and
proceed.”
Hycy Burke's face at this moment had become white as a sheet; in fact,
to any one of common penetration, guilt and a dread of the coming
disclosure were legible in every lineament of it.
“Who was the other person you were about to mention?” asked Vanston.
“His own son, sir, Mr. Hycy Burke, there.”
“Ha!” exclaimed Chevydale; “Mr. Hycy Burke, do you say? Mr. Burke,”
he added, addressing that gentleman, “how is this? Here is a grave and
serious charge against you. What have you to say to it?”
“That it would be both grave and serious,” replied Hycy, “if it
possessed but one simple element, without which all evidence is
valueless--I mean truth. All I can say is, that she might just as well
name either of yourselves, gentlemen, as me.”
“How do you know that Hogan committed the robbery?” asked Hycy.
“Simply bekaise I seen him. He broke open the big chest above stairs.”
“How did you see him?” asked Vanston.
“Through a hole in the partition,” she replied, “where a knot of the
deal boards had come out. I slep', plaise your honor, in a little closet
off o' the room the money was in.”
“Is it true that she slept there, Mr. Burke?” asked Vanston of the old
man.
“It is thrue, sir, God help me; that at all events is thrue.”
“Well, proceed,” said Chevydale.
“I then throw my gown about my shoulders; but in risin' from my bed it
creaked a little, an' Bat Hogan, who had jest let down the lid of the
chest aisily when he hard the noise, blew out the bit of candle that he
had in his hand, and picked his way down stairs as aisily as he could. I
folloyed him on my tippy-toes, an' when he came opposite the door of
the room where the masther and misthress sleep, the door opened, an' the
mistress wid a candle in her hand met him full--but in the teeth. I was
above upon the stairs at the time, but from the way an' the place she
stood in, the light didn't rache me, so that I could see them widout
bein' seen myself. Well, when the mistress met him she was goin' to bawl
out wid terror, an' would, too, only that Masther Hycy flew to her, put
his hand on her mouth, an' whispered something in her ear. He then went
over to Bat, and got a large shafe of bank-notes from him, an' motioned
him to be off wid himself, an' that he'd see him to-morrow. Bat went
down in the dark, an' Hycy an' his mother had some conversation in a
low voice on the lobby. She seemed angry, an' he was speakin' soft an'
strivin' to put her into good humor again. I then dipt back to bed, but
the never a wink could I get till mornin'; an' when I went down, the
first thing I saw was Bat Hogan's shoes. It was hardly light at the
time; but at any rate I hid them where they couldn't be got, an' it was
well I did, for the first thing I saw was Bat himself peering about the
street and yard, like a man that was looking for something that he had
lost.”
“But how did you know that the shoes were Hogan's?” asked Vanston.
“Why, your honor, any one that ever seen the man might know that. One
of his heels is a trifle shorter than the other, which makes him halt a
little, an' he has a bunion as big as an egg on the other foot.”
“Ay, Nanny,” said Kate, “that's the truth; but I can tell you more,
gentlemen. On the evenin' before, when Mr. Hycy came home, he made up
the plan to rob his father wid Phil Hogan; but Phil got drunk that night
an' Bat had to go in his place. Mr. Hycy promised to see the Hogans that
mornin' at his father's, about ten o'clock; but when they went he had
gone off to Ballymacan; an' as they expected him every minute, they
stayed about the place in spite o' the family, an' mended everything
they could lay their hands on. Bat an' Mr. Hycy met that night in Teddy
Phat's still-house, in Glendearg, an' went home together across the
mountains aftherward.”
“Well, Mr. Burke, what have you to say to this?” asked Chevydale.
“Why,” replied Hycy, “that it's a very respectable conspiracy as it
stands, supported by the thief and vagabond, and the beggar's brat.”
“Was there any investigation at the time of its occurrence?” asked
Vanston.
“There was, your honor,” replied Nanny; “it was proved, clearly enough
that Phil and Ned Hogan were both dead drunk that night an' couldn't
commit a robbery; an' Masther Hycy himself said that he knew how Bat
spent the night, an' that of course he couldn't do it; an' you know,
your honors, there was no gettin' over that. I have, or rather my father
has, Bat Hogan's shoes still.”
“This, I repeat, seems a very serious charge, Mr. Burke,” said Chevydale
again.
“Which, as I said before, contains not one particle of truth,” replied
Hycy. “If I had resolved to break open my father's chest to get cash out
of it, it is not likely that I would call in the aid of such a man
as Bat Hogan. As a proof that I had nothing to do with the robbery in
question, I can satisfy you that my mother, not many days after the
occurrence of it, was obliged to get her car and drive some three or
four miles' distance to borrow a hundred pounds for me from a friend of
hers, upon her own responsibility, which, had I committed the outrage in
question, I would not have required at all.”
Old Burke's face would, at this period of the proceedings, have extorted
compassion from any heart. Sorrow, distress, agony of spirit, and shame,
were all so legible in his pale features--that those who were present
kept their eyes averted, from respect to the man, and from sympathy with
his sufferings.
At length he himself came forward, and, after wiping away a few bitter
tears from his cheeks, he said--“Gentlemen, I care little about the
money I lost, nor about who took it--let it go--as for me, I won't miss
it; but there is one thing that cuts me to the heart--I'm spakin' about
the misfortune that was brought, or near bein' brought, upon this honest
an' generous-hearted young man, Bryan M'Mahon, through manes of a black
plot that was got up against him--I'm spakin' of the Still that was
found on his farm of Ahadarra. That, if my son had act or part in it, is
a thousand times worse than the other; as for the takin' of the money,
I don't care about it, as I said--nor I won't prosecute any one for it;
but I must have my mind satisfied about the other affair.”
It is not our intention to dwell at any length upon the clear proofs of
his treachery and deceit, which were established against him by Harry
Clinton, who produced the anonymous letter to his uncle--brought home to
him as it was by his own evidence and that of Nanny Peety.
“There is, however,” said Vanston, “another circumstance affecting the
reputation and honesty of Mr. Bryan M'Mahon, which in your presence,
Mr. M'Gowan, I am anxious to set at rest. I have already contradicted it
with indignation wherever I have heard it, and I am the more anxious
to do so, now, whilst M'Mahon and Burke are present, and because I have
been given to understand that you denounced him--M'Mahon--with such
hostility from the altar, as almost occasioned him to be put to death in
the house of God.”
“You are undher a mistake there, Major Vanston, with great respect,”
replied the priest. “It wasn't I but my senior curate, Father M'Pepper;
and he has already been reprimanded by his Bishop.”
“Well,” replied the other, “I am glad to hear it. However, I, now
solemnly declare, as an honest man and an Irish, gentleman, that neither
I, nor any one for me, with my knowledge, ever gave or sent any money to
Bryan M'Mahon; but perhaps we may ascertain who did. M'Mahon, have you
got the letter about you?”
“I have, sir,” replied Bryan, “and the bank-note, too.”
“You will find the frank and address both in your own handwriting,” said
Hycy. “It was I brought him the letter from the post-office.”
“Show me the letter, if you plaise,” said Nanny, who, after looking
first at it and then at Hycy, added, “and it was I gave it this little
tear near the corner, and dhrew three scrapes of a pin across the paper,
an' there they are yet; an' now I can take my oath that it was Mr. Hycy
that sent that letther to Bryan M'Mahon--an' your Reverence is the very
man I showed it to, and that tould me who it was goin' to, in the street
of Ballymacan.”'
On a close inspection of the letter it was clearly obvious that,
although there appeared at a cursory glance a strong resemblance between
the frank and the address, yet the difference was too plain to be
mistaken.
“If there is further evidence necessary,” said Vanston, looking at Hycy
significantly, “my agent can produce it--and he is now in the house.”
“I think you would not venture on that,” replied Hycy.
“Don't be too sure of that,” said the other, determinedly.
“Sir,” replied Father Magowan, “there is nothing further on that point
necessary--the proof is plain and clear; and now, Bryan M'Mahon, give
me your hand, for it is that of an honest man--I am proud to see that
you stand pure and unsullied again; and it shall be my duty to see that
justice shall be rendered! you, and ample compensation made for all that
you have suffered.”
“Thank you, sir,” replied Bryan, with an air of deep dejection, “but I
am sorry to say it is now too late--I am done with the country, and with
those that misrepresented me, for ever.”
Chevydale looked at him with deep attention for a moment, then whispered
something to Vanston, who smiled, and nodded his head approvingly.
Jemmy Burke now prepared to go. “Good mornin', gintlemen,” he said, “I
am glad to see the honest name cleared and set right, as it ought to be;
but as for myself, I lave you wid a heavy--wid a breakin' heart.”
As he disappeared at the door, Hycy rushed after him, exclaiming,
“Father, listen to me--don't go yet till you hear my defence. I will go
and fetch him back,” he exclaimed--“he must hear what I have to say for
myself.”
He overtook his father at the bottom of the hall steps. “Give me a
hundred pounds,” said he, “and you will never see my face again.”
“There is two hundre',” said his father; “I expected this. Your mother
confessed all to me this mornin', bekaise she knew it would come out
here, I suppose. Go now, for undher my roof you'll never come again. If
you can--reform your life--an' live at all events, as if there was a God
above you. Before you go answer me;--what made you bring in Bat Hogan
to rob me?”
“Simply,” replied his son, “because I wished to make him and them feel
that I had them in my power--and now you have it.”
[Illustration: PAGE 635-- Hycy received the money, set spurs to his horse]
Hycy received the money, set spurs to his horse, and was out of sight in
a moment--“Ah!” exclaimed the old man, with bitterness of soul, “what
mightn't he be if his weak and foolish mother hadn't taken it into her
head to make a gentleman of him! But now she reaps as she sowed. She's
punished--an' that's enough.”--And thus does Hycy the accomplished make
his exit from our humble stage.
“Gintlemen,” said Finigan, “now that the accomplished Mr. Hycy is
disposed of, I beg to state, that it will be productive of much public
good to the country to expatriate these three virtuous worthies, _qui
nomine gaudent_ Hogan--and the more so as it can be done on clear legal
grounds. They are a principal means of driving this respectable young
man, Bryan M'Mahon, and his father's family, out of the land of their
birth; and there will be something extremely appropriate--and indicative
besides of condign and retributive punishment--in sending them on their
travels at his Majesty's expense. I am here, in connection with others,
to furnish you with the necessary proof against them; and I am of
opinion that the sooner they are sent upon a voyage of discovery it will
be so much the better for the rejoicing neighborhood they will leave
behind them.”
The hint was immediately taken with respect to them and Vincent, all
of whom had been engaged in coming under Hycy's auspices--they were
apprehended and imprisoned, the chief evidence against them being Teddy
Phats, Peety Dhu, and Finigan, who for once became a stag, as he called
it. They were indicted for a capital felony; but the prosecution having
been postponed for want of sufficient evidence, they were kept in
durance until next assizes;--having found it impossible to procure bail.
In the meantime new charges of uttering base coin came thick and strong
against them; and as the Crown lawyers found that they could not succeed
on the capital indictment--nor indeed did they wish to do so--they
tried them on the lighter one, and succeeded in getting sentence of
transportation passed against every one of them, with the exception of
Kate Hogan alone.--So that, as Finigan afterwards said, “instead of Bryan
M'Mahon, it was they themselves that became 'the Emigrants of Ahadarra,'
at the king's expense--and Mr. Hycy at his own.”
CHAPTER XXVII.--Conclusion.
How Kathleen Cavanagh spent the time that elapsed between the period
at which she last appeared to our readers and the present may be easily
gathered from what we are about to write. We have said already that her
father, upon the strength of some expressions uttered in a spirit of
distraction and agony, assured Jemmy Burke that she had consented to
marry his son Edward, after a given period. Honest Jemmy, however, never
for a moment suspected the nature of the basis upon which his worthy
neighbor had erected the superstructure of his narrative; but at
the same time he felt sadly puzzled by the melancholy and declining
appearance of her whom he looked upon as his future daughter-in-law. The
truth was that scarcely any of her acquaintances could recognize her as
the same majestic, tall, and beautiful girl whom they had known before
this heavy disappointment had come on her. Her exquisite figure had lost
most of its roundness, her eye no longer flashed--with its dark mellow
lustre, and her cheek--her damask cheek--distress and despair had fed
upon it, until little remained there but the hue of death itself. Her
health in fact was evidently beginning to go. Her appetite had abandoned
her; she slept little, and that little was restless and unrefreshing.
All her family, with the exception of her father and mother, who
sustained themselves with the silly ambition of their daughter being
able to keep her jaunting-car--for her father had made that point a
_sine qua non_--all, we say, with the above exceptions, became seriously
alarmed at the state of her mind and health.
“Kathleen, dear,” said her affectionate sister, “I think you have
carried your feelings against Bryan far enough.”
“My feelings against Bryan!” she exclamed.
“Yes,” proceeded her sister, “I think you ought to forgive him.”
“Ah, Hanna darling, how little you know of your sister's heart. I have
long since forgiven him, Hanna.”
“Then what's to prevent you from making up with him?”
“I have long since forgiven him, Hanna; but, my dear sister, I never can
nor will think for a moment of marrying any man that has failed, when
brought to the trial, in honest and steadfast principal--the man that
would call me wife should be upright, pure, and free from every stain of
corruption--he must have no disgrace or dishonor upon his name, and he
must feel the love of his religion and his country as the great ruling
principles of his life. I have long since forgiven Bryan, but it is
because he is not what I hoped he was, and what I wished him to be, that
I am as you see me.”
“Then you do intend to marry?” asked Hanna, with a smile.
“Why do you ask that, Hanna?”
“Why, because you've given me sich a fine description of the kind o' man
your husband is to be.”
“Hanna,” she replied, solemnly, “look at my cheek, look at my eye, look
at my whole figure, and then ask me that question again if you can.
Don't you see, darling, that death is upon me? I feel it.”
Her loving and beloved sister threw her arms around her neck, and burst
into an irrepressible fit of bitter grief.
“Oh, you are changed, most woefully, Kathleen, darlin',” she exclaimed,
kissing her tenderly; “but if you could only bear up now, time would set
everything right, and bring you about right, as it will still, I hope.”
Her sister mused for some time, and then added--“I think I could bear
up yet if he was to stay in the country; but when I recollect that he's
going to another land--forever--I feel that my heart is broken: as it
is, his disgrace and that thought are both killin' me. To-morrow the
auction comes on, and then he goes--after that I will never see him. I'm
afraid, Hanna, that I'll have to go to bed; I feel that I'm hardly able
to sit up.”
Hanna once more pressed her to her heart and wept.
“Don't cry, Hanna dear--don't cry for me; the bitterest part of my fate
will be partin' from you.”
Hanna here pressed her again and wept aloud, whilst her spotless and
great-minded sister consoled her as well as she could. “Oh, what would
become of me!” exclaimed Hanna, sobbing; “if anything was to happen you,
or take you away from me, it would break my heart, too, and I'd die.”
“Hanna,” said her sister, not encouraging her to proceed any further on
that distressing subject; “on to-morrow, the time I allowed for Bryan
to clear himself, if he could, will be up, and I have only to beg that
you'll do all you can to prevent my father and mother from distressing
me about Edward Burke; I will never marry him, but I expect to see him
your husband yet, and I think he's worthy of you--that's saying a great
deal, I know. You love him, Hanna--I know it, and he loves you, Hanna,
for he told me so the last day but one he was here;--you remember they
all went out, and left us together, and then he told me all.”
Hanna's face and neck became crimson, and she was about to reply, when
a rather loud but good-humored voice was heard in the kitchen, for this
dialogue took place in the parlor--exclaiming, “God save all here! How
do you do, Mrs. Cavanagh? How is Gerald and the youngsters?”
“Indeed all middlin' well, thank your reverence, barrin' our eldest girl
that's a little low spirited for some time past.”
“Ay, ay, I know the cause of that--it's no secret--where is she now? If
she's in the house let me see her.”
The two sisters having composed their dress a little and their features,
immediately made their appearance.
“God be good to us!” he exclaimed, “here's a change! Why, may I never
sin, if I'd know her no more than the mother that bore her. Lord guard
us! look at this! Do you give her nothing, Mrs. Cavanagh?”
“Nothing on airth,” she replied; “her complaint's upon the spirits, an'
we didn't think that physic stuff would be of any use to her.”
“Well, perhaps I will find a cure for her. Listen to me, darling. Your
sweetheart's name and fame are cleared, and Bryan M'Mahon is what he
ever was--an honest an' upright young man.”
Kathleen started, looked around her, as if with amazement, and without
seeming to know exactly what she did, went towards the door, and
was about to walk out, when Hanna, detaining her, asked with
alarm--“Kathleen, what ails you, dear? Where are you going?”
“Going,” she replied; “I was going to--where?--why?--what--what has
happened?”
“The news came upon her too much by surprise,” said Hanna, looking
towards the priest.
“Kathleen, darlin',” exclaimed her mother, “try and compose yourself.
Lord guard us, what can ail her?”
“Let her come with me into the parlor, mother, an' do you an' Father
Magowan stay where you are.”
They accordingly went in, and after about the space of ten minutes she
recovered herself so far as to make Hanna repeat the intelligence which
the simple-hearted priest had, with so little preparation, communicated.
Having listened to it earnestly, she laid her head upon Hanna's bosom
and indulged in a long fit of quiet and joyful grief. When she had
recovered a little, Father Magowan entered at more length into the
circumstances connected with the changes that had affected her lover's
character so deeply, after which he wound up by giving expression to the
following determination--a determination, by the way, which we earnestly
recommend to all politicians of his profession.
“As for my part,” said he, “it has opened my eyes to one thing that
I won't forget:--a single word of politics I shall never suffer to
be preached from the altar while I live; neither shall I allow
denouncements for political offences. The altar, as the bishop told
me--and a hard rap he gave Mr. M'Pepper across the knuckles for Bryan's
affair--'the altar,' said he, 'isn't the place for politics, but for
religion; an' I hope I may never hear of its being desecrated with
politics again,' said his lordship, an' neither I will, I assure you.”
The intelligence of the unexpected change that had taken place in favor
of the M'Mahon's, did not reach them on that day, which was the same,
as we have stated, on which their grandfather departed this life. The
relief felt by Thomas M'Mahon and his family at this old man's death,
took nothing from the sorrow which weighed them down so heavily in
consequence of their separation from the abode of their forefathers
and the place of their birth. They knew, or at least they took it for
granted that their grandfather would never have borne the long voyage
across the Atlantic, a circumstance which distressed them very much. His
death, however, exhibiting, as it did, the undying attachment to home
which nothing else could extinguish, only kindled the same affection
more strongly and tenderly in their hearts. The account of it had gone
abroad through the neighborhood, and with it the intelligence that the
auction would be postponed until that day week. And now that he was
gone, all their hearts turned with sorrow and sympathy to the deep and
almost agonizing' struggles which their coming departure caused their
father to contend with. Bryan whose calm but manly firmness sustained
them all, absolutely feared that his courage would fail him, or that his
very health would break down. He also felt for his heroic little sister,
Dora, who, although too resolute to complain or urge her own sufferings,
did not endure the less on that account.
“My dear Dora,” said he, after their grandfather had been laid out, “I
know what you are suffering, but what can I do? This split between
the Cavanaghs and us has put it out of my power to serve you as I had
intended. It was my wish to see you and James Cavanagh married; but God
knows I pity you from my heart; for, my dear Dora, there's no use in
denyin' it, I understand too well what you feel.”
“Don't fret for me, Bryan,” she replied; “I'm willin' to bear my share
of the affliction that has come upon the family, rather than do anything
mane or unworthy. I know it goes hard with me to give up James and
lave him for ever; but then I see that it must be done, and that I must
submit to it. May God strengthen and enable me! and that's my earnest
prayer. I also often prayed that you an' Kathleen might be reconciled;
but I wasn't heard, it seems. I sometimes think that you ought to go to
her; but then on second thoughts I can hardly advise you to do so.”
“No, Dora, I never will, dear; she ought to have heard me as you said
face to face; instead o' that she condemned me without a hearin'. An'
yet, Dora,” he added, “little she knows--little she drames, what I'm
sufferin on her account, and how I love her--more now than ever, I
think; she's so changed, they say, that you could scarcely know her.” As
he spoke, a single tear fell upon Dora's hand which he held in his.
“Come. Bryan,” she said, assuming a cheerfulness which she did not feel,
“don't have it to say that little Dora, who ought and does look up to
you for support, must begin to support you herself; to-morrow's the
last day--who knows but she may relent yet?” Bryan smiled faintly, then
patted her head, and said, “darling little Dora, the wealth of nations
couldn't purchase you.”
“Not to do any thing mane or wrong, at any rate,” she replied; after
which she went in to attend to the affairs of the family, for this
conversation took place in the garden.
As evening approached, a deep gloom, the consequence of strong inward
suffering, overspread the features and bearing of Thomas M'Mahon. For
some time past, he had almost given himself over to the influence of
what he experienced--a fact that was observable in many ways, all more
or less tending to revive the affection which he felt for his departed
wife. For instance, ever since their minds had been made up to emigrate,
he had watched, and tended, and fed Bracky, her favorite cow, with his
own hands; nor would he suffer any one else in the family to go near
her, with the exception of Dora, by whom she had been milked ever since
her mother's death, and to whom the poor animal had now transferred her
affection. He also cleaned and oiled her spinning-wheel, examined her
clothes, and kept himself perpetually engaged in looking at every object
that was calculated to bring her once more before his imagination.
About a couple of hours before sunset, without saying where he was
going, he sauntered down to the graveyard of Gamdhu where she lay, and
having first uncovered his head and offered up a prayer for the repose
of her soul, he wept bitterly.
“Bridget,” said he, in that strong figurative language so frequently
used by the Irish, when under the influence of deep, emotion; “Bridget,
wife of my heart, you are removed from the thrials and throubles of this
world--from the thrials and throubles that have come upon us. I'm come,
now--your own husband--him that loved you beyant everything on this
earth, to tell you why the last wish o' my heart, which was to sleep
where I ought to sleep, by your side, can't be granted to me, and to
explain to you why it is, in case you'd miss me from my place beside
you. This unfortunate counthry, Bridget, has changed, an' is changin'
fast for the worse. The landlord hasn't proved himself to be towards us
what he ought to be, and what we expected he would; an' so, rather than
remain at the terms he axes from us, it's better for us to thry our
fortune in America; bekaise, if we stay here, we must only come to
poverty an' destitution, an' sorrow; an' you know how it 'ud break my
heart to see our childre' brought to that, in the very place where they
wor always respected. They're all good to me, as they ever wor to' us
both, acushla machree; but poor Bryan, that you loved so much--your
favorite and your pride--has had much to suffer, darlin', since you left
us; but blessed be God, he bears it manfully and patiently, although
I can see by the sorrow on my boy's brow that the heart widin him is
breakin'. He's not, afther all, to be married, as you hoped and wished
he would, to Kathleen Cavanagh. Her mind has been poisoned against him;
but little she knows him, or she'd not turn from him as she did. An'
now, Bridget, asthore machree, is it come to this wid me? I must lave
you for ever. I must lave--as my father said, that went this day to
heaven as you know, now--I must lave, as he said, the ould places. I
must go to a strange country, and sleep among a strange people; but
it's for the sake of our childre' I do so, lavin' you alone there where
you're sleepin'? I wouldn't lave you if I could help it; but we'll
meet yet in heaven, my blessed wife, where there won't be distress, or
injustice, or sorrow to part us. Achora machree, I'm come, then, to take
my last farewell of you. Farewell, then, my darlin' wife, till we meet
for evermore in heaven!”
He departed from the grave slowly, and returned in deep sorrow to his
own house.
About twelve o'clock the next morning, the family and those neighbors
who were assembled as usual at the wake-house, from respect to the dead,
were a good deal surprised by the appearance of Mr. Vanston and their
landlord, both of whom entered the house.
“Gentlemen, you're welcome,” said old M'Mahon; “but I'm sorry to say
that it's to a house of grief and throuble I must welcome you--death's
here, gentlemen, and more than death; but God's will be done, we must be
obaidient.”
“M'Mahon,” said Chevydale, “give me your hand. I am sorry that either
you or your son have suffered anything on my account. I am come now to
render you an act of justice--to compensate both you and him, as far
as I can, for the anxiety you have endured. Consider yourselves
both, therefore, as restored to your farms at the terms you proposed
originally. I shall have leases prepared--give up the notion of
emigration--the country cannot spare such men as you and your admirable
son. I shall have leases I say prepared, and you will be under no
necessity of leaving either Carriglass or Ahadarra.”
Need we describe the effect which such a communication had upon this
sterling-hearted family? Need we assure our readers that the weight
was removed from all their hearts, and the cloud from every brow? Is it
necessary to add that Bryan M'Mahon and his high-minded Kathleen were
married? that Dora and James followed their example, and that Edward
Burke, in due time, bestowed his hand upon sweet and affectionate Hanna
Cavanagh?
We have little now to add. Young Clinton, in the course of a few
months, became agent to Chevydale, whose property soon gave proofs that
kindness, good judgment, and upright principle were best calculated not
only to improve it, but to place a landlord and his tenantry on that
footing of mutual good-will and reciprocal interest upon which they
should ever stand towards each other.
We need scarcely say that the sympathy felt for honest Jemmy Burke, in
consequence of the disgraceful conduct of his son, was deep and general.
He himself did not recover it for a long period, and it was observed
that, in future, not one of his friends ever uttered Hycy's name in his
presence.
With respect to that young gentleman's fate and that of Teddy Phats,
we have to record a rather remarkable coincidence. In about three years
after his escape, his father received an account of his death from
Montreal, where it appears he expired under circumstances of great
wretchedness and destitution, after having led, during his residence
there, a most profligate and disgraceful life. Early the same day
on which the intelligence of his death reached his family, they also
received an account through the M'Mahons to the effect that Teddy Phats
had, on the preceding night, fallen from one of the cliffs of Althadawan
and broken his neck; a fate which occasioned neither surprise nor
sorrow.
We have only to add that Bryan M'Mahon and his wife took Nanny Peety
into their service; and that Kate Hogan and Mr. O'Finigan had always a
comfortable seat at their hospitable hearth; and the latter a warm glass
of punch occasionally, for the purpose, as he said himself, of keeping
him properly sober.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Emigrants Of Ahadarra, by William Carleton